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BARCHESTER TOWERS

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE








CONTENTS

Chapter

      I. Who Will Be the New Bishop?
     II. Hiram's Hospital According to Act of Parliament
    III. Dr. and Mrs. Proudie
     IV. The Bishop's Chaplain
      V. A Morning Visit
     VI. War
    VII. The Dean and Chapter Take Counsel
   VIII. The Ex-Warden Rejoices in His Probable Return to the Hospital
     IX. The Stanhope Family
      X. Mrs. Proudie's Reception--Commenced
     XI. Mrs. Proudie's Reception--Concluded
    XII. Slope versus Harding
   XIII. The Rubbish Cart
    XIV. The New Champion
     XV. The Widow's Suitors
    XVI. Baby Worship
   XVII. Who Shall Be Cock of the Walk?
  XVIII. The Widow's Persecution
    XIX. Barchester by Moonlight
     XX. Mr. Arabin
    XXI. St. Ewold's Parsonage
   XXII. The Thornes of Ullathorne
  XXIII. Mr. Arabin Reads Himself in at St. Ewold's
   XXIV. Mr. Slope Manages Matters Very Cleverly at Puddingdale
    XXV. Fourteen Arguments in Favour of Mr. Quiverful's Claims
   XXVI. Mrs. Proudie Wrestles and Gets a Fall
  XXVII. A Love Scene
 XXVIII. Mrs. Bold is Entertained by Dr. and Mrs. Grantly at Plumstead
   XXIX. A Serious Interview
    XXX. Another Love Scene
   XXXI. The Bishop's Library
  XXXII. A New Candidate for Ecclesiastical Honours
 XXXIII. Mrs. Proudie Victrix
  XXXIV. Oxford--The Master and Tutor of Lazarus
   XXXV. Miss Thorne's Fête Champêtre
  XXXVI. Ullathorne Sports--Act I.
 XXXVII. The Signora Neroni, the Countess De Courcy, and Mrs. Proudie
            Meet Each Other at Ullathorne
XXXVIII. The Bishop Sits Down to Breakfast, and the Dean Dies
  XXXIX. The Lookalofts and the Greenacres
     XL. Ullathorne Sports--Act II.
    XLI. Mrs. Bold Confides Her Sorrow to Her Friend Miss Stanhope
   XLII. Ullathorne Sports--Act III.
  XLIII. Mr. and Mrs. Quiverful Are Made Happy. Mr. Slope Is
            Encouraged by the Press
   XLIV. Mrs. Bold at Home
    XLV. The Stanhopes at Home
   XLVI. Mr. Slope's Parting Interview with the Signora
  XLVII. The Dean Elect
 XLVIII. Miss Thorne Shows Her Talent at Match-making
   XLIX. The Beelzebub Colt
      L. The Archdeacon Is Satisfied with the State of Affairs
     LI. Mr. Slope Bids Farewell to the Palace and Its Inhabitants
    LII. The New Dean Takes Possession of the Deanery, and the New
            Warden of the Hospital
   LIII. Conclusion




CHAPTER I

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 outgoing 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 by, 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 outgoing 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 grayer, 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 gray 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 to-morrow 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 awhile 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 chances 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 awhile 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
dispatch 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 realized, and Dr. Proudie was consecrated Bishop of Barchester.




CHAPTER II

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
autographed 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 buildings, 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
awhile 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; 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 III

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 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-Blankenberg.

His residence in the metropolis, rendered necessary by duties thus
entrusted to him, his high connexions, 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 anathematize
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; he 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 roost, 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--in
truth, it was hard for a bishop to be popular after Dr. Grantly. His
income had averaged £9,000 a year; his successor was to be rigidly
limited to £5,000. 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; 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
hen-pecked.

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 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 connexion 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 IV

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, as had all
the servants, as 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 reflexion 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 outmanoeuvre 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. Forms 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," &c. &c. &c. 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 V

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; 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 hearth-rug, 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, &c. &c.

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 for 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 wide 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 outhouses
were very imperfect: he might specify the coal-cellar and the
woodhouse.

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, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant," 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 VI

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 gray 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 correspondent 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 realize
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
upon," 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'll 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 reflexion 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 alloted 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 travesty 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 mouth-piece 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 anathematized.
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! &c. &c.

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 civilized 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 physics 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 wide-spread 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 VII

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 had certainly 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 bookkeeping 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, &c.
&c

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; 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 that 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 VIII

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 over-come 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,
eulogizing 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 anyone. 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 anyone 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
reappointment, 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 reappointment 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
reappointment 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 IX

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 forever. 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 elder 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 free-thinker, 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 salons 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 had 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 forever, 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 salons of the noblesse; she had caused herself to
be carried in and out from her carriage, and that in such a manner
as in no wise to disturb her charms, disarrange her dress, or expose
her deformities. Her sister always accompanied her and a maid, a
manservant 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 awhile.

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 he
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 Judaized 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 scruples 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 outmanoeuvre 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 newcomer would range himself under his
banners.

Little did any of them dream of what ingredients the Stanhope family
was now composed.




CHAPTER X

Mrs. Proudie's Reception--Commenced


The bishop and his wife had spent only 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. "And 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 dispatched 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. 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 _élite_ 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 reflexions
in such language, but such was the gist of his thought. It was not
because Madeline was a cripple that he shrank from seeing her made
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
tooth-drawer, 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
newcomer 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 Dr. 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 cortège
that he encountered on the hall steps. He got himself picked up, as
well as he could, and followed the cortège upstairs. The signora was
carried head foremost, her head being the care of her brother and an
Italian manservant 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 XI

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, 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 La 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
by, 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 by, 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 to 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 _débris_
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 Vicinironi's 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 arm chair 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 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 XII

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 on
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 to-morrow
   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 to-morrow 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 was 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 with 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; 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 that 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 weekday 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; 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
acknowledgement 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 XIII

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 exaltation, 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, to-night: 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 gentlemanlike 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 sympathize 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 fraternize 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 dinnertime, 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 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 learned that her sister Eleanor had promised to
assist Mr. Slope in the affairs of the hospital school, and it was on
this point that her attention first 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
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 the 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 XIV

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 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 gentlemen 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
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 has 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 his 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 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
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 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 XV

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 the embryo 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 Italianized 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 heart-felt
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 dépend_," 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 now-a-days; 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 maidservant 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 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 Hindu 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's 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 realized? 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 third volume if you please--learn from the last 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 XVI

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, 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 shan'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 recognized 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 step 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 apologize 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
apologized 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;
the tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Slope
would have given much to have had the privilege of drying them, but
he had tact enough to know that he had still a great deal to do
before he could even hope for any privilege with Mrs. Bold.

"It cuts me to the heart to see you so grieved," said he. "But
pray let me assure you that your father's interests shall not be
sacrificed if it be possible for me to protect them. I will tell the
bishop openly what are the facts. I will explain to him that he has
hardly the right to appoint any other than your father, and will show
him that if he does so he will be guilty of great injustice--and you,
Mrs. Bold, you will have the charity at any rate to believe this of
me, that I am truly anxious for your father's welfare--for his and
for your own."

The widow hardly knew what answer to make. She was quite aware that
her father would not be at all thankful to Mr. Slope; she had a
strong wish to share her father's feelings; and yet she could not
but acknowledge that Mr. Slope was very kind. Her father, who was
generally so charitable to all men, who seldom spoke ill of anyone,
had warned her against Mr. Slope, and yet she did not know how to
abstain from thanking him. What interest could he have in the matter
but that which he professed? Nevertheless there was that in his
manner which even she distrusted. She felt, she did not know why,
that there was something about him which ought to put her on her
guard.

Mr. Slope read all this in her hesitating manner just as plainly as
though she had opened her heart to him. It was the talent of the
man that he could so read the inward feelings of women with whom he
conversed. He knew that Eleanor was doubting him, and that, if she
thanked him, she would only do so because she could not help it,
but yet this did not make him angry or even annoy him. Rome was not
built in a day.

"I did not come for thanks," continued he, seeing her hesitation,
"and do not want them--at any rate before they are merited. But this
I do want, Mrs. Bold, that I may make to myself friends in this fold
to which it has pleased God to call me as one of the humblest of his
shepherds. If I cannot do so, my task here must indeed be a sad one.
I will at any rate endeavour to deserve them."

"I'm sure," said she, "you will soon make plenty of friends." She
felt herself obliged to say something.

"That will be nothing unless they are such as will sympathize with
my feelings; unless they are such as I can reverence and admire--and
love. If the best and purest turn away from me, I cannot bring
myself to be satisfied with the friendship of the less estimable. In
such case I must live alone."

"Oh, I'm sure you will not do that, Mr. Slope." Eleanor meant
nothing, but it suited him to appear to think some special allusion
had been intended.

"Indeed, Mrs. Bold, I shall live alone, quite alone as far as the
heart is concerned, if those with whom I yearn to ally myself turn
away from me. But enough of this; I have called you my friend, and
I hope you will not contradict me. I trust the time may come when I
may also call your father so. May God bless you, Mrs. Bold, you and
your darling boy. And tell your father from me that what can be done
for his interest shall be done."

And so he took his leave, pressing the widow's hand rather more
closely than usual. Circumstances, however, seemed just then to make
this intelligible, and the lady did not feel called on to resent it.

"I cannot understand him," said Eleanor to Mary Bold a few minutes
afterwards. "I do not know whether he is a good man or a bad
man--whether he is true or false."

"Then give him the benefit of the doubt," said Mary, "and believe the
best."

"On the whole, I think I do," said Eleanor. "I think I do believe
that he means well--and if so, it is a shame that we should revile
him and make him miserable while he is among us. But, oh, Mary, I
fear Papa will be disappointed in the hospital."




CHAPTER XVII

Who Shall Be Cock of the Walk?


All this time things were going somewhat uneasily at the palace. The
hint or two which Mr. Slope had given was by no means thrown away upon
the bishop. He had a feeling that if he ever meant to oppose the now
almost unendurable despotism of his wife, he must lose no further time
in doing so; that if he ever meant to be himself master in his own
diocese, let alone his own house, he should begin at once. It would
have been easier to have done so from the day of his consecration
than now, but easier now than when Mrs. Proudie should have succeeded
in thoroughly mastering the diocesan details. Then the proffered
assistance of Mr. Slope was a great thing for him, a most unexpected
and invaluable aid. Hitherto he had looked on the two as allied forces
and had considered that, as allies, they were impregnable. He had begun
to believe that his only chance of escape would be by the advancement
of Mr. Slope to some distant and rich preferment. But now it seemed
that one of his enemies, certainly the least potent of them, but
nevertheless one very important, was willing to desert his own camp.
Assisted by Mr. Slope what might he not do? He walked up and down his
little study, almost thinking that the time might come when he would be
able to appropriate to his own use the big room upstairs in which his
predecessor had always sat.

As he revolved these things in his mind a note was brought to him
from Archdeacon Grantly, in which that divine begged his lordship to
do him the honour of seeing him on the morrow--would his lordship
have the kindness to name an hour? Dr. Grantly's proposed visit
would have reference to the reappointment of Mr. Harding to the
wardenship of Barchester Hospital. The bishop having read his note
was informed that the archdeacon's servant was waiting for an answer.

Here at once a great opportunity offered itself to the bishop of
acting on his own responsibility. He bethought himself however of
his new ally and rang the bell for Mr. Slope. It turned out that Mr.
Slope was not in the house, and then, greatly daring, the bishop with
his own unassisted spirit wrote a note to the archdeacon 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 dispatch, he began to turn over in his mind what
step he should next take.

To-morrow he would have to declare to the archdeacon either that Mr.
Harding should have the appointment, or that he should not have it.
The bishop felt that he could not honestly throw over the Quiverfuls
without informing Mrs. Proudie, and he resolved at last to brave the
lioness in her den and tell her that circumstances were such that it
behoved him to reappoint Mr. Harding. He did not feel that he should
at all derogate from his new courage by promising Mrs. Proudie that
the very first piece of available preferment at his disposal should
be given to Quiverful to atone for the injury done to him. If he
could mollify the lioness with such a sop, how happy would he think
his first efforts to have been!

Not without many misgivings did he find himself in Mrs. Proudie's
boudoir. He had at first thought of sending for her. But it was not at
all impossible that she might choose to take such a message amiss, and
then also it might be some protection to him to have his daughters
present at the interview. He found her sitting with her account-books
before her, nibbling the end of her pencil, evidently immersed in
pecuniary difficulties, and harassed in mind by the multiplicity
of palatial expenses and the heavy cost of episcopal grandeur. Her
daughters were around her. Olivia was reading a novel, Augusta was
crossing a note to her bosom friend in Baker Street, and Netta was
working diminutive coach wheels for the bottom of a petticoat. If the
bishop could get the better of his wife in her present mood, he would
be a man indeed. He might then consider the victory his own forever.
After all, in such cases the matter between husband and wife stands
much the same as it does between two boys at the same school, two cocks
in the same yard, or two armies on the same continent. The conqueror
once is generally the conqueror forever after. The prestige of victory
is everything.

"Ahem--my dear," began the bishop, "if you are disengaged, I wished
to speak to you." Mrs. Proudie put her pencil down carefully at the
point to which she had totted her figures, marked down in her memory
the sum she had arrived at, and then looked up, sourly enough, into
her helpmate's face. "If you are busy, another time will do as
well," continued the bishop, whose courage, like Bob Acres', had
oozed out now that he found himself on the ground of battle.

"What is it about, Bishop?" asked the lady.

"Well--it was about those Quiverfuls--but I see you are engaged.
Another time will do just as well for me."

"What about the Quiverfuls? It is quite understood, I believe, that
they are to come to the hospital. There is to be no doubt about that,
is there?" and as she spoke she kept her pencil sternly and vigorously
fixed on the column of figures before her.

"Why, my dear, there is a difficulty," said the bishop.

"A difficulty!" said Mrs. Proudie, "what difficulty? The place has
been promised to Mr. Quiverful, and of course he must have it. He has
made all his arrangements. He has written for a curate for Puddingdale,
he has spoken to the auctioneer about selling his farm, horses, and
cows, and in all respects considers the place as his own. Of course
he must have it."

Now, Bishop, look well to thyself and call up all the manhood that is
in thee. Think how much is at stake. If now thou art not true to thy
guns, no Slope can hereafter aid thee. How can he who deserts his own
colours at the first smell of gunpowder expect faith in any ally? Thou
thyself hast sought the 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 judgement things in the diocese would certainly be well ordered.
Mr. Slope knew that if you hit a nail on the head often enough, it
will penetrate at last.

He was sitting alone in his room on the same evening when a light
knock was made on his door, and before he could answer it the door
was opened, and his patroness appeared. He was all smiles in a
moment, but so was not she also. She took, however, the chair that
was offered to her, and thus began her expostulation:

"Mr. Slope, I did not at all approve your conduct the other night
with that Italian woman. Anyone would have thought that you were her
lover."

"Good gracious, my dear madam," said Mr. Slope with a look of horror.
"Why, she is a married woman."

"That's more than I know," said Mrs. Proudie; "however she chooses to
pass for such. But married or not married, such attention as you paid
to her was improper. I cannot believe that you would wish to give
offence in my drawing-room, Mr. Slope, but I owe it to myself and my
daughters to tell you that I disapprove of your conduct."

Mr. Slope opened wide his huge protruding eyes and stared out of them
with a look of well-feigned surprise. "Why, Mrs. Proudie," said he,
"I did but fetch her something to eat when she said she was hungry."

"And you have called on her since," continued she, looking at the
culprit with the stern look of a detective policeman in the act of
declaring himself.

Mr. Slope turned over in his mind whether it would be well for him to
tell this termagant at once that he should call on whom he liked and
do what he liked, but he remembered that his footing in Barchester
was not yet sufficiently firm, and that it would be better for him to
pacify her.

"I certainly called since at Dr. Stanhope's house, and certainly saw
Madame Neroni."

"Yes, and you saw her alone," said the episcopal Argus.

"Undoubtedly, I did," said Mr. Slope, "but that was because nobody
else happened to be in the room. Surely it was no fault of mine if
the rest of the family were out."

"Perhaps not, but I assure you, Mr. Slope, you will fall greatly in
my estimation if I find that you allow yourself to be caught by the
lures of that woman. I know women better than you do, Mr. Slope,
and you may believe me that that signora, as she calls herself, is
not a fitting companion for a strict evangelical unmarried young
clergyman."

How Mr. Slope would have liked to laugh at her, had he dared! But he
did not dare. So he merely said, "I can assure you, Mrs. Proudie,
the lady in question is nothing to me."

"Well, I hope not, Mr. Slope. But I have considered it my duty to
give you this caution. And now there is another thing I feel myself
called on to speak about: it is your conduct to the bishop, Mr.
Slope."

"My conduct to the bishop," said he, now truly surprised and ignorant
what the lady alluded to.

"Yes, Mr. Slope, your conduct to the bishop. It is by no means what
I would wish to see it."

"Has the bishop said anything, Mrs. Proudie?"

"No, the bishop has said nothing. He probably thinks that any remarks
on the matter will come better from me, who first introduced you
to his lordship's notice. The fact is, Mr. Slope, you are a little
inclined to take too much upon yourself."

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 XVIII

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 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 drunk 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, &c. &c. The bishop was ill in
his room and very greatly regretted, &c. &c. Mr. Slope had been
charged with the bishop's views, and if agreeable to the archdeacon,
would do himself the honour, &c. &c. The archdeacon, however, was
not agreeable, and having read his note in the hall, crumpled it up
in his hand, and muttering 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;" 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 _tartuffe_! 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
to-morrow; 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 club-room, 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 XIX

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; 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 £3,000 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 to-morrow'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 tenor 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 armchair. 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 postmark. 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 he 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 shan'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 £150."

"And what became of the £550?"

"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, 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 not
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 armchair, 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 _tête-à-tête_ 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 tyrannize
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," she said, "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 foot-path 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 scurried about the room hither and thither,
doing, or pretending to do many things; 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 by 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 XX

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. He
is worthy of a new volume, and as he will fill a conspicuous place
in it, 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 sign-board 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
little go, 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 auditors 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 éclat. 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 awhile 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 sea-shore 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; 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 apostasy 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, he 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 gray, 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 utterly incompatible with such domestic joys as
a wife and nursery. He looked on 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 neck ties.
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 _façon 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 infrequently 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 gray 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 daydream 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 judgement 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 herd 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 XXI

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; 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; 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 auditors. 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; 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 window-panes 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 gray 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--by 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 awhile, 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 god-like 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; that 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 new-comer 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; to 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 apologize for presuming to criticize
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 any
man ever hear of a dining-room of such proportions!" The archdeacon
stepped the room long-ways and cross-ways 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 newfangled
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 parvenu 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 protégé 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, and 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 room 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 XXII

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 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 neutralize 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 wide-spread race whose name had received
the honours of three coronets, scions from which sat for various
constituencies, some one 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 forever be at an
end. Not only must ruin come, but it must come through the apostasy
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 under foot 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 apostasy, 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
county, 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
county 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 his press, or his hunters out of his
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 her 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
_tête-à-tête_. 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 or 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 faggots, 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, fawns, 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 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 fawns 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 XXIII

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 subtilize. 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 subtilizing, 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 younguns,
and perhaps sometimes there may be a thought too much stick going
on during sermon." Mr. Arabin's bright eye twinkled as he caught
that of the archdeacon, and he smiled to himself as he observed how
ignorant his officers 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 affliction 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 the 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 well adapted for articulation, and Mr. Arabin having replied
that he had no doubt he should 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
by, 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 aren'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 to-day, 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 midday August sun too great to deter them.
The archdeacon took his text from the epistle to 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 XXIV

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 Mr. 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, mothlike, 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 forever.

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 Hindu 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 realized 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 connexion 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 he 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 a 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 interests 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 reflexion 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 the 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 by, 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 armchair, 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 XXV

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 the 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 tenor 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 is
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 to-day, 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 judgement. 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 has 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 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-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; 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 Dr. 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 leant upon
Mr. Slope the blacker became Mrs. Proudie's brow, but that such
blackness was not injurious to her own case. 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
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 XXVI

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
understand, 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 realized
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--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 re-petticoated, his thraldom
would be complete and forever. 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 _tête-à-tête_
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 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
battlefield, 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 in
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 temporally 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 a 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 must 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 XXVII

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, 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 been 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 to-day, 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 no wise
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 recognized
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 _soupçon_ 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 to-day 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 note-paper
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
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; 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 Cressidas."

"No, all women are not Cressidas. 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 realized 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 sympathize 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
of 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!" she said 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 to-morrow 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 wrapt 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 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 première 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, 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 _tête-à-tête_ 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 XXVIII

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 recognized 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 to-day."

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 awhile, "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 half 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 Mr. 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; 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 judgement, 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 couldn't 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
tenor 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
recognize 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 realize 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 woe-begone 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 to-night--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 on her 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 apologize 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 apologized 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 XXIX

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 apologizing 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 acknowledgement 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? I 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; indeed, at this conjuncture,
words did not come to her very freely.

"How dare you be so impertinent?" at last she said, and then she
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 reflexion that Mr. Arabin should have in any way mentioned
her name in connexion 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 connexion 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 post-chaise, 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 XXX

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 connexion 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, yet unable to
discontinue it.

The greater part of the morning she had spent alone, but after awhile
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, yet she could not get over
her deep displeasure without some explanation, some acknowledgement
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 awhile 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 race-course 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 you 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; 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 XXXI

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 judgement 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 in 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 government, 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 £1,200," 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 are
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 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 old 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 XXXII

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 tantalize 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 he flattered himself that the worst
was over. "_Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coûte_," 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; 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
cock-crow 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 archiepiscopal 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 Misses Proudie 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 bigwigs, 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.

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 he 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 recognized 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 awhile 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 recognize 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 tenor 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
   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 forever be at rest and forever 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 ---- to-morrow 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 re-copied, 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 dispatched, 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 someone 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 the
   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 to-morrow 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 ---- 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 XXXIII

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 then 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.
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 apologized, 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 forever, 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 counsel 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 alloted 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 armchair 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 to-morrow."

"We are going to this party at Ullathorne to-morrow 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, I 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 XXXIV

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 judgement 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 sent 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 certainly not 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 connexion 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, _malgré 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 connexion 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 outgeneralled 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
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 _dénouements_ 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 mean time 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 neckcloth, 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
over-addicted 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 door-steps
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 been
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 XXXV

Miss Thorne's Fête Champêtre


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,
he 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 exoteric 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 _sub dio_ 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 farm-house 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, &c; she had a leash of baronets with their baronettes;
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 Mrs. 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 now-a-days. 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
now-a-days. 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 now-a-days 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 _déshabilles_. 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 school-girl to such fun as this? "Well," said she aloud to
herself, "one man can take a horse to water, but a thousand can't make
him drink. There it is. If they haven't the spirit to enjoy it, the
fault shan't be mine;" and so she returned to the house.

At a little after eight her brother came down, and they had a sort of
scrap breakfast in his study. The tea was made without the customary
urn, and they dispensed with the usual rolls and toast. Eggs 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 eyes; 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 recognized 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 at 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 XXXVI

Ullathorne Sports--Act I


The trouble in civilized 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 neighbour, "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 _déjeuner_ 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 civilization which the world had witnessed while she was growing
old. At twelve she found herself alone, dressed in all the glory of
the newest of her many suits of raiment--with strong shoes however,
and a serviceable bonnet on her head, and a warm, rich shawl on her
shoulders. Thus clad, she peered out into the tent, went to the
ha-ha, and satisfied herself that at any rate the youngsters were
amusing themselves, spoke a word to Mrs. Greenacre over the ditch,
and took one look at the quintain. Three or four young farmers were
turning the machine round and round and poking at the bag of flour
in a manner not at all intended by the inventor of the game; but no
mounted sportsmen were there. Miss Thorne looked at her watch. It was
only fifteen minutes past twelve, and it was understood that Harry
Greenacre was not to begin till the half-hour.

Miss Thorne returned to her drawing-room rather quicker than 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 roque-laure. It's clean spoilt,
and forever. I wouldn't but wear it because I knew you wished us all
to be grand to-day, and yet I had my misgivings. Oh dear, oh dear!
It was five-and-twenty shillings a yard."

The Barchester post-horses had misbehaved in some unfortunate manner
just as Mrs. Clantantram was getting out of the chaise and had nearly
thrown her under the wheel.

Mrs. Clantantram belonged to other days, and therefore, though she
had but little else to recommend her, Miss Thorne was to a certain
extent fond of her. She sent the roque-laure 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 county 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 walked
triumphant into the Ullathorne drawing-room; but her children did
feel a little abashed at the sort of reception they met with. It was
not in Miss Thorne's heart to insult her own guests, but neither was
it in her disposition to overlook such effrontery.

"Oh, Mrs. Lookaloft, is this you?" said she. "And your daughters and
son? Well, we're very glad to see you, but I'm sorry you've come in
such low dresses, as we are all going out of doors. Could we lend
you anything?"

"Oh dear, no thank ye, Miss Thorne," said the mother; "the girls and
myself are quite used to low dresses, when we're out."

"Are you, indeed?" said Miss Thorne shuddering--but the shudder was
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. 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 cortège 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 you know 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 fête champêtre,
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 XXXVII

The Signora Neroni, the Countess De Courcy, and Mrs. Proudie Meet
Each Other at Ullathorne


And now there were new arrivals. Just as Eleanor reached the
drawing-room the signora was being wheeled into it. She had been
brought out of the carriage into the dining-room and there placed on
a sofa, and was now in the act of entering the other room, by the
joint aid of her brother and sister, Mr. Arabin, and two servants in
livery. She was all in her glory, and looked so pathetically happy,
so full of affliction and grace, was so beautiful, so pitiable, and
so charming that it was almost impossible not to be glad she was
there.

Miss Thorne was unaffectedly glad to welcome her. In fact, the signora
was a sort of lion; and though there was no drop of the Leohunter
blood in Miss Thorne's veins, she nevertheless did like to see
attractive people at her house. The signora was attractive, and on her
first settlement in the dining-room she had whispered two or three
soft feminine words into Miss Thorne's ear which, at the moment, had
quite touched that lady's heart.

"Oh, Miss Thorne; where is Miss Thorne?" she said as soon as her
attendants had placed her in her position just before one of the
windows, from whence she could see all that was going on upon the
lawn. "How am I to thank you for permitting a creature like me to be
here? But if you knew the pleasure you give me, I am sure you would
excuse the trouble I bring with me." And as she spoke she squeezed
the spinster's little hand between her own.

"We are delighted to see you here," said Miss Thorne; "you give us no
trouble at all, and we think it a great favour conferred by you to
come and see us--don't we, Wilfred?"

"A very great favour indeed," said Mr. Thorne with a gallant bow but
of 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 élite 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 rerobed in her gauze shawls, "what
dreadful roads you have; perfectly frightful."

It happened that Mr. Thorne was waywarden 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, George? And--"

"Just past one I think you mean," said the Honourable George, 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 George. "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 George 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.

"George 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 countercharge 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 Courcy's were hereditarily shortsighted, 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 Eskimos 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."

"Oh-h-h-h!" exclaimed 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 some what
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 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 sympathize with her? Mr. Thorne did promise to sympathize;
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 judgement; if he
found her, as he believed he should do, an injured, well-disposed,
warm-hearted woman, he would get his sister Monica to invite her out
to Ullathorne.

"No," said she, as at her instance he got up to leave her and declared
that he himself would attend upon her wants; "no, no, my friend; I
positively put a veto upon your doing so. What, in your own house,
with an assemblage round you such as there is here! Do you wish to
make every woman hate me and every man stare at me? I lay a positive
order on you not to come near me again to-day. Come and see me at
home. It is only at home that I can talk, it is only at home that I
really can live and enjoy myself. My days of going out, days such as
these, are rare indeed. Come and see me at home, Mr. Thorne, and then
I will not bid you to leave me."

It is, we believe, common with young men of five-and-twenty to look
on their seniors--on men of, say, double their own age--as so many
stocks and stones--stocks and stones, that is, in regard to feminine
beauty. There never was a greater mistake. Women, indeed, generally
know better, but on this subject men of one age are thoroughly
ignorant of what is the very nature of mankind of other ages. No
experience of what goes on in the world, no reading of history, no
observation of life, has any effect in teaching the truth. Men of
fifty don't dance mazurkas, being generally too fat and wheezy; nor
do they sit for the hour together on river-banks at their mistresses'
feet, being somewhat afraid of rheumatism. But for real true
love--love at first sight, love to devotion, love that robs a man of
his sleep, love that "will gaze an eagle blind," love that "will hear
the lowest sound when the suspicious tread of theft is stopped," love
that is "like a Hercules, still climbing trees in the Hesperides"--we
believe 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, _ætat_. fifty, was over head and
ears in love at first sight with the Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni,
nata Stanhope.

Nevertheless, he was sufficiently master of himself to offer his arm
with all propriety to Lady De Courcy, and the countess graciously
permitted herself to be led to the tent. Such had been Miss Thorne's
orders, as she had succeeded in inducing the bishop to lead old Lady
Knowle to the top of the dining-room. One of the baronets was sent
off in quest of Mrs. Proudie and found that lady on the lawn not in
the best of humours. Mr. Thorne and the countess had left her too
abruptly; she had in vain looked about for an attendant chaplain, or
even a stray curate; they were all drawing long bows with the young
ladies at the bottom of the lawn, or finding places for their graceful
co-toxophilites in some snug corner of the tent. In such position Mrs.
Proudie had been wont in earlier days to fall back upon Mr. Slope, but
now she could never fall back upon him again. She gave her head one
shake as she thought of her lone position, and that shake was as good
as a week deducted from Mr. Slope's longer sojourn in Barchester. Sir
Harkaway Gorse, however, relieved her present misery, though his doing
so by no means mitigated the sinning chaplain's doom.

And now the eating and drinking began in earnest. Dr. Grantly, to
his great horror, found himself leagued to Mrs. Clantantram. Mrs.
Clantantram had a great regard for the archdeacon, which was not
cordially returned, and when she, coming up to him, whispered in his
ear, "Come, Archdeacon, I'm sure you won't begrudge an old friend the
favour of your arm," and then proceeded to tell him the whole history
of her roquelaure, he resolved that he would shake her off before he
was fifteen minutes older. But latterly the archdeacon had not been
successful in his resolutions, and on the present occasion Mrs.
Clantantram stuck to him till the banquet was over.

Dr. Gwynne got a baronet's wife, and Mrs. Grantly fell to the lot
of a baronet. Charlotte Stanhope attached herself to Mr. Harding in
order to make room for Bertie, who succeeded in sitting down in the
dining-room next to Mrs. Bold. To speak sooth, now that he had love
in earnest to make, his heart almost failed him.

Eleanor had been right glad to avail herself of his arm, seeing that
Mr. Slope was hovering nigh her. In striving to avoid that terrible
Charybdis of a Slope she was in great danger of falling into an
unseen Scylla on the other hand, that Scylla being Bertie Stanhope.
Nothing could be more gracious than she was to Bertie. She almost
jumped at his proffered arm. Charlotte perceived this from a distance
and triumphed in her heart; Bertie felt it and was encouraged; Mr.
Slope saw it and glowered with jealousy. Eleanor and Bertie sat down
to table in the dining-room, and as she took her seat at his right
hand she found that Mr. Slope was already in possession of the chair
at her own.

As these things were going on in the dining-room, Mr. Arabin was
hanging enraptured and alone over the signora's sofa, and Eleanor
from her seat could look through the open door and see that he was
doing so.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

The Bishop Sits Down to Breakfast, and the Dean Dies


The Bishop of Barchester said grace over the well-spread board in the
Ullathorne dining-room; while he did so, the last breath was flying
from the Dean of Barchester as he lay in his sick room in the deanery.
When the Bishop of Barchester raised his first glass of champagne to
his lips, the deanship of Barchester was a good thing in the gift
of the prime minister. Before the Bishop of Barchester had left the
table, the minister of the day was made aware of the fact at his
country-seat in Hampshire, and had already turned over in his mind the
names of five very respectable aspirants for the preferment. It is at
present only necessary to say that Mr. Slope's name was not among the
five.

"'Twas merry in the hall when the beards wagged all," and the clerical
beards wagged merrily in the hall of Ullathorne that day. It was
not till after the last cork had been drawn, the last speech made,
the last nut cracked, that tidings reached and were whispered about
that the poor dean was no more. It was well for the happiness of
the clerical beards that this little delay took place, as otherwise
decency would have forbidden them to wag at all.

But there was one sad man among them that day. Mr. Arabin's beard
did not wag as it should have done. He had come there hoping the
best, striving to think the best, about Eleanor; turning over in his
mind all the words he remembered to have fallen from her about Mr.
Slope, and trying to gather from them a conviction unfavourable to
his rival. He had not exactly resolved to come that day to some
decisive proof as to the widow's intention, but he had meant, if
possible, to recultivate his friendship with Eleanor, and in his
present frame of mind any such recultivation must have ended in a
declaration of love.

He had passed the previous night alone at his new parsonage, and it
was the first night that he had so passed. It had been dull and sombre
enough. Mrs. Grantly had been right in saying that a priestess would
be wanting at St. Ewold's. He had sat there alone with his glass
before him, and then with his tea-pot, thinking about Eleanor Bold.
As is usual in such meditations, he did little but blame her; blame
her for liking Mr. Slope, and blame her for not liking him; blame
her for her cordiality to himself, and blame her for her want of
cordiality; blame her for being stubborn, headstrong, and passionate;
and yet the more he thought of her the higher she rose in his
affection. If only it should turn out, if only it could be made to
turn out, that she had defended Mr. Slope, not from love, but on
principle, all would be right. Such principle in itself would be
admirable, lovable, womanly; he felt that he could be pleased to
allow Mr. Slope just so much favour as that. But if--And then Mr.
Arabin poked his fire most unnecessarily, spoke crossly to his new
parlour-maid who came in for the tea-things, and threw himself back in
his chair determined to go to sleep. Why had she been so stiff-necked
when asked a plain question? She could not but have known in what
light he regarded her. Why had she not answered a plain question and
so put an end to his misery? Then, instead of going to sleep in his
armchair, Mr. Arabin walked about the room as though he had been
possessed.

On the following morning, when he attended Miss Thorne's behests, he
was still in a somewhat confused state. His first duty had been to
converse with Mrs. Clantantram, and that lady had found it impossible
to elicit the slightest sympathy from him on the subject of her
roquelaure. Miss Thorne had asked him whether Mrs. Bold was coming
with the Grantlys, and the two names of Bold and Grantly together had
nearly made him jump from his seat.

He was in this state of confused uncertainty, hope, and doubt, when he
saw Mr. Slope, with his most polished smile, handing Eleanor out of
her carriage. He thought of nothing more. He never considered whether
the carriage belonged to her or to Mr. Slope, or to anyone else to
whom they might both be mutually obliged without any concert between
themselves. This sight in his present state of mind was quite enough
to upset him and his resolves. It was clear as noon-day. Had he seen
her handed into a carriage by Mr. Slope at a church door with a white
veil over her head, the truth could not be more manifest. He went into
the house and, as we have seen, soon found himself walking with Mr.
Harding. Shortly afterwards Eleanor came up, and then he had to leave
his companion and either go about alone or find another. While in this
state he was encountered by the archdeacon.

"I wonder," said Dr. Grantly, "if it be true that Mr. Slope and Mrs.
Bold came here together. Susan says she is almost sure she saw their
faces in the same carriage as she got out of her own."

Mr. Arabin had nothing for it but to bear his testimony to the
correctness of Mrs. Grantly's eyesight.

"It is perfectly shameful," said the archdeacon; "or, I should
rather say, shameless. She was asked here as my guest, and if she be
determined to disgrace herself, she should have feeling enough not to
do so before my immediate friends. I wonder how that man got himself
invited. I wonder whether she had the face to bring him."

To this Mr. Arabin could answer nothing, nor did he wish to answer
anything. Though he abused Eleanor to himself, he did not choose to
abuse her to anyone else, nor was he well-pleased to hear anyone else
speak ill of her. Dr. Grantly, however, was very angry and did not
spare his sister-in-law. Mr. Arabin therefore left him as soon as he
could and wandered back into the house.

He had not been there long when the signora was brought in. For some
time he kept himself out of temptation, and merely hovered round her
at a distance; but as soon as Mr. Thorne had left her, he yielded
himself up to the basilisk and allowed himself to be made prey of.

It is impossible to say how the knowledge had been acquired, but the
signora had a sort of instinctive knowledge that Mr. Arabin was an
admirer of Mrs. Bold. Men hunt foxes by the aid of dogs, and are
aware that they do so by the strong organ of smell with which the
dog is endowed. They do not, however, in the least comprehend how
such a sense can work with such acuteness. The organ by which women
instinctively, as it were, know and feel how other women are regarded
by men, and how also men are regarded by other women, is equally
strong, and equally incomprehensible. A glance, a word, a motion,
suffices: by some such acute exercise of her feminine senses the
signora was aware that Mr. Arabin loved Eleanor Bold; therefore, by a
further exercise of her peculiar feminine propensities, it was quite
natural for her to entrap Mr. Arabin into her net.

The work was half-done before she came to Ullathorne, and when could
she have a better opportunity of completing it? She had had almost
enough of Mr. Slope, though she could not quite resist the fun of
driving a very sanctimonious clergyman to madness by a desperate
and ruinous passion. Mr. Thorne had fallen too easily to give much
pleasure in the chase. His position as a man of wealth might make
his alliance of value, but as a lover he was very second-rate. We
may say that she regarded him somewhat as a sportsman does a pheasant.
The bird is so easily shot that he would not be worth the shooting
were it not for the very respectable appearance that he makes in a
larder. The signora would not waste much time in shooting Mr. Thorne,
but still he was worth bagging for family uses.

But Mr. Arabin was game of another sort. The signora was herself
possessed of quite sufficient intelligence to know that Mr. Arabin
was a man more than usually intellectual. She knew also that, as a
clergyman, he was of a much higher stamp than Mr. Slope and that, as
a gentleman, he was better educated than Mr. Thorne. She would never
have attempted to drive Mr. Arabin into ridiculous misery as she did
Mr. Slope, nor would she think it possible to dispose of him in ten
minutes as she had done with Mr. Thorne.

Such were her reflexions about Mr. Arabin. As to Mr. Arabin, it
cannot be said that he reflected at all about the signora. He knew
that she was beautiful, and he felt that she was able to charm him.
He required charming in his present misery, and therefore he went
and stood at the head of her couch. She knew all about it. Such
were her peculiar gifts. It was her nature to see that he required
charming, and it was her province to charm him. As the Eastern idler
swallows his dose of opium, as the London reprobate swallows his
dose of gin, so with similar desires and for similar reasons did Mr.
Arabin prepare to swallow the charms of the Signora Neroni.

"Why an't you shooting with bows and arrows, Mr. Arabin?" said she,
when they were nearly alone together in the drawing-room, "or talking
with young ladies in shady bowers, or turning your talents to account
in some way? What was a bachelor like you asked here for? Don't you
mean to earn your cold chicken and champagne? Were I you, I should
be ashamed to be so idle."

Mr. Arabin murmured some sort of answer. Though he wished to be
charmed, he was hardly yet in a mood to be playful in return.

"Why what ails you, Mr. Arabin?" said she. "Here you are in your own
parish--Miss Thorne tells me that her party is given expressly in
your honour--and yet you are the only dull man at it. Your friend
Mr. Slope was with me a few minutes since, full of life and spirits;
why don't you rival him?"

It was not difficult for so acute an observer as Madeline Neroni to
see that she had hit the nail on the head and driven the bolt home.
Mr. Arabin winced visibly before her attack, and she knew at once
that he was jealous of Mr. Slope.

"But I look on you and Mr. Slope as the very antipodes of men," said
she. "There is nothing in which you are not each the reverse of the
other, except in belonging to the same profession--and even in that
you are so unlike as perfectly to maintain the rule. He is gregarious;
you are given to solitude. He is active; you are passive. He works;
you think. He likes women; you despise them. He is fond of position
and power; and so are you, but for directly different reasons. He
loves to be praised; you very foolishly abhor it. He will gain his
rewards, which will be an insipid, useful wife, a comfortable income,
and a reputation for sanctimony; you will also gain yours."

"Well, and what will they be?" said Mr. Arabin, who knew that he was
being flattered and yet suffered himself to put up with it. "What will
be my rewards?"

"The heart of some woman whom you will be too austere to own that you
love, and the respect of some few friends which you will be too proud
to own that you value."

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

"Oh, you are not to look for such success as awaits Mr. Slope. He is
born to be a successful man. He suggests to himself an object and
then starts for it with eager intention. Nothing will deter him from
his pursuit. He will have no scruples, no fears, no hesitation. His
desire is to be a bishop with a rising family--the wife will come
first, and in due time the apron. You will see all this, and then--"

"Well, and what then?"

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

Mr. Arabin looked placidly out at the lawn and, resting his shoulder
on the head of the sofa, rubbed his chin with his hand. It was a trick
he had when he was thinking deeply, and what the signora said made him
think. Was it not all true? Would he not hereafter look back, if not
at Mr. Slope, at some others, perhaps not equally gifted with himself,
who had risen in the world while he had lagged behind, and then wish
that he had done the same?

"Is not such the doom of all speculative men of talent?" said she.
"Do they not all sit wrapt as you now are, cutting imaginary silken
cords with their fine edges, while those not so highly tempered sever
the everyday Gordian knots of the world's struggle and win wealth and
renown? Steel too highly polished, edges too sharp, do not do for
this world's work, Mr. Arabin."

Who was this woman that thus read the secrets of his heart and
re-uttered to him the unwelcome bodings of his own soul? He looked
full into her face when she had done speaking and said, "Am I one of
those foolish blades, too sharp and too fine to do a useful day's
work?"

"Why do you let the Slopes of the world outdistance you?" said she.
"Is not the blood in your veins as warm as his? Does not your pulse
beat as fast? Has not God made you a man and intended you to do a
man's work here, ay, and to take a man's wages also?"

Mr. Arabin sat ruminating, rubbing his face, and wondering why these
things were said to him, but he replied nothing. The signora went
on:

"The greatest mistake any man ever made is to suppose that the good
things of the world are not worth the winning. And it is a mistake
so opposed to the religion which you preach! Why does God permit
his bishops one after another to have their five thousands and ten
thousands a year if such wealth be bad and not worth having? Why are
beautiful things given to us, and luxuries and pleasant enjoyments,
if they be not intended to be used? They must be meant for someone,
and what is good for a layman surely cannot be bad for a clerk. You
try to despise these good things, but you only try--you don't
succeed."

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

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

Mr. Arabin looked at her piteously. It seemed to him as though he
were being interrogated by some inner spirit of his own, to whom he
could not refuse an answer, and to whom he did not dare to give a
false reply.

"Come, Mr. Arabin, confess; do you succeed? Is money so contemptible?
Is worldly power so worthless? Is feminine beauty a trifle to be so
slightly regarded by a wise man?"

"Feminine beauty!" said he, gazing into her face, as though all the
feminine beauty in the world were concentrated there. "Why do you say
I do not regard it?"

"If you look at me like that, Mr. Arabin, I shall alter my
opinion--or should do so, were I not of course aware that I have no
beauty of my own worth regarding."

The gentleman blushed crimson, but the lady did not blush at all. A
slightly increased colour animated her face, just so much so as to
give her an air of special interest. She expected a compliment from
her admirer, but she was rather gratified than otherwise by finding
that he did not pay it to her. Messrs. Slope and Thorne, Messrs.
Brown, Jones, and Robinson, they all paid her compliments. She was
rather in hopes that she would ultimately succeed in inducing Mr.
Arabin to abuse her.

"But your gaze," said she, "is one of wonder, not of admiration. You
wonder at my audacity in asking you such questions about yourself."

"Well, I do rather," said he.

"Nevertheless, I expect an answer, Mr. Arabin. Why were women made
beautiful if men are not to regard them?"

"But men do regard them," he replied.

"And why not you?"

"You are begging the question, Madame Neroni."

"I am sure I shall beg nothing, Mr. Arabin, which you will not grant,
and I do beg for an answer. Do you not as a rule think women below
your notice as companions? Let us see. There is the Widow Bold looking
round at you from her chair this minute. What would you say to her as
a companion for life?"

Mr. Arabin, rising from his position, leaned over the sofa and looked
through the drawing-room door to the place where Eleanor was seated
between Bertie Stanhope and Mr. Slope. She at once caught his glance
and averted her own. She was not pleasantly placed in her present
position. Mr. Slope was doing his best to attract her attention, and
she was striving to prevent his doing so by talking to Mr. Stanhope,
while her mind was intently fixed on Mr. Arabin and Madame Neroni.
Bertie Stanhope endeavoured to take advantage of her favours, but he
was thinking more of the manner in which he would by and by throw
himself at her feet than of amusing her at the present moment.

"There," said the signora. "She was stretching her beautiful neck
to look at you, and now you have disturbed her. Well, I declare I
believe I am wrong about you; I believe that you do think Mrs. Bold a
charming woman. Your looks seem to say so, and by her looks I should
say that she is jealous of me. Come, Mr. Arabin, confide in me, and
if it is so, I'll do all in my power to make up the match."

It is needless to say that the signora was not very sincere in her
offer. She was never sincere on such subjects. She never expected
others to be so, nor did she expect others to think her so. Such
matters were her playthings, her billiard table, her hounds and
hunters, her waltzes and polkas, her picnics and summer-day
excursions. She had little else to amuse her, and therefore played
at love-making in all its forms. She was now playing at it with Mr.
Arabin, and did not at all expect the earnestness and truth of his
answer.

"All in your power would be nothing," said he, "for Mrs. Bold is, I
imagine, already engaged to another."

"Then you own the impeachment yourself."

"You cross-question me rather unfairly," he replied, "and I do not
know why I answer you at all. Mrs. Bold is a very beautiful woman,
and as intelligent as beautiful. It is impossible to know her without
admiring her."

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

"Indeed I do."

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

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

"And you really have the effrontery to tell me this," said she; "to
tell me, who, as you very well know, set up to be a beauty myself, and
who am at this very moment taking such an interest in your affairs,
you really have the effrontery to tell me that Mrs. Bold is the most
beautiful woman you know."

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

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

"You are more beautiful, perhaps more clever."

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

"But--"

"Not a word further. I will not hear a word further. If you talk till
midnight you cannot improve what you have said."

"But Madame Neroni, Mrs. Bold--"

"I will not hear a word about Mrs. Bold. Dread thoughts of strychnine
did pass across my brain, but she is welcome to the second place."

"Her place--"

"I won't hear anything about her or her place. I am satisfied, and
that is enough. But Mr. Arabin, I am dying with hunger; beautiful and
clever as I am, you know I cannot go to my food, and yet you do not
bring it to me."

This at any rate was so true as to make it necessary that Mr. Arabin
should act upon it, and he accordingly went into the dining-room and
supplied the signora's wants.

"And yourself?" said she.

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

"Come, come, Mr. Arabin, don't let love interfere with your appetite.
It never does with mine. Give me half a glass more champagne and
then go to the table. Mrs. Bold will do me an injury if you stay
talking to me any longer."

Mr. Arabin did as he was bid. He took her plate and glass from her
and, going into the dining-room, helped himself to a sandwich from
the crowded table and began munching it in a corner.

As he was doing so Miss Thorne, who had hardly sat down for a moment,
came into the room and, seeing him standing, was greatly distressed.

"Oh, my dear Mr. Arabin," said she, "have you never sat down yet?
I am so distressed. You of all men, too."

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

"That is the very reason why you should lose no more time. Come, I'll
make room for you. Thank'ee, my dear," she said, seeing that Mrs.
Bold was making an attempt to move from her chair, "but I would not
for worlds see you stir, for all the ladies would think it necessary
to follow. But, perhaps, if Mr. Stanhope has done--just for a minute,
Mr. Stanhope, till I can get another chair."

And so Bertie had to rise to make way for his rival. This he did, as
he did everything, with an air of good-humoured pleasantry which made
it impossible for Mr. Arabin to refuse the proffered seat.

"His bishopric let another take," said Bertie, the quotation being
certainly not very appropriate either for the occasion or the person
spoken to. "I have eaten and am satisfied; Mr. Arabin, pray take my
chair. I wish for your sake that it really was a bishop's seat."

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

"Pray, pray don't move," said Miss Thorne, almost forcing Eleanor
back into her chair. "Mr. Stanhope is not going to leave us. He will
stand behind you like a true knight as he is. And now I think of it,
Mr. Arabin, let me introduce you to Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope, Mr. Arabin."
And the two gentlemen bowed stiffly to each other across the lady
whom they both intended to marry, while the other gentleman who also
intended to marry her stood behind, watching them.

The two had never met each other before, and the present was certainly
not a good opportunity for much cordial conversation, even if cordial
conversation between them had been possible. As it was, the whole four
who formed the party seemed as though their tongues were tied. Mr.
Slope, who was wide awake to what he hoped was his coming opportunity,
was not much concerned in the interest of the moment. His wish was to
see Eleanor move, that he might pursue her. Bertie was not exactly
in the same frame of mind; the evil day was near enough; there was
no reason why he should precipitate it. He had made up his mind to
marry Eleanor Bold if he could, and was resolved to-day to take the
first preliminary step towards doing so. But there was time enough
before him. He was not going to make an offer of marriage over the
table-cloth. Having thus good-naturedly made way for Mr. Arabin, he
was willing also to let him talk to the future Mrs. Stanhope as long
as they remained in their present position.

Mr. Arabin, having bowed to Mr. Slope, began eating his food without
saying a word further. He was full of thought, and though he ate he
did so unconsciously.

But poor Eleanor was the most to be pitied. The only friend on whom
she thought she could rely was Bertie Stanhope, and he, it seemed,
was determined to desert her. Mr. Arabin did not attempt to address
her. She said a few words in reply to some remarks from Mr. Slope
and then, feeling the situation too much for her, started from her
chair in spite of Miss Thorne and hurried from the room. Mr. Slope
followed her, and young Stanhope lost the occasion.

Madeline Neroni, when she was left alone, could not help pondering
much on the singular interview she had had with this singular man.
Not a word that she had spoken to him had been intended by her to be
received as true, and yet he had answered her in the very spirit of
truth. He had done so, and she had been aware that he had so done.
She had wormed from him his secret, and he, debarred as it would seem
from man's usual privilege of lying, had innocently laid bare his
whole soul to her. He loved Eleanor Bold, but Eleanor was not in
his eye so beautiful as herself. He would fain have Eleanor for his
wife, but yet he had acknowledged that she was the less gifted of the
two. The man had literally been unable to falsify his thoughts when
questioned, and had been compelled to be true _malgré lui_, even when
truth must have been so disagreeable to him.

This teacher of men, this Oxford pundit, this double-distilled
quintessence of university perfection, this writer of religious
treatises, this speaker of ecclesiastical speeches, had been like a
little child in her hands; she had turned him inside out and read his
very heart as she might have done that of a young girl. She could not
but despise him for his facile openness, and yet she liked him for it,
too. It was a novelty to her, a new trait in a man's character. She
felt also that she could never so completely make a fool of him as she
did of the Slopes and Thornes. She felt that she never could induce
Mr. Arabin to make protestations to her that were not true, or to
listen to nonsense that was mere nonsense.

It was quite clear that Mr. Arabin was heartily in love with Mrs.
Bold; and the signora, with very unwonted good nature, began to turn
it over in her mind whether she could not do him a good turn. Of
course Bertie was to have the first chance. It was an understood
family arrangement that her brother was, if possible, to marry the
Widow Bold. Madeline knew too well his necessities and what was due
to her sister to interfere with so excellent a plan, as long as it
might be feasible. But she had strong suspicion that it was not
feasible. She did not think it likely that Mrs. Bold would accept
a man in her brother's position, and she had frequently said so
to Charlotte. She was inclined to believe that Mr. Slope had more
chance of success, and with her it would be a labour of love to rob
Mr. Slope of his wife.

And so the signora resolved, should Bertie fail, to do a good-natured
act for once in her life and give up Mr. Arabin to the woman whom he
loved.




CHAPTER XXXIX

The Lookalofts and the Greenacres


On the whole, Miss Thorne's provision for the amusement and feeding
of the outer classes in the exoteric paddock was not unsuccessful.

Two little drawbacks to the general happiness did take place, but they
were of a temporary nature, and apparent rather than real. The first
was the downfall of young Harry Greenacre, and the other 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 anathematized 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 recognized 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 recognized. 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 come
out to our John, you know, and she's always vastly polite to me, is
Betsey Rusk, I must say. So before she took so much as one turn with
John she told me every ha'porth that was going on up in the house."

"Did she now?" said Mrs. Greenacre.

"Indeed she did," said Mrs. Guffern.

"And she told you them people was up there in the drawing-room?"

"She told me she zee'd 'em 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 trade are you?
And who do you work for?"

"I'm Stubbs, your worship, Bob Stubbs; and--and--and--"

"And what's your trade, Stubbs?"

"Plasterer, please your worship."

"I'll plaster you, and Barrell too; you'll just walk out of this 'ere
field as quick as you walked in. We don't want no plasterers; 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 ingress 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 armchair in the warmest corner
of Mrs. Greenacre's beautifully clean front kitchen. 'Twas there that
the inner man dissolved itself and poured itself out in streams of
pleasant chat; 'twas there 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. Plasterer! I'll plaster him!"

"He worked long enough for me, then, Mr. Plomacy. And a good hand
he is at setting tiles as any in Barchester," said the other, not
sticking quite to veracity, as indeed mercy never should. "Come, come,
let him alone to-day and quarrel with him to-morrow. You wouldn't
shame him before his lass there?"

"It goes against the grain with me, then," said Mr. Plomacy. "And take
care, you Stubbs, and behave yourself. If I hear a row, I shall know
where it comes from. I'm up to you Barchester journeymen; I know what
stuff you're made of."

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 the 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 Madame 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 éclat
and universal delight.




CHAPTER XL

Ullathorne Sports--Act II


"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, 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
informing 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 had 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 awhile 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
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 steps, 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, 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 goodwill that it sounded among the trees like a
miniature thunderclap.

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-pity 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
directly 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
graceful 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 awhile, 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, 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 XLI

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 gibes 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 connexion--into such close connexion 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 was in heaven or in
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 this 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 besirened, 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 arrangement 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 to-night, 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 XLII

Ullathorne Sports--Act III


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 candlelight, 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 _désoeuvré_, 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 to-morrow," 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 by, 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, 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 these 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
houses 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
warfare. 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-brimmed 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 had 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; "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 so. 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 worse 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
and burst out into a flood of tears.

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

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

He had not even yet explained to her the most difficult part of his
proposition; he had not told her that she was to be a party to the
little deception which he intended to play 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 naïvely; "perhaps that will be
better at any rate for a time; and then Charlotte will think you are
offended at what I have done."

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

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

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

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

As soon as he had handed Eleanor over to his father, Bertie started
off to the front gate in search of the carriage, and there he waited
leaning patiently against the front wall, 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 XLIII

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 dispatches. 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.; 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
dispatches. 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 to-morrow."

"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 piecrust, 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 to-morrow. 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.

"To-day, 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; 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 by, 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,'" she said. "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 weekdays as well as on Sundays."

"On weekdays you can't take heed not to despise them," said Mrs.
Proudie, "because then they are out in the fields. On weekdays 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 apologize 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 dispatch 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 he 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 broadsheets 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 a 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 awhile 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 XLIV

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 roused 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?
Mamma 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 inquiries.

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
tranquilised.

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 to-day 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 à 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 to-morrow.
   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 to-day; 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 XLV

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 armchair, 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! To-day 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 can
you 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 catlike 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 shan'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."

"To-night?" said Bertie, and the simple tone of the question left the
doctor without any adequately dignified method of reply.

"Papa does not quite mean to-night," said Charlotte; "at least I
suppose not."

"To-morrow, perhaps," suggested Bertie.

"Yes, sir, to-morrow," said the doctor. "You shall leave this
to-morrow."

"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 to-morrow. 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; 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 to-morrow," said Charlotte; "but pray, Papa,
let us arrange some scheme together."

"If he will leave this to-morrow, 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 _décolleté_ 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 _soupçon_ 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 XLVI

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 levée 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
signor, 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 very
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, what 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 by, 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 the 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 Revs. Messrs. Grey 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 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 refuse 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 XLVII

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 meant 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
_élite_ of the ecclesiastical world of Barchester; whereas his own
_protégé_, 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 sunk 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, £1,200 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 combatting; 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 recognize 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, 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 XLVIII

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; 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; 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 which 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 gun-powder 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 régime 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 sun set 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 awhile, 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
fire-place 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 of 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 connexion, 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; 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 Doctor 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 XLIX

The Beelzebub 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 Beelzebub 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
Beelzebub 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 Beelzebub 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 connexion
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?" 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 L

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 advise 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 now-a-days
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 judgement 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 turtle-doves
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 protégé, 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 detour 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 _congé_ 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 half-way 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 to-day 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 to-morrow 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. 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 LI

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 930 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 overlaboured it. It is insipid or unnatural,
overstrained 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),
   To-morrow 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 armchairs 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 so--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 dependants 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;
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 allusion
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--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 Red 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 forever.




CHAPTER LII

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 awhile tried his
hand at persuading Mr. Harding that he was foolish, overscrupulous,
self-willed, and weak-minded; but he tried in vain. If Mr. Harding
would not give way to Dr. Grantly, it was not likely that 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 protégé, 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 bi-weekly
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.

"The truth is, Arabin," said the doctor, "that, after all 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 horsehair 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 _mêlée_ 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 house-warmings, 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; 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 the 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 LIII

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
elder 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 work-boxes on his
daughters; and to each of his sons he presented a check 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 causes of
his extravagance. 'Twas thus that he sang his song of triumph over
Mr. Slope. This was his pæan, 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 had 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. Mrs.
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.



2xxxxxxxxx


DOCTOR THORNE

by

Anthony Trollope




CONTENTS

         I. The Greshams of Greshamsbury
        II. Long, Long Ago
       III. Dr Thorne
        IV. Lessons from Courcy Castle
         V. Frank Gresham's First Speech
        VI. Frank Gresham's Early Loves
       VII. The Doctor's Garden
      VIII. Matrimonial Prospects
        IX. Sir Roger Scatcherd
         X. Sir Roger's Will
        XI. The Doctor Drinks His Tea
       XII. When Greek Meets Greek, Then Comes the Tug of War
      XIII. The Two Uncles
       XIV. Sentence of Exile
        XV. Courcy
       XVI. Miss Dunstable
      XVII. The Election
     XVIII. The Rivals
       XIX. The Duke of Omnium
        XX. The Proposal
       XXI. Mr Moffat Falls into Trouble
      XXII. Sir Roger Is Unseated
      XXII. Retrospective
      XXIV. Louis Scatcherd
       XXV. Sir Roger Dies
      XXVI. War
     XXVII. Miss Thorne Goes on a Visit
    XXVIII. The Doctor Hears Something to His Advantage
      XXIX. The Donkey Ride
       XXX. Post Prandial
      XXXI. The Small End of the Wedge
     XXXII. Mr Oriel
    XXXIII. A Morning Visit
     XXXIV. A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury
      XXXV. Sir Louis Goes Out to Dinner
     XXXVI. Will He Come Again?
    XXXVII. Sir Louis Leaves Greshamsbury
   XXXVIII. De Courcy Precepts and de Courcy Practice
     XXXIX. What the World Says about Blood
        XL. The Two Doctors Change Patients
       XLI. Doctor Thorne Won't Interfere
      XLII. What Can You Give in Return?
     XLIII. The Race of Scatcherd Becomes Extinct
      XLIV. Saturday Evening and Sunday Morning
       XLV. Law Business in London
      XLVI. Our Pet Fox Finds a Tail
     XLVII. How the Bride Was Received, and Who Were Asked
            to the Wedding





CHAPTER I

The Greshams of Greshamsbury


Before the reader is introduced to the modest country medical
practitioner who is to be the chief personage of the following
tale, it will be well that he should be made acquainted with some
particulars as to the locality in which, and the neighbours among
whom, our doctor followed his profession.

There is a county in the west of England not so full of life, indeed,
nor so widely spoken of as some of its manufacturing leviathan
brethren in the north, but which is, nevertheless, very dear to those
who know it well. Its green pastures, its waving wheat, its deep
and shady and--let us add--dirty lanes, its paths and stiles, its
tawny-coloured, well-built rural churches, its avenues of beeches,
and frequent Tudor mansions, its constant county hunt, its social
graces, and the general air of clanship which pervades it, has made
it to its own inhabitants a favoured land of Goshen. It is purely
agricultural; agricultural in its produce, agricultural in its poor,
and agricultural in its pleasures. There are towns in it, of course;
dépôts from whence are brought seeds and groceries, ribbons and
fire-shovels; in which markets are held and county balls are carried
on; which return members to Parliament, generally--in spite of Reform
Bills, past, present, and coming--in accordance with the dictates
of some neighbouring land magnate: from whence emanate the country
postmen, and where is located the supply of post-horses necessary
for county visitings. But these towns add nothing to the importance
of the county; they consist, with the exception of the assize town,
of dull, all but death-like single streets. Each possesses two
pumps, three hotels, ten shops, fifteen beer-houses, a beadle, and a
market-place.

Indeed, the town population of the county reckons for nothing when
the importance of the county is discussed, with the exception, as
before said, of the assize town, which is also a cathedral city.
Herein is a clerical aristocracy, which is certainly not without its
due weight. A resident bishop, a resident dean, an archdeacon, three
or four resident prebendaries, and all their numerous chaplains,
vicars, and ecclesiastical satellites, do make up a society
sufficiently powerful to be counted as something by the county
squirearchy. In other respects the greatness of Barsetshire depends
wholly on the landed powers.

Barsetshire, however, is not now so essentially one whole as it was
before the Reform Bill divided it. There is in these days an East
Barsetshire, and there is a West Barsetshire; and people conversant
with Barsetshire doings declare that they can already decipher some
difference of feeling, some division of interests. The eastern moiety
of the county is more purely Conservative than the western; there
is, or was, a taint of Peelism in the latter; and then, too, the
residence of two such great Whig magnates as the Duke of Omnium and
the Earl de Courcy in that locality in some degree overshadows and
renders less influential the gentlemen who live near them.

It is to East Barsetshire that we are called. When the division above
spoken of was first contemplated, in those stormy days in which
gallant men were still combatting reform ministers, if not with hope,
still with spirit, the battle was fought by none more bravely than
by John Newbold Gresham of Greshamsbury, the member for Barsetshire.
Fate, however, and the Duke of Wellington were adverse, and in the
following Parliament John Newbold Gresham was only member for East
Barsetshire.

Whether or not it was true, as stated at the time, that the aspect of
the men with whom he was called on to associate at St Stephen's broke
his heart, it is not for us now to inquire. It is certainly true that
he did not live to see the first year of the reformed Parliament
brought to a close. The then Mr Gresham was not an old man at the
time of his death, and his eldest son, Francis Newbold Gresham, was a
very young man; but, notwithstanding his youth, and notwithstanding
other grounds of objection which stood in the way of such preferment,
and which must be explained, he was chosen in his father's place.
The father's services had been too recent, too well appreciated, too
thoroughly in unison with the feelings of those around him to allow
of any other choice; and in this way young Frank Gresham found
himself member for East Barsetshire, although the very men who
elected him knew that they had but slender ground for trusting him
with their suffrages.

Frank Gresham, though then only twenty-four years of age, was a
married man, and a father. He had already chosen a wife, and by
his choice had given much ground of distrust to the men of East
Barsetshire. He had married no other than Lady Arabella de Courcy,
the sister of the great Whig earl who lived at Courcy Castle in the
west; that earl who not only voted for the Reform Bill, but had been
infamously active in bringing over other young peers so to vote,
and whose name therefore stank in the nostrils of the staunch Tory
squires of the county.

Not only had Frank Gresham so wedded, but having thus improperly and
unpatriotically chosen a wife, he had added to his sins by becoming
recklessly intimate with his wife's relations. It is true that he
still called himself a Tory, belonged to the club of which his father
had been one of the most honoured members, and in the days of the
great battle got his head broken in a row, on the right side; but,
nevertheless, it was felt by the good men, true and blue, of East
Barsetshire, that a constant sojourner at Courcy Castle could not be
regarded as a consistent Tory. When, however, his father died, that
broken head served him in good stead: his sufferings in the cause
were made the most of; these, in unison with his father's merits,
turned the scale, and it was accordingly decided, at a meeting held
at the George and Dragon, at Barchester, that Frank Gresham should
fill his father's shoes.

But Frank Gresham could not fill his father's shoes; they were too
big for him. He did become member for East Barsetshire, but he was
such a member--so lukewarm, so indifferent, so prone to associate
with the enemies of the good cause, so little willing to fight the
good fight, that he soon disgusted those who most dearly loved the
memory of the old squire.

De Courcy Castle in those days had great allurements for a young man,
and all those allurements were made the most of to win over young
Gresham. His wife, who was a year or two older than himself, was a
fashionable woman, with thorough Whig tastes and aspirations, such
as became the daughter of a great Whig earl; she cared for politics,
or thought that she cared for them, more than her husband did; for
a month or two previous to her engagement she had been attached to
the Court, and had been made to believe that much of the policy of
England's rulers depended on the political intrigues of England's
women. She was one who would fain be doing something if she only
knew how, and the first important attempt she made was to turn her
respectable young Tory husband into a second-rate Whig bantling. As
this lady's character will, it is hoped, show itself in the following
pages, we need not now describe it more closely.

It is not a bad thing to be son-in-law to a potent earl, member of
Parliament for a county, and a possessor of a fine old English seat,
and a fine old English fortune. As a very young man, Frank Gresham
found the life to which he was thus introduced agreeable enough. He
consoled himself as best he might for the blue looks with which he
was greeted by his own party, and took his revenge by consorting more
thoroughly than ever with his political adversaries. Foolishly, like
a foolish moth, he flew to the bright light, and, like the moths,
of course he burnt his wings. Early in 1833 he had become a member
of Parliament, and in the autumn of 1834 the dissolution came.
Young members of three or four-and-twenty do not think much of
dissolutions, forget the fancies of their constituents, and are too
proud of the present to calculate much as to the future. So it was
with Mr Gresham. His father had been member for Barsetshire all his
life, and he looked forward to similar prosperity as though it were
part of his inheritance; but he failed to take any of the steps which
had secured his father's seat.

In the autumn of 1834 the dissolution came, and Frank Gresham, with
his honourable lady wife and all the de Courcys at his back, found
that he had mortally offended the county. To his great disgust
another candidate was brought forward as a fellow to his late
colleague, and though he manfully fought the battle, and spent ten
thousand pounds in the contest, he could not recover his position. A
high Tory, with a great Whig interest to back him, is never a popular
person in England. No one can trust him, though there may be those
who are willing to place him, untrusted, in high positions. Such
was the case with Mr Gresham. There were many who were willing, for
family considerations, to keep him in Parliament; but no one thought
that he was fit to be there. The consequences were, that a bitter
and expensive contest ensued. Frank Gresham, when twitted with being
a Whig, foreswore the de Courcy family; and then, when ridiculed as
having been thrown over by the Tories, foreswore his father's old
friends. So between the two stools he fell to the ground, and, as a
politician, he never again rose to his feet.

He never again rose to his feet; but twice again he made violent
efforts to do so. Elections in East Barsetshire, from various
causes, came quick upon each other in those days, and before he was
eight-and-twenty years of age Mr Gresham had three times contested
the county and been three times beaten. To speak the truth of him,
his own spirit would have been satisfied with the loss of the first
ten thousand pounds; but Lady Arabella was made of higher mettle. She
had married a man with a fine place and a fine fortune; but she had
nevertheless married a commoner and had in so far derogated from her
high birth. She felt that her husband should be by rights a member of
the House of Lords; but, if not, that it was at least essential that
he should have a seat in the lower chamber. She would by degrees sink
into nothing if she allowed herself to sit down, the mere wife of a
mere country squire.

Thus instigated, Mr Gresham repeated the useless contest three times,
and repeated it each time at a serious cost. He lost his money, Lady
Arabella lost her temper, and things at Greshamsbury went on by no
means as prosperously as they had done in the days of the old squire.

In the first twelve years of their marriage, children came fast into
the nursery at Greshamsbury. The first that was born was a boy; and
in those happy halcyon days, when the old squire was still alive,
great was the joy at the birth of an heir to Greshamsbury; bonfires
gleamed through the country-side, oxen were roasted whole, and
the customary paraphernalia of joy, usual to rich Britons on such
occasions were gone through with wondrous éclat. But when the tenth
baby, and the ninth little girl, was brought into the world, the
outward show of joy was not so great.

Then other troubles came on. Some of these little girls were sickly,
some very sickly. Lady Arabella had her faults, and they were such as
were extremely detrimental to her husband's happiness and her own;
but that of being an indifferent mother was not among them. She had
worried her husband daily for years because he was not in Parliament,
she had worried him because he would not furnish the house in Portman
Square, she had worried him because he objected to have more people
every winter at Greshamsbury Park than the house would hold; but now
she changed her tune and worried him because Selina coughed, because
Helena was hectic, because poor Sophy's spine was weak, and Matilda's
appetite was gone.

Worrying from such causes was pardonable it will be said. So it was;
but the manner was hardly pardonable. Selina's cough was certainly
not fairly attributable to the old-fashioned furniture in Portman
Square; nor would Sophy's spine have been materially benefited by
her father having a seat in Parliament; and yet, to have heard Lady
Arabella discussing those matters in family conclave, one would have
thought that she would have expected such results.

As it was, her poor weak darlings were carried about from London to
Brighton, from Brighton to some German baths, from the German baths
back to Torquay, and thence--as regarded the four we have named--to
that bourne from whence no further journey could be made under the
Lady Arabella's directions.

The one son and heir to Greshamsbury was named as his father, Francis
Newbold Gresham. He would have been the hero of our tale had not that
place been pre-occupied by the village doctor. As it is, those who
please may so regard him. It is he who is to be our favourite young
man, to do the love scenes, to have his trials and his difficulties,
and to win through them or not, as the case may be. I am too old now
to be a hard-hearted author, and so it is probable that he may not
die of a broken heart. Those who don't approve of a middle-aged
bachelor country doctor as a hero, may take the heir to Greshamsbury
in his stead, and call the book, if it so please them, "The Loves and
Adventures of Francis Newbold Gresham the Younger."

And Master Frank Gresham was not ill adapted for playing the part
of a hero of this sort. He did not share his sisters' ill-health,
and though the only boy of the family, he excelled all his sisters
in personal appearance. The Greshams from time immemorial had been
handsome. They were broad browed, blue eyed, fair haired, born with
dimples in their chins, and that pleasant, aristocratic dangerous
curl of the upper lip which can equally express good humour or scorn.
Young Frank was every inch a Gresham, and was the darling of his
father's heart.

The de Courcys had never been plain. There was too much hauteur, too
much pride, we may perhaps even fairly say, too much nobility in
their gait and manners, and even in their faces, to allow of their
being considered plain; but they were not a race nurtured by Venus
or Apollo. They were tall and thin, with high cheek-bones, high
foreheads, and large, dignified, cold eyes. The de Courcy girls had
all good hair; and, as they also possessed easy manners and powers
of talking, they managed to pass in the world for beauties till they
were absorbed in the matrimonial market, and the world at large cared
no longer whether they were beauties or not. The Misses Gresham were
made in the de Courcy mould, and were not on this account the less
dear to their mother.

The two eldest, Augusta and Beatrice, lived, and were apparently
likely to live. The four next faded and died one after another--all
in the same sad year--and were laid in the neat, new cemetery at
Torquay. Then came a pair, born at one birth, weak, delicate, frail
little flowers, with dark hair and dark eyes, and thin, long, pale
faces, with long, bony hands, and long bony feet, whom men looked on
as fated to follow their sisters with quick steps. Hitherto, however,
they had not followed them, nor had they suffered as their sisters
had suffered; and some people at Greshamsbury attributed this to the
fact that a change had been made in the family medical practitioner.

Then came the youngest of the flock, she whose birth we have said was
not heralded with loud joy; for when she came into the world, four
others, with pale temples, wan, worn cheeks, and skeleton, white
arms, were awaiting permission to leave it.

Such was the family when, in the year 1854, the eldest son came of
age. He had been educated at Harrow, and was now still at Cambridge;
but, of course, on such a day as this he was at home. That coming of
age must be a delightful time to a young man born to inherit broad
acres and wide wealth. Those full-mouthed congratulations; those
warm prayers with which his manhood is welcomed by the grey-haired
seniors of the county; the affectionate, all but motherly caresses of
neighbouring mothers who have seen him grow up from his cradle, of
mothers who have daughters, perhaps, fair enough, and good enough,
and sweet enough even for him; the soft-spoken, half-bashful, but
tender greetings of the girls, who now, perhaps for the first time,
call him by his stern family name, instructed by instinct rather than
precept that the time has come when the familiar Charles or familiar
John must by them be laid aside; the "lucky dogs," and hints of
silver spoons which are poured into his ears as each young compeer
slaps his back and bids him live a thousand years and then never die;
the shouting of the tenantry, the good wishes of the old farmers who
come up to wring his hand, the kisses which he gets from the farmers'
wives, and the kisses which he gives to the farmers' daughters; all
these things must make the twenty-first birthday pleasant enough to
a young heir. To a youth, however, who feels that he is now liable
to arrest, and that he inherits no other privilege, the pleasure may
very possibly not be quite so keen.

The case with young Frank Gresham may be supposed to much nearer the
former than the latter; but yet the ceremony of his coming of age
was by no means like that which fate had accorded to his father. Mr
Gresham was now an embarrassed man, and though the world did not know
it, or, at any rate, did not know that he was deeply embarrassed, he
had not the heart to throw open his mansion and receive the county
with a free hand as though all things were going well with him.

Nothing was going well with him. Lady Arabella would allow nothing
near him or around him to be well. Everything with him now turned to
vexation; he was no longer a joyous, happy man, and the people of
East Barsetshire did not look for gala doings on a grand scale when
young Gresham came of age.

Gala doings, to a certain extent, there were there. It was in July,
and tables were spread under the oaks for the tenants. Tables were
spread, and meat, and beer, and wine were there, and Frank, as he
walked round and shook his guests by the hand, expressed a hope that
their relations with each other might be long, close, and mutually
advantageous.

We must say a few words now about the place itself. Greshamsbury
Park was a fine old English gentleman's seat--was and is; but we can
assert it more easily in past tense, as we are speaking of it with
reference to a past time. We have spoken of Greshamsbury Park; there
was a park so called, but the mansion itself was generally known as
Greshamsbury House, and did not stand in the park. We may perhaps
best describe it by saying that the village of Greshamsbury consisted
of one long, straggling street, a mile in length, which in the centre
turned sharp round, so that one half of the street lay directly at
right angles to the other. In this angle stood Greshamsbury House,
and the gardens and grounds around it filled up the space so made.
There was an entrance with large gates at each end of the village,
and each gate was guarded by the effigies of two huge pagans with
clubs, such being the crest borne by the family; from each entrance a
broad road, quite straight, running through to a majestic avenue of
limes, led up to the house. This was built in the richest, perhaps we
should rather say in the purest, style of Tudor architecture; so much
so that, though Greshamsbury is less complete than Longleat, less
magnificent than Hatfield, it may in some sense be said to be the
finest specimen of Tudor architecture of which the country can boast.

It stands amid a multitude of trim gardens and stone-built terraces,
divided one from another: these to our eyes are not so attractive as
that broad expanse of lawn by which our country houses are generally
surrounded; but the gardens of Greshamsbury have been celebrated for
two centuries, and any Gresham who would have altered them would have
been considered to have destroyed one of the well-known landmarks of
the family.

Greshamsbury Park--properly so called--spread far away on the other
side of the village. Opposite to the two great gates leading up
to the mansion were two smaller gates, the one opening on to the
stables, kennels, and farm-yard, and the other to the deer park. This
latter was the principal entrance to the demesne, and a grand and
picturesque entrance it was. The avenue of limes which on one side
stretched up to the house, was on the other extended for a quarter of
a mile, and then appeared to be terminated only by an abrupt rise in
the ground. At the entrance there were four savages and four clubs,
two to each portal, and what with the massive iron gates, surmounted
by a stone wall, on which stood the family arms supported by two
other club-bearers, the stone-built lodges, the Doric, ivy-covered
columns which surrounded the circle, the four grim savages, and the
extent of the space itself through which the high road ran, and which
just abutted on the village, the spot was sufficiently significant of
old family greatness.

Those who examined it more closely might see that under the arms was
a scroll bearing the Gresham motto, and that the words were repeated
in smaller letters under each of the savages. "Gardez Gresham,"
had been chosen in the days of motto-choosing probably by some
herald-at-arms as an appropriate legend for signifying the peculiar
attributes of the family. Now, however, unfortunately, men were not
of one mind as to the exact idea signified. Some declared, with much
heraldic warmth, that it was an address to the savages, calling on
them to take care of their patron; while others, with whom I myself
am inclined to agree, averred with equal certainty that it was an
advice to the people at large, especially to those inclined to rebel
against the aristocracy of the county, that they should "beware the
Gresham." The latter signification would betoken strength--so said
the holders of this doctrine; the former weakness. Now the Greshams
were ever a strong people, and never addicted to a false humility.

We will not pretend to decide the question. Alas! either construction
was now equally unsuited to the family fortunes. Such changes had
taken place in England since the Greshams had founded themselves that
no savage could any longer in any way protect them; they must protect
themselves like common folk, or live unprotected. Nor now was it
necessary that any neighbour should shake in his shoes when the
Gresham frowned. It would have been to be wished that the present
Gresham himself could have been as indifferent to the frowns of some
of his neighbours.

But the old symbols remained, and may such symbols long remain among
us; they are still lovely and fit to be loved. They tell us of the
true and manly feelings of other times; and to him who can read
aright, they explain more fully, more truly than any written history
can do, how Englishmen have become what they are. England is not yet
a commercial country in the sense in which that epithet is used for
her; and let us still hope that she will not soon become so. She
might surely as well be called feudal England, or chivalrous England.
If in western civilised Europe there does exist a nation among whom
there are high signors, and with whom the owners of the land are
the true aristocracy, the aristocracy that is trusted as being best
and fittest to rule, that nation is the English. Choose out the ten
leading men of each great European people. Choose them in France, in
Austria, Sardinia, Prussia, Russia, Sweden, Denmark, Spain (?), and
then select the ten in England whose names are best known as those of
leading statesmen; the result will show in which country there still
exists the closest attachment to, the sincerest trust in, the old
feudal and now so-called landed interests.

England a commercial country! Yes; as Venice was. She may excel
other nations in commerce, but yet it is not that in which she most
prides herself, in which she most excels. Merchants as such are not
the first men among us; though it perhaps be open, barely open, to
a merchant to become one of them. Buying and selling is good and
necessary; it is very necessary, and may, possibly, be very good; but
it cannot be the noblest work of man; and let us hope that it may not
in our time be esteemed the noblest work of an Englishman.

Greshamsbury Park was very large; it lay on the outside of the angle
formed by the village street, and stretched away on two sides without
apparent limit or boundaries visible from the village road or house.
Indeed, the ground on this side was so broken up into abrupt hills,
and conical-shaped, oak-covered excrescences, which were seen peeping
up through and over each other, that the true extent of the park was
much magnified to the eye. It was very possible for a stranger to get
into it and to find some difficulty in getting out again by any of
its known gates; and such was the beauty of the landscape, that a
lover of scenery would be tempted thus to lose himself.

I have said that on one side lay the kennels, and this will give
me an opportunity of describing here one especial episode, a long
episode, in the life of the existing squire. He had once represented
his county in Parliament, and when he ceased to do so he still felt
an ambition to be connected in some peculiar way with that county's
greatness; he still desired that Gresham of Greshamsbury should be
something more in East Barsetshire than Jackson of the Grange, or
Baker of Mill Hill, or Bateson of Annesgrove. They were all his
friends, and very respectable country gentlemen; but Mr Gresham of
Greshamsbury should be more than this: even he had enough of ambition
to be aware of such a longing. Therefore, when an opportunity
occurred he took to hunting the county.

For this employment he was in every way well suited--unless it was in
the matter of finance. Though he had in his very earliest manly years
given such great offence by indifference to his family politics,
and had in a certain degree fostered the ill-feeling by contesting
the county in opposition to the wishes of his brother squires,
nevertheless, he bore a loved and popular name. Men regretted that he
should not have been what they wished him to be, that he should not
have been such as was the old squire; but when they found that such
was the case, that he could not be great among them as a politician,
they were still willing that he should be great in any other way if
there were county greatness for which he was suited. Now he was known
as an excellent horseman, as a thorough sportsman, as one knowing in
dogs, and tender-hearted as a sucking mother to a litter of young
foxes; he had ridden in the county since he was fifteen, had a fine
voice for a view-hallo, knew every hound by name, and could wind a
horn with sufficient music for all hunting purposes; moreover, he had
come to his property, as was well known through all Barsetshire, with
a clear income of fourteen thousand a year.

Thus, when some old worn-out master of hounds was run to ground,
about a year after Mr Gresham's last contest for the county, it
seemed to all parties to be a pleasant and rational arrangement that
the hounds should go to Greshamsbury. Pleasant, indeed, to all except
the Lady Arabella; and rational, perhaps, to all except the squire
himself.

All this time he was already considerably encumbered. He had spent
much more than he should have done, and so indeed had his wife, in
those two splendid years in which they had figured as great among the
great ones of the earth. Fourteen thousand a year ought to have been
enough to allow a member of Parliament with a young wife and two or
three children to live in London and keep up their country family
mansion; but then the de Courcys were very great people, and Lady
Arabella chose to live as she had been accustomed to do, and as her
sister-in-law the countess lived: now Lord de Courcy had much more
than fourteen thousand a year. Then came the three elections, with
their vast attendant cost, and then those costly expedients to which
gentlemen are forced to have recourse who have lived beyond their
income, and find it impossible so to reduce their establishments as
to live much below it. Thus when the hounds came to Greshamsbury, Mr
Gresham was already a poor man.

Lady Arabella said much to oppose their coming; but Lady Arabella,
though it could hardly be said of her that she was under her
husband's rule, certainly was not entitled to boast that she had him
under hers. She then made her first grand attack as to the furniture
in Portman Square; and was then for the first time specially informed
that the furniture there was not matter of much importance, as she
would not in future be required to move her family to that residence
during the London seasons. The sort of conversations which grew from
such a commencement may be imagined. Had Lady Arabella worried her
lord less, he might perhaps have considered with more coolness the
folly of encountering so prodigious an increase to the expense of his
establishment; had he not spent so much money in a pursuit which his
wife did not enjoy, she might perhaps have been more sparing in her
rebukes as to his indifference to her London pleasures. As it was,
the hounds came to Greshamsbury, and Lady Arabella did go to London
for some period in each year, and the family expenses were by no
means lessened.

The kennels, however, were now again empty. Two years previous to the
time at which our story begins, the hounds had been carried off to
the seat of some richer sportsman. This was more felt by Mr Gresham
than any other misfortune which he had yet incurred. He had been
master of hounds for ten years, and that work he had at any rate done
well. The popularity among his neighbours which he had lost as a
politician he had regained as a sportsman, and he would fain have
remained autocratic in the hunt, had it been possible. But he so
remained much longer than he should have done, and at last they went
away, not without signs and sounds of visible joy on the part of Lady
Arabella.

But we have kept the Greshamsbury tenantry waiting under the
oak-trees by far too long. Yes; when young Frank came of age there
was still enough left at Greshamsbury, still means enough at the
squire's disposal, to light one bonfire, to roast, whole in its skin,
one bullock. Frank's virility came on him not quite unmarked, as
that of the parson's son might do, or the son of the neighbouring
attorney. It could still be reported in the Barsetshire Conservative
_Standard_ that "The beards wagged all" at Greshamsbury, now as they
had done for many centuries on similar festivals. Yes; it was so
reported. But this, like so many other such reports, had but a shadow
of truth in it. "They poured the liquor in," certainly, those who
were there; but the beards did not wag as they had been wont to wag
in former years. Beards won't wag for the telling. The squire was at
his wits' end for money, and the tenants one and all had so heard.
Rents had been raised on them; timber had fallen fast; the lawyer
on the estate was growing rich; tradesmen in Barchester, nay, in
Greshamsbury itself, were beginning to mutter; and the squire himself
would not be merry. Under such circumstances the throats of a
tenantry will still swallow, but their beards will not wag.

"I minds well," said Farmer Oaklerath to his neighbour, "when the
squoire hisself comed of age. Lord love 'ee! There was fun going that
day. There was more yale drank then than's been brewed at the big
house these two years. T'old squoire was a one'er."

"And I minds when squoire was borned; minds it well," said an old
farmer sitting opposite. "Them was the days! It an't that long ago
neither. Squoire a'nt come o' fifty yet; no, nor an't nigh it, though
he looks it. Things be altered at Greemsbury"--such was the rural
pronunciation--"altered sadly, neebor Oaklerath. Well, well; I'll
soon be gone, I will, and so it an't no use talking; but arter paying
one pound fifteen for them acres for more nor fifty year, I didn't
think I'd ever be axed for forty shilling."

Such was the style of conversation which went on at the various
tables. It had certainly been of a very different tone when the
squire was born, when he came of age, and when, just two years
subsequently, his son had been born. On each of these events similar
rural fêtes had been given, and the squire himself had on these
occasions been frequent among his guests. On the first, he had been
carried round by his father, a whole train of ladies and nurses
following. On the second, he had himself mixed in all the sports, the
gayest of the gay, and each tenant had squeezed his way up to the
lawn to get a sight of the Lady Arabella, who, as was already known,
was to come from Courcy Castle to Greshamsbury to be their mistress.
It was little they any of them cared now for the Lady Arabella. On
the third, he himself had borne his child in his arms as his father
had before borne him; he was then in the zenith of his pride, and
though the tenantry whispered that he was somewhat less familiar with
them than of yore, that he had put on somewhat too much of the de
Courcy airs, still he was their squire, their master, the rich man
in whose hand they lay. The old squire was then gone, and they were
proud of the young member and his lady bride in spite of a little
hauteur. None of them were proud of him now.

He walked once round among the guests, and spoke a few words of
welcome at each table; and as he did so the tenants got up and bowed
and wished health to the old squire, happiness to the young one, and
prosperity to Greshamsbury; but, nevertheless, it was but a tame
affair.

There were also other visitors, of the gentle sort, to do honour to
the occasion; but not such swarms, not such a crowd at the mansion
itself and at the houses of the neighbouring gentry as had always
been collected on these former gala doings. Indeed, the party at
Greshamsbury was not a large one, and consisted chiefly of Lady de
Courcy and her suite. Lady Arabella still kept up, as far as she was
able, her close connexion with Courcy Castle. She was there as much
as possible, to which Mr Gresham never objected; and she took her
daughters there whenever she could, though, as regarded the two elder
girls, she was interfered with by Mr Gresham, and not unfrequently by
the girls themselves. Lady Arabella had a pride in her son, though
he was by no means her favourite child. He was, however, the heir of
Greshamsbury, of which fact she was disposed to make the most, and
he was also a fine gainly open-hearted young man, who could not but
be dear to any mother. Lady Arabella did love him dearly, though she
felt a sort of disappointment in regard to him, seeing that he was
not so much like a de Courcy as he should have been. She did love him
dearly; and, therefore, when he came of age she got her sister-in-law
and all the Ladies Amelia, Rosina etc., to come to Greshamsbury; and
she also, with some difficulty, persuaded the Honourable Georges and
the Honourable Johns to be equally condescending. Lord de Courcy
himself was in attendance at the Court--or said that he was--and Lord
Porlock, the eldest son, simply told his aunt when he was invited
that he never bored himself with those sort of things.

Then there were the Bakers, and the Batesons, and the Jacksons, who
all lived near and returned home at night; there was the Reverend
Caleb Oriel, the High-Church rector, with his beautiful sister,
Patience Oriel; there was Mr Yates Umbleby, the attorney and agent;
and there was Dr Thorne, and the doctor's modest, quiet-looking
little niece, Miss Mary.




CHAPTER II

Long, Long Ago


As Dr Thorne is our hero--or I should rather say my hero, a privilege
of selecting for themselves in this respect being left to all my
readers--and as Miss Mary Thorne is to be our heroine, a point on
which no choice whatsoever is left to any one, it is necessary that
they shall be introduced and explained and described in a proper,
formal manner. I quite feel that an apology is due for beginning a
novel with two long dull chapters full of description. I am perfectly
aware of the danger of such a course. In so doing I sin against the
golden rule which requires us all to put our best foot foremost, the
wisdom of which is fully recognised by novelists, myself among the
number. It can hardly be expected that any one will consent to go
through with a fiction that offers so little of allurement in its
first pages; but twist it as I will I cannot do otherwise. I find
that I cannot make poor Mr Gresham hem and haw and turn himself
uneasily in his arm-chair in a natural manner till I have said why
he is uneasy. I cannot bring in my doctor speaking his mind freely
among the bigwigs till I have explained that it is in accordance
with his usual character to do so. This is unartistic on my part,
and shows want of imagination as well as want of skill. Whether or
not I can atone for these faults by straightforward, simple, plain
story-telling--that, indeed, is very doubtful.

Dr Thorne belonged to a family in one sense as good, and at any rate
as old, as that of Mr Gresham; and much older, he was apt to boast,
than that of the de Courcys. This trait in his character is mentioned
first, as it was the weakness for which he was most conspicuous. He
was second cousin to Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, a Barsetshire squire
living in the neighbourhood of Barchester, and who boasted that his
estate had remained in his family, descending from Thorne to Thorne,
longer than had been the case with any other estate or any other
family in the county.

But Dr Thorne was only a second cousin; and, therefore, though he was
entitled to talk of the blood as belonging to some extent to himself,
he had no right to lay claim to any position in the county other than
such as he might win for himself if he chose to locate himself in it.
This was a fact of which no one was more fully aware than our doctor
himself. His father, who had been first cousin of a former Squire
Thorne, had been a clerical dignitary in Barchester, but had been
dead now many years. He had had two sons; one he had educated as a
medical man, but the other, and the younger, whom he had intended
for the Bar, had not betaken himself in any satisfactory way to any
calling. This son had been first rusticated from Oxford, and then
expelled; and thence returning to Barchester, had been the cause to
his father and brother of much suffering.

Old Dr Thorne, the clergyman, died when the two brothers were yet
young men, and left behind him nothing but some household and
other property of the value of about two thousand pounds, which he
bequeathed to Thomas, the elder son, much more than that having been
spent in liquidating debts contracted by the younger. Up to that time
there had been close harmony between the Ullathorne family and that
of the clergyman; but a month or two before the doctor's death--the
period of which we are speaking was about two-and-twenty years before
the commencement of our story--the then Mr Thorne of Ullathorne had
made it understood that he would no longer receive at his house his
cousin Henry, whom he regarded as a disgrace to the family.

Fathers are apt to be more lenient to their sons than uncles to their
nephews, or cousins to each other. Dr Thorne still hoped to reclaim
his black sheep, and thought that the head of his family showed an
unnecessary harshness in putting an obstacle in his way of doing so.
And if the father was warm in support of his profligate son, the
young medical aspirant was warmer in support of his profligate
brother. Dr Thorne, junior, was no roué himself, but perhaps, as a
young man, he had not sufficient abhorrence of his brother's vices.
At any rate, he stuck to him manfully; and when it was signified
in the Close that Henry's company was not considered desirable at
Ullathorne, Dr Thomas Thorne sent word to the squire that under such
circumstances his visits there would also cease.

This was not very prudent, as the young Galen had elected to
establish himself in Barchester, very mainly in expectation of the
help which his Ullathorne connexion would give him. This, however, in
his anger he failed to consider; he was never known, either in early
or in middle life, to consider in his anger those points which were
probably best worth his consideration. This, perhaps, was of the less
moment as his anger was of an unenduring kind, evaporating frequently
with more celerity than he could get the angry words out of his
mouth. With the Ullathorne people, however, he did establish a
quarrel sufficiently permanent to be of vital injury to his medical
prospects.

And then the father died, and the two brothers were left living
together with very little means between them. At this time there
were living, in Barchester, people of the name of Scatcherd. Of that
family, as then existing, we have only to do with two, a brother and
a sister. They were in a low rank of life, the one being a journeyman
stone-mason, and the other an apprentice to a straw-bonnet maker; but
they were, nevertheless, in some sort remarkable people. The sister
was reputed in Barchester to be a model of female beauty of the
strong and robuster cast, and had also a better reputation as being
a girl of good character and honest, womanly conduct. Both of her
beauty and of her reputation her brother was exceedingly proud, and
he was the more so when he learnt that she had been asked in marriage
by a decent master-tradesman in the city.

Roger Scatcherd had also a reputation, but not for beauty or
propriety of conduct. He was known for the best stone-mason in the
four counties, and as the man who could, on occasion, drink the most
alcohol in a given time in the same localities. As a workman, indeed,
he had higher reputate even than this: he was not only a good and
very quick stone-mason, but he had also a capacity for turning other
men into good stone-masons: he had a gift of knowing what a man could
and should do; and, by degrees, he taught himself what five, and ten,
and twenty--latterly, what a thousand and two thousand men might
accomplish among them: this, also, he did with very little aid
from pen and paper, with which he was not, and never became, very
conversant. He had also other gifts and other propensities. He could
talk in a manner dangerous to himself and others; he could persuade
without knowing that he did so; and being himself an extreme
demagogue, in those noisy times just prior to the Reform Bill,
he created a hubbub in Barchester of which he himself had had no
previous conception.

Henry Thorne among his other bad qualities had one which his friends
regarded as worse than all the others, and which perhaps justified
the Ullathorne people in their severity. He loved to consort with
low people. He not only drank--that might have been forgiven--but he
drank in tap-rooms with vulgar drinkers; so said his friends, and so
said his enemies. He denied the charge as being made in the plural
number, and declared that his only low co-reveller was Roger
Scatcherd. With Roger Scatcherd, at any rate, he associated, and
became as democratic as Roger was himself. Now the Thornes of
Ullathorne were of the very highest order of Tory excellence.

Whether or not Mary Scatcherd at once accepted the offer of the
respectable tradesman, I cannot say. After the occurrence of certain
events which must here shortly be told, she declared that she never
had done so. Her brother averred that she most positively had. The
respectable tradesman himself refused to speak on the subject.

It is certain, however, that Scatcherd, who had hitherto been silent
enough about his sister in those social hours which he passed with
his gentleman friend, boasted of the engagement when it was, as he
said, made; and then boasted also of the girl's beauty. Scatcherd, in
spite of his occasional intemperance, looked up in the world, and the
coming marriage of his sister was, he thought, suitable to his own
ambition for his family.

Henry Thorne had already heard of, and already seen, Mary Scatcherd;
but hitherto she had not fallen in the way of his wickedness. Now,
however, when he heard that she was to be decently married, the devil
tempted him to tempt her. It boots not to tell all the tale. It came
out clearly enough when all was told, that he made her most distinct
promises of marriage; he even gave her such in writing; and having
in this way obtained from her her company during some of her little
holidays--her Sundays or summer evenings--he seduced her. Scatcherd
accused him openly of having intoxicated her with drugs; and Thomas
Thorne, who took up the case, ultimately believed the charge. It
became known in Barchester that she was with child, and that the
seducer was Henry Thorne.

Roger Scatcherd, when the news first reached him, filled himself with
drink, and then swore that he would kill them both. With manly wrath,
however, he set forth, first against the man, and that with manly
weapons. He took nothing with him but his fists and a big stick as he
went in search of Henry Thorne.

The two brothers were then lodging together at a farm-house close
abutting on the town. This was not an eligible abode for a medical
practitioner; but the young doctor had not been able to settle
himself eligibly since his father's death; and wishing to put what
constraint he could upon his brother, had so located himself. To this
farm-house came Roger Scatcherd one sultry summer evening, his anger
gleaming from his bloodshot eyes, and his rage heightened to madness
by the rapid pace at which he had run from the city, and by the
ardent spirits which were fermenting within him.

At the very gate of the farm-yard, standing placidly with his
cigar in his mouth, he encountered Henry Thorne. He had thought
of searching for him through the whole premises, of demanding his
victim with loud exclamations, and making his way to him through
all obstacles. In lieu of that, there stood the man before him.

"Well, Roger, what's in the wind?" said Henry Thorne.

They were the last words he ever spoke. He was answered by a blow
from the blackthorn. A contest ensued, which ended in Scatcherd
keeping his word--at any rate, as regarded the worst offender. How
the fatal blow on the temple was struck was never exactly determined:
one medical man said it might have been done in a fight with a
heavy-headed stick; another thought that a stone had been used; a
third suggested a stone-mason's hammer. It seemed, however, to be
proved subsequently that no hammer was taken out, and Scatcherd
himself persisted in declaring that he had taken in his hand no
weapon but the stick. Scatcherd, however, was drunk; and even though
he intended to tell the truth, may have been mistaken. There were,
however, the facts that Thorne was dead; that Scatcherd had sworn
to kill him about an hour previously; and that he had without delay
accomplished his threat. He was arrested and tried for murder; all
the distressing circumstances of the case came out on the trial: he
was found guilty of manslaughter, and sentenced to be imprisoned for
six months. Our readers will probably think that the punishment was
too severe.

Thomas Thorne and the farmer were on the spot soon after Henry Thorne
had fallen. The brother was at first furious for vengeance against
his brother's murderer; but, as the facts came out, as he learnt
what had been the provocation given, what had been the feelings of
Scatcherd when he left the city, determined to punish him who had
ruined his sister, his heart was changed. Those were trying days for
him. It behoved him to do what in him lay to cover his brother's
memory from the obloquy which it deserved; it behoved him also to
save, or to assist to save, from undue punishment the unfortunate man
who had shed his brother's blood; and it behoved him also, at least
so he thought, to look after that poor fallen one whose misfortunes
were less merited than those either of his brother or of hers.

And he was not the man to get through these things lightly, or with
as much ease as he perhaps might conscientiously have done. He would
pay for the defence of the prisoner; he would pay for the defence of
his brother's memory; and he would pay for the poor girl's comforts.
He would do this, and he would allow no one to help him. He stood
alone in the world, and insisted on so standing. Old Mr Thorne
of Ullathorne offered again to open his arms to him; but he had
conceived a foolish idea that his cousin's severity had driven his
brother on to his bad career, and he would consequently accept no
kindness from Ullathorne. Miss Thorne, the old squire's daughter--a
cousin considerably older than himself, to whom he had at one time
been much attached--sent him money; and he returned it to her under a
blank cover. He had still enough for those unhappy purposes which he
had in hand. As to what might happen afterwards, he was then mainly
indifferent.

The affair made much noise in the county, and was inquired into
closely by many of the county magistrates; by none more closely than
by John Newbold Gresham, who was then alive. Mr Gresham was greatly
taken with the energy and justice shown by Dr Thorne on the occasion;
and when the trial was over, he invited him to Greshamsbury. The
visit ended in the doctor establishing himself in that village.

We must return for a moment to Mary Scatcherd. She was saved from the
necessity of encountering her brother's wrath, for that brother was
under arrest for murder before he could get at her. Her immediate
lot, however, was a cruel one. Deep as was her cause for anger
against the man who had so inhumanly used her, still it was natural
that she should turn to him with love rather than with aversion. To
whom else could she in such plight look for love? When, therefore,
she heard that he was slain, her heart sank within her; she turned
her face to the wall, and laid herself down to die: to die a double
death, for herself and the fatherless babe that was now quick within
her.

But, in fact, life had still much to offer, both to her and to her
child. For her it was still destined that she should, in a distant
land, be the worthy wife of a good husband, and the happy mother of
many children. For that embryo one it was destined--but that may not
be so quickly told: to describe her destiny this volume has yet to be
written.

Even in those bitterest days God tempered the wind to the shorn
lamb. Dr Thorne was by her bedside soon after the bloody tidings
had reached her, and did for her more than either her lover or her
brother could have done. When the baby was born, Scatcherd was still
in prison, and had still three months' more confinement to undergo.
The story of her great wrongs and cruel usage was much talked of,
and men said that one who had been so injured should be regarded as
having in nowise sinned at all.

One man, at any rate, so thought. At twilight, one evening, Thorne
was surprised by a visit from a demure Barchester hardware dealer,
whom he did not remember ever to have addressed before. This was the
former lover of poor Mary Scatcherd. He had a proposal to make, and
it was this:--if Mary would consent to leave the country at once, to
leave it without notice from her brother, or talk or éclat on the
matter, he would sell all that he had, marry her, and emigrate.
There was but one condition; she must leave her baby behind her.
The hardware-man could find it in his heart to be generous, to be
generous and true to his love; but he could not be generous enough to
father the seducer's child.

"I could never abide it, sir, if I took it," said he; "and she,--why
in course she would always love it the best."

In praising his generosity, who can mingle any censure for such
manifest prudence? He would still make her the wife of his bosom,
defiled in the eyes of the world as she had been; but she must be
to him the mother of his own children, not the mother of another's
child.

And now again our doctor had a hard task to win through. He saw at
once that it was his duty to use his utmost authority to induce the
poor girl to accept such an offer. She liked the man; and here was
opened to her a course which would have been most desirable, even
before her misfortune. But it is hard to persuade a mother to part
with her first babe; harder, perhaps, when the babe had been so
fathered and so born than when the world has shone brightly on its
earliest hours. She at first refused stoutly: she sent a thousand
loves, a thousand thanks, profusest acknowledgements for his
generosity to the man who showed her that he loved her so well; but
Nature, she said, would not let her leave her child.

"And what will you do for her here, Mary?" said the doctor. Poor Mary
replied to him with a deluge of tears.

"She is my niece," said the doctor, taking up the tiny infant in his
huge hands; "she is already the nearest thing, the only thing that I
have in this world. I am her uncle, Mary. If you will go with this
man I will be father to her and mother to her. Of what bread I eat,
she shall eat; of what cup I drink, she shall drink. See, Mary, here
is the Bible;" and he covered the book with his hand. "Leave her to
me, and by this word she shall be my child."

The mother consented at last; left her baby with the doctor, married,
and went to America. All this was consummated before Roger Scatcherd
was liberated from jail. Some conditions the doctor made. The first
was, that Scatcherd should not know his sister's child was thus
disposed of. Dr Thorne, in undertaking to bring up the baby, did not
choose to encounter any tie with persons who might hereafter claim
to be the girl's relations on the other side. Relations she would
undoubtedly have had none had she been left to live or die as a
workhouse bastard; but should the doctor succeed in life, should he
ultimately be able to make this girl the darling of his own house,
and then the darling of some other house, should she live and win the
heart of some man whom the doctor might delight to call his friend
and nephew; then relations might spring up whose ties would not be
advantageous.

No man plumed himself on good blood more than Dr Thorne; no man had
greater pride in his genealogical tree, and his hundred and thirty
clearly proved descents from MacAdam; no man had a stronger theory
as to the advantage held by men who have grandfathers over those who
have none, or have none worth talking about. Let it not be thought
that our doctor was a perfect character. No, indeed; most far from
perfect. He had within him an inner, stubborn, self-admiring pride,
which made him believe himself to be better and higher than those
around him, and this from some unknown cause which he could hardly
explain to himself. He had a pride in being a poor man of a high
family; he had a pride in repudiating the very family of which he
was proud; and he had a special pride in keeping his pride silently
to himself. His father had been a Thorne, and his mother a Thorold.
There was no better blood to be had in England. It was in the
possession of such properties as these that he condescended to
rejoice; this man, with a man's heart, a man's courage, and a man's
humanity! Other doctors round the county had ditch-water in their
veins; he could boast of a pure ichor, to which that of the great
Omnium family was but a muddy puddle. It was thus that he loved to
excel his brother practitioners, he who might have indulged in the
pride of excelling them both in talent and in energy! We speak now
of his early days; but even in his maturer life, the man, though
mellowed, was the same.

This was the man who now promised to take to his bosom as his own
child a poor bastard whose father was already dead, and whose
mother's family was such as the Scatcherds! It was necessary that
the child's history should be known to none. Except to the mother's
brother it was an object of interest to no one. The mother had for
some short time been talked of; but now the nine-days' wonder was a
wonder no longer. She went off to her far-away home; her husband's
generosity was duly chronicled in the papers, and the babe was left
untalked of and unknown.

It was easy to explain to Scatcherd that the child had not lived.
There was a parting interview between the brother and sister in the
jail, during which, with real tears and unaffected sorrow, the mother
thus accounted for the offspring of her shame. Then she started,
fortunate in her coming fortunes; and the doctor took with him his
charge to the new country in which they were both to live. There he
found for her a fitting home till she should be old enough to sit
at his table and live in his bachelor house; and no one but old Mr
Gresham knew who she was, or whence she had come.

Then Roger Scatcherd, having completed his six months' confinement,
came out of prison.

Roger Scatcherd, though his hands were now red with blood, was to be
pitied. A short time before the days of Henry Thorne's death he had
married a young wife in his own class of life, and had made many
resolves that henceforward his conduct should be such as might become
a married man, and might not disgrace the respectable brother-in-law
he was about to have given him. Such was his condition when he first
heard of his sister's plight. As has been said, he filled himself
with drink and started off on the scent of blood.

During his prison days his wife had to support herself as she might.
The decent articles of furniture which they had put together were
sold; she gave up their little house, and, bowed down by misery, she
also was brought near to death. When he was liberated he at once got
work; but those who have watched the lives of such people know how
hard it is for them to recover lost ground. She became a mother
immediately after his liberation, and when her child was born they
were in direst want; for Scatcherd was again drinking, and his
resolves were blown to the wind.

The doctor was then living at Greshamsbury. He had gone over there
before the day on which he undertook the charge of poor Mary's baby,
and soon found himself settled as the Greshamsbury doctor. This
occurred very soon after the birth of the young heir. His predecessor
in this career had "bettered" himself, or endeavoured to do so, by
seeking the practice of some large town, and Lady Arabella, at a very
critical time, was absolutely left with no other advice than that of
a stranger, picked up, as she declared to Lady de Courcy, somewhere
about Barchester jail, or Barchester court-house, she did not know
which.

Of course Lady Arabella could not suckle the young heir herself.
Ladies Arabella never can. They are gifted with the powers of being
mothers, but not nursing-mothers. Nature gives them bosoms for show,
but not for use. So Lady Arabella had a wet-nurse. At the end of six
months the new doctor found Master Frank was not doing quite so well
as he should do; and after a little trouble it was discovered that
the very excellent young woman who had been sent express from Courcy
Castle to Greshamsbury--a supply being kept up on the lord's demesne
for the family use--was fond of brandy. She was at once sent back to
the castle, of course; and, as Lady de Courcy was too much in dudgeon
to send another, Dr Thorne was allowed to procure one. He thought of
the misery of Roger Scatcherd's wife, thought also of her health,
and strength, and active habits; and thus Mrs Scatcherd became the
foster-mother to young Frank Gresham.

One other episode we must tell of past times. Previous to his
father's death, Dr Thorne was in love. Nor had he altogether sighed
and pleaded in vain; though it had not quite come to that, that the
young lady's friends, or even the young lady herself, had actually
accepted his suit. At that time his name stood well in Barchester.
His father was a prebendary; his cousins and his best friends were
the Thornes of Ullathorne, and the lady, who shall be nameless, was
not thought to be injudicious in listening to the young doctor. But
when Henry Thorne went so far astray, when the old doctor died, when
the young doctor quarrelled with Ullathorne, when the brother was
killed in a disgraceful quarrel, and it turned out that the physician
had nothing but his profession and no settled locality in which to
exercise it; then, indeed, the young lady's friends thought that she
was injudicious, and the young lady herself had not spirit enough, or
love enough, to be disobedient. In those stormy days of the trial she
told Dr Thorne that perhaps it would be wise that they should not see
each other any more.

Dr Thorne, so counselled, at such a moment,--so informed then, when
he most required comfort from his love, at once swore loudly that he
agreed with her. He rushed forth with a bursting heart, and said to
himself that the world was bad, all bad. He saw the lady no more;
and, if I am rightly informed, never again made matrimonial overtures
to any one.




CHAPTER III

Dr Thorne


And thus Dr Thorne became settled for life in the little village of
Greshamsbury. As was then the wont with many country practitioners,
and as should be the wont with them all if they consulted their own
dignity a little less and the comforts of their customers somewhat
more, he added the business of a dispensing apothecary to that of
physician. In doing so, he was of course much reviled. Many people
around him declared that he could not truly be a doctor, or, at any
rate, a doctor to be so called; and his brethren in the art living
around him, though they knew that his diplomas, degrees, and
certificates were all _en règle_, rather countenanced the report.
There was much about this new-comer which did not endear him to his
own profession. In the first place he was a new-comer, and, as such,
was of course to be regarded by other doctors as being _de trop_.
Greshamsbury was only fifteen miles from Barchester, where there was
a regular dépôt of medical skill, and but eight from Silverbridge,
where a properly established physician had been in residence for the
last forty years. Dr Thorne's predecessor at Greshamsbury had been a
humble-minded general practitioner, gifted with a due respect for
the physicians of the county; and he, though he had been allowed to
physic the servants, and sometimes the children of Greshamsbury, had
never had the presumption to put himself on a par with his betters.

Then, also, Dr Thorne, though a graduated physician, though entitled
beyond all dispute to call himself a doctor, according to all the
laws of all the colleges, made it known to the East Barsetshire
world, very soon after he had seated himself at Greshamsbury, that
his rate of pay was to be seven-and-sixpence a visit within a
circuit of five miles, with a proportionally increased charge at
proportionally increased distances. Now there was something low,
mean, unprofessional, and democratic in this; so, at least, said the
children of Æsculapius gathered together in conclave at Barchester.
In the first place, it showed that this Thorne was always thinking
of his money, like an apothecary, as he was; whereas, it would have
behoved him, as a physician, had he had the feelings of a physician
under his hat, to have regarded his own pursuits in a purely
philosophical spirit, and to have taken any gain which might have
accrued as an accidental adjunct to his station in life. A physician
should take his fee without letting his left hand know what his right
hand was doing; it should be taken without a thought, without a look,
without a move of the facial muscles; the true physician should
hardly be aware that the last friendly grasp of the hand had been
made more precious by the touch of gold. Whereas, that fellow Thorne
would lug out half a crown from his breeches pocket and give it in
change for a ten shilling piece. And then it was clear that this man
had no appreciation of the dignity of a learned profession. He might
constantly be seen compounding medicines in the shop, at the left
hand of his front door; not making experiments philosophically in
materia medica for the benefit of coming ages--which, if he did, he
should have done in the seclusion of his study, far from profane
eyes--but positively putting together common powders for rural
bowels, or spreading vulgar ointments for agricultural ailments.

A man of this sort was not fit society for Dr Fillgrave of
Barchester. That must be admitted. And yet he had been found to be
fit society for the old squire of Greshamsbury, whose shoe-ribbons Dr
Fillgrave would not have objected to tie; so high did the old squire
stand in the county just previous to his death. But the spirit of the
Lady Arabella was known by the medical profession of Barsetshire, and
when that good man died it was felt that Thorne's short tenure of
Greshamsbury favour was already over. The Barsetshire regulars were,
however, doomed to disappointment. Our doctor had already contrived
to endear himself to the heir; and though there was not even then
much personal love between him and the Lady Arabella, he kept his
place at the great house unmoved, not only in the nursery and in the
bedrooms, but also at the squire's dining-table.

Now there was in this, it must be admitted, quite enough to make him
unpopular with his brethren; and this feeling was soon shown in a
marked and dignified manner. Dr Fillgrave, who had certainly the
most respectable professional connexion in the county, who had a
reputation to maintain, and who was accustomed to meet, on almost
equal terms, the great medical baronets from the metropolis at the
houses of the nobility--Dr Fillgrave declined to meet Dr Thorne in
consultation. He exceedingly regretted, he said, most exceedingly,
the necessity which he felt of doing so: he had never before had
to perform so painful a duty; but, as a duty which he owed to his
profession, he must perform it. With every feeling of respect for
Lady ----, a sick guest at Greshamsbury--and for Mr Gresham, he must
decline to attend in conjunction with Dr Thorne. If his services
could be made available under any other circumstances, he would go to
Greshamsbury as fast as post-horses could carry him.

Then, indeed, there was war in Barsetshire. If there was on Dr
Thorne's cranium one bump more developed than another, it was that of
combativeness. Not that the doctor was a bully, or even pugnacious,
in the usual sense of the word; he had no disposition to provoke a
fight, no propense love of quarrelling; but there was that in him
which would allow him to yield to no attack. Neither in argument nor
in contest would he ever allow himself to be wrong; never at least to
any one but to himself; and on behalf of his special hobbies, he was
ready to meet the world at large.

It will therefore be understood, that when such a gauntlet was thus
thrown in his very teeth by Dr Fillgrave, he was not slow to take it
up. He addressed a letter to the Barsetshire Conservative _Standard_,
in which he attacked Dr Fillgrave with some considerable acerbity.
Dr Fillgrave responded in four lines, saying that on mature
consideration he had made up his mind not to notice any remarks
that might be made on him by Dr Thorne in the public press. The
Greshamsbury doctor then wrote another letter, more witty and much
more severe than the last; and as this was copied into the Bristol,
Exeter, and Gloucester papers, Dr Fillgrave found it very difficult
to maintain the magnanimity of his reticence. It is sometimes
becoming enough for a man to wrap himself in the dignified toga of
silence, and proclaim himself indifferent to public attacks; but it
is a sort of dignity which it is very difficult to maintain. As well
might a man, when stung to madness by wasps, endeavour to sit in his
chair without moving a muscle, as endure with patience and without
reply the courtesies of a newspaper opponent. Dr Thorne wrote a third
letter, which was too much for medical flesh and blood to bear. Dr
Fillgrave answered it, not, indeed, in his own name, but in that of
a brother doctor; and then the war raged merrily. It is hardly too
much to say that Dr Fillgrave never knew another happy hour. Had he
dreamed of what materials was made that young compounder of doses at
Greshamsbury he would have met him in consultation, morning, noon,
and night, without objection; but having begun the war, he was
constrained to go on with it: his brethren would allow him no
alternative. Thus he was continually being brought up to the fight,
as a prize-fighter may be seen to be, who is carried up round after
round, without any hope on his own part, and who, in each round,
drops to the ground before the very wind of his opponent's blows.

But Dr Fillgrave, though thus weak himself, was backed in practice
and in countenance by nearly all his brethren in the county. The
guinea fee, the principle of _giving_ advice and of selling no
medicine, the great resolve to keep a distinct barrier between
the physician and the apothecary, and, above all, the hatred of
the contamination of a bill, were strong in the medical mind of
Barsetshire. Dr Thorne had the provincial medical world against him,
and so he appealed to the metropolis. The _Lancet_ took the matter up
in his favour, but the _Journal of Medical Science_ was against him;
the _Weekly Chirurgeon_, noted for its medical democracy, upheld him
as a medical prophet, but the _Scalping Knife_, a monthly periodical
got up in dead opposition to the _Lancet_, showed him no mercy. So
the war went on, and our doctor, to a certain extent, became a noted
character.

He had, moreover, other difficulties to encounter in his professional
career. It was something in his favour that he understood his
business; something that he was willing to labour at it with energy;
and resolved to labour at it conscientiously. He had also other
gifts, such as conversational brilliancy, an aptitude for true
good fellowship, firmness in friendship, and general honesty of
disposition, which stood him in stead as he advanced in life. But,
at his first starting, much that belonged to himself personally was
against him. Let him enter what house he would, he entered it with a
conviction, often expressed to himself, that he was equal as a man to
the proprietor, equal as a human being to the proprietress. To age he
would allow deference, and to special recognised talent--at least so
he said; to rank also, he would pay that respect which was its clear
and recognised prerogative; he would let a lord walk out of a room
before him if he did not happen to forget it; in speaking to a duke
he would address him as his Grace; and he would in no way assume a
familiarity with bigger men than himself, allowing to the bigger man
the privilege of making the first advances. But beyond this he would
admit that no man should walk the earth with his head higher than his
own.

He did not talk of these things much; he offended no rank by boasts
of his own equality; he did not absolutely tell the Earl de Courcy in
words, that the privilege of dining at Courcy Castle was to him no
greater than the privilege of dining at Courcy Parsonage; but there
was that in his manner that told it. The feeling in itself was
perhaps good, and was certainly much justified by the manner in which
he bore himself to those below him in rank; but there was folly in
the resolution to run counter to the world's recognised rules on such
matters; and much absurdity in his mode of doing so, seeing that at
heart he was a thorough Conservative. It is hardly too much to say
that he naturally hated a lord at first sight; but, nevertheless, he
would have expended his means, his blood, and spirit, in fighting for
the upper house of Parliament.

Such a disposition, until it was thoroughly understood, did not tend
to ingratiate him with the wives of the country gentlemen among whom
he had to look for practice. And then, also, there was not much in
his individual manner to recommend him to the favour of ladies. He
was brusque, authoritative, given to contradiction, rough though
never dirty in his personal belongings, and inclined to indulge
in a sort of quiet raillery, which sometimes was not thoroughly
understood. People did not always know whether he was laughing
at them or with them; and some people were, perhaps, inclined to
think that a doctor should not laugh at all when called in to act
doctorially.

When he was known, indeed, when the core of the fruit had been
reached, when the huge proportions of that loving trusting heart had
been learned, and understood, and appreciated, when that honesty had
been recognised, that manly, and almost womanly tenderness had been
felt, then, indeed, the doctor was acknowledged to be adequate in his
profession. To trifling ailments he was too often brusque. Seeing
that he accepted money for the cure of such, he should, we may say,
have cured them without an offensive manner. So far he is without
defence. But to real suffering no one found him brusque; no patient
lying painfully on a bed of sickness ever thought him rough.

Another misfortune was, that he was a bachelor. Ladies think, and
I, for one, think that ladies are quite right in so thinking, that
doctors should be married men. All the world feels that a man when
married acquires some of the attributes of an old woman--he becomes,
to a certain extent, a motherly sort of being; he acquires a
conversance with women's ways and women's wants, and loses the wilder
and offensive sparks of his virility. It must be easier to talk to
such a one about Matilda's stomach, and the growing pains in Fanny's
legs, than to a young bachelor. This impediment also stood much in Dr
Thorne's way during his first years at Greshamsbury.

But his wants were not at first great; and though his ambition was
perhaps high, it was not of an impatient nature. The world was his
oyster; but, circumstanced as he was, he knew that it was not for him
to open it with his lancet all at once. He had bread to earn, which
he must earn wearily; he had a character to make, which must come
slowly; it satisfied his soul that, in addition to his immortal
hopes, he had a possible future in this world to which he could look
forward with clear eyes, and advance with a heart that would know no
fainting.

On his first arrival at Greshamsbury he had been put by the squire
into a house, which he still occupied when that squire's grandson
came of age. There were two decent, commodious, private houses in the
village--always excepting the rectory, which stood grandly in its own
grounds, and, therefore, was considered as ranking above the village
residences--of these two Dr Thorne had the smaller. They stood
exactly at the angle before described, on the outer side of it, and
at right angles to each other. They both possessed good stables and
ample gardens; and it may be as well to specify, that Mr Umbleby, the
agent and lawyer to the estate, occupied the larger one.

Here Dr Thorne lived for eleven or twelve years, all alone; and
then for ten or eleven more with his niece, Mary Thorne. Mary was
thirteen when she came to take up permanent abode as mistress of the
establishment--or, at any rate, to act as the only mistress which the
establishment possessed. This advent greatly changed the tenor of
the doctor's ways. He had been before pure bachelor; not a room in
his house had been comfortably furnished; he at first commenced in a
makeshift sort of way, because he had not at his command the means of
commencing otherwise; and he had gone on in the same fashion, because
the exact time had never come at which it was imperative in him to
set his house in order. He had had no fixed hour for his meals, no
fixed place for his books, no fixed wardrobe for his clothes. He had
a few bottles of good wine in his cellar, and occasionally asked a
brother bachelor to take a chop with him; but beyond this he had
touched very little on the cares of housekeeping. A slop-bowl full of
strong tea, together with bread, and butter, and eggs, was produced
for him in the morning, and he expected that at whatever hour he
might arrive in the evening, some food should be presented to him
wherewith to satisfy the cravings of nature; if, in addition to this,
he had another slop-bowl of tea in the evening, he got all that he
ever required, or all, at least, that he ever demanded.

But when Mary came, or rather, when she was about to come, things
were altogether changed at the doctor's. People had hitherto
wondered--and especially Mrs Umbleby--how a gentleman like Dr Thorne
could continue to live in so slovenly a manner; and how people again
wondered, and again especially Mrs Umbleby, how the doctor could
possibly think it necessary to put such a lot of furniture into a
house because a little chit of a girl of twelve years of age was
coming to live with him.

Mrs Umbleby had great scope for her wonder. The doctor made a
thorough revolution in his household, and furnished his house from
the ground to the roof completely. He painted--for the first time
since the commencement of his tenancy--he papered, he carpeted, and
curtained, and mirrored, and linened, and blanketed, as though a Mrs
Thorne with a good fortune were coming home to-morrow; and all for a
girl of twelve years old. "And how," said Mrs Umbleby, to her friend
Miss Gushing, "how did he find out what to buy?" as though the doctor
had been brought up like a wild beast, ignorant of the nature of
tables and chairs, and with no more developed ideas of drawing-room
drapery than an hippopotamus.

To the utter amazement of Mrs Umbleby and Miss Gushing, the doctor
did it all very well. He said nothing about it to any one--he never
did say much about such things--but he furnished his house well and
discreetly; and when Mary Thorne came home from her school at Bath,
to which she had been taken some six years previously, she found
herself called upon to be the presiding genius of a perfect paradise.

It has been said that the doctor had managed to endear himself to the
new squire before the old squire's death, and that, therefore, the
change at Greshamsbury had had no professional ill effects upon him.
Such was the case at the time; but, nevertheless, all did not go
smoothly in the Greshamsbury medical department. There was six or
seven years' difference in age between Mr Gresham and the doctor,
and, moreover, Mr Gresham was young for his age, and the doctor old;
but, nevertheless, there was a very close attachment between them
early in life. This was never thoroughly sundered, and, backed by
this, the doctor did maintain himself for some years before the
fire of Lady Arabella's artillery. But drops falling, if they fall
constantly, will bore through a stone.

Dr Thorne's pretensions, mixed with his subversive professional
democratic tendencies, his seven-and-sixpenny visits, added to his
utter disregard of Lady Arabella's airs, were too much for her
spirit. He brought Frank through his first troubles, and that at
first ingratiated her; he was equally successful with the early
dietary of Augusta and Beatrice; but, as his success was obtained
in direct opposition to the Courcy Castle nursery principles, this
hardly did much in his favour. When the third daughter was born,
he at once declared that she was a very weakly flower, and sternly
forbade the mother to go to London. The mother, loving her babe,
obeyed; but did not the less hate the doctor for the order, which
she firmly believed was given at the instance and express dictation
of Mr Gresham. Then another little girl came into the world, and the
doctor was more imperative than ever as to the nursery rules and the
excellence of country air. Quarrels were thus engendered, and Lady
Arabella was taught to believe that this doctor of her husband's
was after all no Solomon. In her husband's absence she sent for Dr
Fillgrave, giving very express intimation that he would not have to
wound either his eyes or dignity by encountering his enemy; and she
found Dr Fillgrave a great comfort to her.

Then Dr Thorne gave Mr Gresham to understand that, under such
circumstances, he could not visit professionally at Greshamsbury
any longer. The poor squire saw there was no help for it, and though
he still maintained his friendly connexion with his neighbour,
the seven-and-sixpenny visits were at an end. Dr Fillgrave from
Barchester, and the gentleman at Silverbridge, divided the
responsibility between them, and the nursery principles of Courcy
Castle were again in vogue at Greshamsbury.

So things went on for years, and those years were years of sorrow.
We must not ascribe to our doctor's enemies the sufferings, and
sickness, and deaths that occurred. The four frail little ones that
died would probably have been taken had Lady Arabella been more
tolerant of Dr Thorne. But the fact was, that they did die; and that
the mother's heart then got the better of the woman's pride, and Lady
Arabella humbled herself before Dr Thorne. She humbled herself, or
would have done so, had the doctor permitted her. But he, with his
eyes full of tears, stopped the utterance of her apology, took her
two hands in his, pressed them warmly, and assured her that his joy
in returning would be great, for the love that he bore to all that
belonged to Greshamsbury. And so the seven-and-sixpenny visits were
recommenced; and the great triumph of Dr Fillgrave came to an end.

Great was the joy in the Greshamsbury nursery when the second change
took place. Among the doctor's attributes, not hitherto mentioned,
was an aptitude for the society of children. He delighted to talk to
children, and to play with them. He would carry them on his back,
three or four at a time, roll with them on the ground, race with
them in the garden, invent games for them, contrive amusements in
circumstances which seemed quite adverse to all manner of delight;
and, above all, his physic was not nearly so nasty as that which came
from Silverbridge.

He had a great theory as to the happiness of children; and though
he was not disposed altogether to throw over the precepts of
Solomon--always bargaining that he should, under no circumstances,
be himself the executioner--he argued that the principal duty which
a parent owed to a child was to make him happy. Not only was the man
to be made happy--the future man, if that might be possible--but the
existing boy was to be treated with equal favour; and his happiness,
so said the doctor, was of much easier attainment.

"Why struggle after future advantage at the expense of present pain,
seeing that the results were so very doubtful?" Many an opponent of
the doctor had thought to catch him on the hip when so singular a
doctrine was broached; but they were not always successful. "What!"
said his sensible enemies, "is Johnny not to be taught to read
because he does not like it?" "Johnny must read by all means," would
the doctor answer; "but is it necessary that he should not like it?
If the preceptor have it in him, may not Johnny learn, not only to
read, but to like to learn to read?"

"But," would say his enemies, "children must be controlled." "And so
must men also," would say the doctor. "I must not steal your peaches,
nor make love to your wife, nor libel your character. Much as I
might wish through my natural depravity to indulge in such vices,
I am debarred from them without pain, and I may almost say without
unhappiness."

And so the argument went on, neither party convincing the other. But,
in the meantime, the children of the neighbourhood became very fond
of Dr Thorne.

Dr Thorne and the squire were still fast friends, but circumstances
had occurred, spreading themselves now over a period of many years,
which almost made the poor squire uneasy in the doctor's company. Mr
Gresham owed a large sum of money, and he had, moreover, already sold
a portion of his property. Unfortunately it had been the pride of the
Greshams that their acres had descended from one to another without
an entail, so that each possessor of Greshamsbury had had the full
power to dispose of the property as he pleased. Any doubt as to
its going to the male heir had never hitherto been felt. It had
occasionally been encumbered by charges for younger children; but
these charges had been liquidated, and the property had come down
without any burden to the present squire. Now a portion of this had
been sold, and it had been sold to a certain degree through the
agency of Dr Thorne.

This made the squire an unhappy man. No man loved his family name and
honour, his old family blazon and standing more thoroughly than he
did; he was every whit a Gresham at heart; but his spirit had been
weaker than that of his forefathers; and, in his days, for the first
time, the Greshams were to go to the wall! Ten years before the
beginning of our story it had been necessary to raise a large sum of
money to meet and pay off pressing liabilities, and it was found that
this could be done with more material advantage by selling a portion
of the property than in any other way. A portion of it, about a third
of the whole in value, was accordingly sold.

Boxall Hill lay half-way between Greshamsbury and Barchester, and was
known as having the best partridge shooting in the county; as having
on it also a celebrated fox cover, Boxall Gorse, held in very high
repute by Barsetshire sportsmen. There was no residence on the
immediate estate, and it was altogether divided from the remainder of
the Greshamsbury property. This, with many inward and outward groans,
Mr Gresham permitted to be sold.

It was sold, and sold well, by private contract to a native of
Barchester, who, having risen from the world's ranks, had made for
himself great wealth. Somewhat of this man's character must hereafter
be told; it will suffice to say that he relied for advice in money
matters upon Dr Thorne, and that at Dr Thorne's suggestion he had
purchased Boxall Hill, partridge-shooting and gorse cover all
included. He had not only bought Boxall Hill, but had subsequently
lent the squire large sums of money on mortgage, in all which
transactions the doctor had taken part. It had therefore come to pass
that Mr Gresham was not unfrequently called upon to discuss his money
affairs with Dr Thorne, and occasionally to submit to lectures and
advice which might perhaps as well have been omitted.

So much for Dr Thorne. A few words must still be said about Miss Mary
before we rush into our story; the crust will then have been broken,
and the pie will be open to the guests. Little Miss Mary was kept at
a farm-house till she was six; she was then sent to school at Bath,
and transplanted to the doctor's newly furnished house a little more
than six years after that. It must not be supposed that he had lost
sight of his charge during her earlier years. He was much too well
aware of the nature of the promise which he had made to the departing
mother to do that. He had constantly visited his little niece, and
long before the first twelve years of her life were over had lost all
consciousness of his promise, and of his duty to the mother, in the
stronger ties of downright personal love for the only creature that
belonged to him.

When Mary came home the doctor was like a child in his glee. He
prepared surprises for her with as much forethought and trouble as
though he were contriving mines to blow up an enemy. He took her
first into the shop, and then into the kitchen, thence to the
dining-rooms, after that to his and her bedrooms, and so on till
he came to the full glory of the new drawing-room, enhancing the
pleasure by little jokes, and telling her that he should never dare
to come into the last paradise without her permission, and not then
till he had taken off his boots. Child as she was, she understood the
joke, and carried it on like a little queen; and so they soon became
the firmest of friends.

But though Mary was a queen, it was still necessary that she should
be educated. Those were the earlier days in which Lady Arabella had
humbled herself, and to show her humility she invited Mary to share
the music-lessons of Augusta and Beatrice at the great house. A
music-master from Barchester came over three times a week, and
remained for three hours, and if the doctor chose to send his girl
over, she could pick up what was going on without doing any harm.
So said the Lady Arabella. The doctor with many thanks and with no
hesitation, accepted the offer, merely adding, that he had perhaps
better settle separately with Signor Cantabili, the music-master. He
was very much obliged to Lady Arabella for giving his little girl
permission to join her lessons to those of the Miss Greshams.

It need hardly be said that the Lady Arabella was on fire at once.
Settle with Signor Cantabili! No, indeed; she would do that; there
must be no expense whatever incurred in such an arrangement on Miss
Thorne's account! But here, as in most things, the doctor carried his
point. It being the time of the lady's humility, she could not make
as good a fight as she would otherwise have done; and thus she
found, to her great disgust, that Mary Thorne was learning music in
her schoolroom on equal terms, as regarded payment, with her own
daughters. The arrangement having been made could not be broken,
especially as the young lady in nowise made herself disagreeable; and
more especially as the Miss Greshams themselves were very fond of
her.

And so Mary Thorne learnt music at Greshamsbury, and with her music
she learnt other things also; how to behave herself among girls of
her own age; how to speak and talk as other young ladies do; how to
dress herself, and how to move and walk. All which, she, being quick
to learn, learnt without trouble at the great house. Something also
she learnt of French, seeing that the Greshamsbury French governess
was always in the room.

And then, some few years later, there came a rector, and a rector's
sister; and with the latter Mary studied German, and French also.
From the doctor himself she learnt much; the choice, namely, of
English books for her own reading, and habits of thought somewhat
akin to his own, though modified by the feminine softness of her
individual mind.

And so Mary Thorne grew up and was educated. Of her personal
appearance it certainly is my business as an author to say something.
She is my heroine, and, as such, must necessarily be very beautiful;
but, in truth, her mind and inner qualities are more clearly distinct
to my brain than her outward form and features. I know that she was
far from being tall, and far from being showy; that her feet and
hands were small and delicate; that her eyes were bright when looked
at, but not brilliant so as to make their brilliancy palpably
visible to all around her; her hair was dark brown, and worn very
plainly brushed from her forehead; her lips were thin, and her
mouth, perhaps, in general inexpressive, but when she was eager in
conversation it would show itself to be animated with curves of
wondrous energy; and, quiet as she was in manner, sober and demure as
was her usual settled appearance, she could talk, when the fit came
on her, with an energy which in truth surprised those who did not
know her; aye, and sometimes those who did. Energy! nay, it was
occasionally a concentration of passion, which left her for the
moment perfectly unconscious of all other cares but solicitude for
that subject which she might then be advocating.

All her friends, including the doctor, had at times been made unhappy
by this vehemence of character; but yet it was to that very vehemence
that she owed it that all her friends so loved her. It had once
nearly banished her in early years from the Greshamsbury schoolroom;
and yet it ended in making her claim to remain there so strong, that
Lady Arabella could no longer oppose it, even when she had the wish
to do so.

A new French governess had lately come to Greshamsbury, and was, or
was to be, a great pet with Lady Arabella, having all the great gifts
with which a governess can be endowed, and being also a protégée
from the castle. The castle, in Greshamsbury parlance, always meant
that of Courcy. Soon after this a valued little locket belonging to
Augusta Gresham was missing. The French governess had objected to its
being worn in the schoolroom, and it had been sent up to the bedroom
by a young servant-girl, the daughter of a small farmer on the
estate. The locket was missing, and after a while, a considerable
noise in the matter having been made, was found, by the diligence of
the governess, somewhere among the belongings of the English servant.
Great was the anger of Lady Arabella, loud were the protestations
of the girl, mute the woe of her father, piteous the tears of her
mother, inexorable the judgment of the Greshamsbury world. But
something occurred, it matters now not what, to separate Mary Thorne
in opinion from that world at large. Out she then spoke, and to her
face accused the governess of the robbery. For two days Mary was in
disgrace almost as deep as that of the farmer's daughter. But she was
neither quiet nor dumb in her disgrace. When Lady Arabella would not
hear her, she went to Mr Gresham. She forced her uncle to move in the
matter. She gained over to her side, one by one, the potentates of
the parish, and ended by bringing Mam'selle Larron down on her knees
with a confession of the facts. From that time Mary Thorne was dear
to the tenantry of Greshamsbury; and specially dear at one small
household, where a rough-spoken father of a family was often heard to
declare, that for Miss Mary Thorne he'd face man or magistrate, duke
or devil.

And so Mary Thorne grew up under the doctor's eye, and at the
beginning of our tale she was one of the guests assembled at
Greshamsbury on the coming of age of the heir, she herself having
then arrived at the same period of her life.




CHAPTER IV

Lessons from Courcy Castle


It was the first of July, young Frank Gresham's birthday, and the
London season was not yet over; nevertheless, Lady de Courcy had
managed to get down into the country to grace the coming of age
of the heir, bringing with her all the Ladies Amelia, Rosina,
Margaretta, and Alexandrina, together with such of the Honourable
Johns and Georges as could be collected for the occasion.

The Lady Arabella had contrived this year to spend ten weeks in town,
which, by a little stretching, she made to pass for the season; and
had managed, moreover, at last to refurnish, not ingloriously, the
Portman Square drawing-room. She had gone up to London under the
pretext, imperatively urged, of Augusta's teeth--young ladies' teeth
are not unfrequently of value in this way;--and having received
authority for a new carpet, which was really much wanted, had made
such dexterous use of that sanction as to run up an upholsterer's
bill of six or seven hundred pounds. She had of course had her
carriage and horses; the girls of course had gone out; it had been
positively necessary to have a few friends in Portman Square;
and, altogether, the ten weeks had not been unpleasant, and not
inexpensive.

For a few confidential minutes before dinner, Lady de Courcy and her
sister-in-law sat together in the latter's dressing-room, discussing
the unreasonableness of the squire, who had expressed himself with
more than ordinary bitterness as to the folly--he had probably used
some stronger word--of these London proceedings.

"Heavens!" said the countess, with much eager animation; "what can
the man expect? What does he wish you to do?"

"He would like to sell the house in London, and bury us all here for
ever. Mind, I was there only for ten weeks."

"Barely time for the girls to get their teeth properly looked at! But
Arabella, what does he say?" Lady de Courcy was very anxious to learn
the exact truth of the matter, and ascertain, if she could, whether
Mr Gresham was really as poor as he pretended to be.

"Why, he said yesterday that he would have no more going to town at
all; that he was barely able to pay the claims made on him, and keep
up the house here, and that he would not--"

"Would not what?" asked the countess.

"Why, he said that he would not utterly ruin poor Frank."

"Ruin Frank!"

"That's what he said."

"But, surely, Arabella, it is not so bad as that? What possible
reason can there be for him to be in debt?"

"He is always talking of those elections."

"But, my dear, Boxall Hill paid all that off. Of course Frank will
not have such an income as there was when you married into the
family; we all know that. And whom will he have to thank but his
father? But Boxall Hill paid all those debts, and why should there be
any difficulty now?"

"It was those nasty dogs, Rosina," said the Lady Arabella, almost in
tears.

"Well, I for one never approved of the hounds coming to Greshamsbury.
When a man has once involved his property he should not incur any
expenses that are not absolutely necessary. That is a golden rule
which Mr Gresham ought to have remembered. Indeed, I put it to him
nearly in those very words; but Mr Gresham never did, and never will
receive with common civility anything that comes from me."

"I know, Rosina, he never did; and yet where would he have been
but for the de Courcys?" So exclaimed, in her gratitude, the Lady
Arabella; to speak the truth, however, but for the de Courcys, Mr
Gresham might have been at this moment on the top of Boxall Hill,
monarch of all he surveyed.

"As I was saying," continued the countess, "I never approved of the
hounds coming to Greshamsbury; but yet, my dear, the hounds can't
have eaten up everything. A man with ten thousand a year ought to be
able to keep hounds; particularly as he had a subscription."

"He says the subscription was little or nothing."

"That's nonsense, my dear. Now, Arabella, what does he do with his
money? That's the question. Does he gamble?"

"Well," said Lady Arabella, very slowly, "I don't think he does." If
the squire did gamble he must have done it very slyly, for he rarely
went away from Greshamsbury, and certainly very few men looking like
gamblers were in the habit of coming thither as guests. "I don't
think he does gamble." Lady Arabella put her emphasis on the word
gamble, as though her husband, if he might perhaps be charitably
acquitted of that vice, was certainly guilty of every other known in
the civilised world.

"I know he used," said Lady de Courcy, looking very wise, and rather
suspicious. She certainly had sufficient domestic reasons for
disliking the propensity; "I know he used; and when a man begins, he
is hardly ever cured."

"Well, if he does, I don't know it," said the Lady Arabella.

"The money, my dear, must go somewhere. What excuse does he give when
you tell him you want this and that--all the common necessaries of
life, that you have always been used to?"

"He gives no excuse; sometimes he says the family is so large."

"Nonsense! Girls cost nothing; there's only Frank, and he can't have
cost anything yet. Can he be saving money to buy back Boxall Hill?"

"Oh no!" said the Lady Arabella, quickly. "He is not saving anything;
he never did, and never will save, though he is so stingy to me. He
_is_ hard pushed for money, I know that."

"Then where has it gone?" said the Countess de Courcy, with a look of
stern decision.

"Heaven only knows! Now, Augusta is to be married. I must of course
have a few hundred pounds. You should have heard how he groaned when
I asked him for it. Heaven only knows where the money goes!" And the
injured wife wiped a piteous tear from her eye with her fine dress
cambric handkerchief. "I have all the sufferings and privations of
a poor man's wife, but I have none of the consolations. He has no
confidence in me; he never tells me anything; he never talks to
me about his affairs. If he talks to any one it is to that horrid
doctor."

"What, Dr Thorne?" Now the Countess de Courcy hated Dr Thorne with a
holy hatred.

"Yes; Dr Thorne. I believe that he knows everything; and advises
everything, too. Whatever difficulties poor Gresham may have, I do
believe Dr Thorne has brought them about. I do believe it, Rosina."

"Well, that is surprising. Mr Gresham, with all his faults, is
a gentleman; and how he can talk about his affairs with a low
apothecary like that, I, for one, cannot imagine. Lord de Courcy has
not always been to me all that he should have been; far from it." And
Lady de Courcy thought over in her mind injuries of a much graver
description than any that her sister-in-law had ever suffered; "but I
have never known anything like that at Courcy Castle. Surely Umbleby
knows all about it, doesn't he?"

"Not half so much as the doctor," said Lady Arabella.

The countess shook her head slowly; the idea of Mr Gresham, a country
gentleman of good estate like him, making a confidant of a country
doctor was too great a shock for her nerves; and for a while she was
constrained to sit silent before she could recover herself.

"One thing at any rate is certain, Arabella," said the countess,
as soon as she found herself again sufficiently composed to offer
counsel in a properly dictatorial manner. "One thing at any rate is
certain; if Mr Gresham be involved so deeply as you say, Frank has
but one duty before him. He must marry money. The heir of fourteen
thousand a year may indulge himself in looking for blood, as Mr
Gresham did, my dear"--it must be understood that there was very
little compliment in this, as the Lady Arabella had always conceived
herself to be a beauty--"or for beauty, as some men do," continued
the countess, thinking of the choice that the present Earl de Courcy
had made; "but Frank must marry money. I hope he will understand this
early; do make him understand this before he makes a fool of himself;
when a man thoroughly understands this, when he knows what his
circumstances require, why, the matter becomes easy to him. I hope
that Frank understands that he has no alternative. In his position he
must marry money."

But, alas! alas! Frank Gresham had already made a fool of himself.

"Well, my boy, I wish you joy with all my heart," said the Honourable
John, slapping his cousin on the back, as he walked round to the
stable-yard with him before dinner, to inspect a setter puppy of
peculiarly fine breed which had been sent to Frank as a birthday
present. "I wish I were an elder son; but we can't all have that
luck."

"Who wouldn't sooner be the younger son of an earl than the eldest
son of a plain squire?" said Frank, wishing to say something civil in
return for his cousin's civility.

"I wouldn't for one," said the Honourable John. "What chance have I?
There's Porlock as strong as a horse; and then George comes next. And
the governor's good for these twenty years." And the young man sighed
as he reflected what small hope there was that all those who were
nearest and dearest to him should die out of his way, and leave him
to the sweet enjoyment of an earl's coronet and fortune. "Now, you're
sure of your game some day; and as you've no brothers, I suppose the
squire'll let you do pretty well what you like. Besides, he's not so
strong as my governor, though he's younger."

Frank had never looked at his fortune in this light before, and was
so slow and green that he was not much delighted at the prospect now
that it was offered to him. He had always, however, been taught to
look to his cousins, the de Courcys, as men with whom it would be
very expedient that he should be intimate; he therefore showed no
offence, but changed the conversation.

"Shall you hunt with the Barsetshire this season, John? I hope you
will; I shall."

"Well, I don't know. It's very slow. It's all tillage here, or else
woodland. I rather fancy I shall go to Leicestershire when the
partridge-shooting is over. What sort of a lot do you mean to come
out with, Frank?"

Frank became a little red as he answered, "Oh, I shall have two," he
said; "that is, the mare I have had these two years, and the horse my
father gave me this morning."

"What! only those two? and the mare is nothing more than a pony."

"She is fifteen hands," said Frank, offended.

"Well, Frank, I certainly would not stand that," said the Honourable
John. "What, go out before the county with one untrained horse and a
pony; and you the heir to Greshamsbury!"

"I'll have him so trained before November," said Frank, "that
nothing in Barsetshire shall stop him. Peter says"--Peter was
the Greshamsbury stud-groom--"that he tucks up his hind legs
beautifully."

"But who the deuce would think of going to work with one horse; or
two either, if you insist on calling the old pony a huntress? I'll
put you up to a trick, my lad: if you stand that you'll stand
anything; and if you don't mean to go in leading-strings all your
life, now is the time to show it. There's young Baker--Harry Baker,
you know--he came of age last year, and he has as pretty a string of
nags as any one would wish to set eyes on; four hunters and a hack.
Now, if old Baker has four thousand a year it's every shilling he has
got."

This was true, and Frank Gresham, who in the morning had been made so
happy by his father's present of a horse, began to feel that hardly
enough had been done for him. It was true that Mr Baker had only four
thousand a year; but it was also true that he had no other child than
Harry Baker; that he had no great establishment to keep up; that he
owed a shilling to no one; and, also, that he was a great fool in
encouraging a mere boy to ape all the caprices of a man of wealth.
Nevertheless, for a moment, Frank Gresham did feel that, considering
his position, he was being treated rather unworthily.

"Take the matter in your own hands, Frank," said the Honourable John,
seeing the impression that he had made. "Of course the governor knows
very well that you won't put up with such a stable as that. Lord
bless you! I have heard that when he married my aunt, and that was
when he was about your age, he had the best stud in the whole county;
and then he was in Parliament before he was three-and-twenty."

"His father, you know, died when he was very young," said Frank.

"Yes; I know he had a stroke of luck that doesn't fall to everyone;
but--"

Young Frank's face grew dark now instead of red. When his cousin
submitted to him the necessity of having more than two horses for
his own use he could listen to him; but when the same monitor talked
of the chance of a father's death as a stroke of luck, Frank was
too much disgusted to be able to pretend to pass it over with
indifference. What! was he thus to think of his father, whose face
was always lighted up with pleasure when his boy came near to him,
and so rarely bright at any other time? Frank had watched his father
closely enough to be aware of this; he knew how his father delighted
in him; he had had cause to guess that his father had many troubles,
and that he strove hard to banish the memory of them when his son was
with him. He loved his father truly, purely, and thoroughly, liked to
be with him, and would be proud to be his confidant. Could he then
listen quietly while his cousin spoke of the chance of his father's
death as a stroke of luck?

"I shouldn't think it a stroke of luck, John. I should think it the
greatest misfortune in the world."

It is so difficult for a young man to enumerate sententiously a
principle of morality, or even an expression of ordinary good
feeling, without giving himself something of a ridiculous air,
without assuming something of a mock grandeur!

"Oh, of course, my dear fellow," said the Honourable John, laughing;
"that's a matter of course. We all understand that without saying it.
Porlock, of course, would feel exactly the same about the governor;
but if the governor were to walk, I think Porlock would console
himself with the thirty thousand a year."

"I don't know what Porlock would do; he's always quarrelling with my
uncle, I know. I only spoke of myself; I never quarrelled with my
father, and I hope I never shall."

"All right, my lad of wax, all right. I dare say you won't be tried;
but if you are, you'll find before six months are over, that it's a
very nice thing to master of Greshamsbury."

"I'm sure I shouldn't find anything of the kind."

"Very well, so be it. You wouldn't do as young Hatherly did, at
Hatherly Court, in Gloucestershire, when his father kicked the
bucket. You know Hatherly, don't you?"

"No; I never saw him."

"He's Sir Frederick now, and has, or had, one of the finest fortunes
in England, for a commoner; the most of it is gone now. Well, when he
heard of his governor's death, he was in Paris, but he went off to
Hatherly as fast as special train and post-horses would carry him,
and got there just in time for the funeral. As he came back to
Hatherly Court from the church, they were putting up the hatchment
over the door, and Master Fred saw that the undertakers had put at
the bottom 'Resurgam.' You know what that means?"

"Oh, yes," said Frank.

"'I'll come back again,'" said the Honourable John, construing the
Latin for the benefit of his cousin. "'No,' said Fred Hatherly,
looking up at the hatchment; 'I'm blessed if you do, old gentleman.
That would be too much of a joke; I'll take care of that.' So he
got up at night, and he got some fellows with him, and they climbed
up and painted out 'Resurgam,' and they painted into its place,
'Requiescat in pace;' which means, you know, 'you'd a great deal
better stay where you are.' Now I call that good. Fred Hatherly did
that as sure as--as sure as--as sure as anything."

Frank could not help laughing at the story, especially at his
cousin's mode of translating the undertaker's mottoes; and then they
sauntered back from the stables into the house to dress for dinner.

Dr Thorne had come to the house somewhat before dinner-time, at Mr
Gresham's request, and was now sitting with the squire in his own
book-room--so called--while Mary was talking to some of the girls
upstairs.

"I must have ten or twelve thousand pounds; ten at the very least,"
said the squire, who was sitting in his usual arm-chair, close to his
littered table, with his head supported on his hand, looking very
unlike the father of an heir of a noble property, who had that day
come of age.

It was the first of July, and of course there was no fire in the
grate; but, nevertheless, the doctor was standing with his back to
the fireplace, with his coat-tails over his arms, as though he were
engaged, now in summer as he so often was in winter, in talking, and
roasting his hinder person at the same time.

"Twelve thousand pounds! It's a very large sum of money."

"I said ten," said the squire.

"Ten thousand pounds is a very large sum of money. There is no doubt
he'll let you have it. Scatcherd will let you have it; but I know
he'll expect to have the title deeds."

"What! for ten thousand pounds?" said the squire. "There is not a
registered debt against the property but his own and Armstrong's."

"But his own is very large already."

"Armstrong's is nothing; about four-and-twenty thousand pounds."

"Yes; but he comes first, Mr Gresham."

"Well, what of that? To hear you talk, one would think that there was
nothing left of Greshamsbury. What's four-and-twenty thousand pounds?
Does Scatcherd know what rent-roll is?"

"Oh, yes, he knows it well enough: I wish he did not."

"Well, then, why does he make such a bother about a few thousand
pounds? The title-deeds, indeed!"

"What he means is, that he must have ample security to cover what he
has already advanced before he goes on. I wish to goodness you had
no further need to borrow. I did think that things were settled last
year."

"Oh if there's any difficulty, Umbleby will get it for me."

"Yes; and what will you have to pay for it?"

"I'd sooner pay double than be talked to in this way," said the
squire, angrily, and, as he spoke, he got up hurriedly from his
chair, thrust his hands into his trousers-pockets, walked quickly to
the window, and immediately walking back again, threw himself once
more into his chair.

"There are some things a man cannot bear, doctor," said he, beating
the devil's tattoo on the floor with one of his feet, "though God
knows I ought to be patient now, for I am made to bear a good many
things. You had better tell Scatcherd that I am obliged to him for
his offer, but that I will not trouble him."

The doctor during this little outburst had stood quite silent with
his back to the fireplace and his coat-tails hanging over his arms;
but though his voice said nothing, his face said much. He was very
unhappy; he was greatly grieved to find that the squire was so soon
again in want of money, and greatly grieved also to find that this
want had made him so bitter and unjust. Mr Gresham had attacked him;
but as he was determined not to quarrel with Mr Gresham, he refrained
from answering.

The squire also remained silent for a few minutes; but he was not
endowed with the gift of silence, and was soon, as it were, compelled
to speak again.

"Poor Frank!" said he. "I could yet be easy about everything if it
were not for the injury I have done him. Poor Frank!"

The doctor advanced a few paces from off the rug, and taking his hand
out of his pocket, he laid it gently on the squire's shoulder. "Frank
will do very well yet," said the he. "It is not absolutely necessary
that a man should have fourteen thousand pounds a year to be happy."

"My father left me the property entire, and I should leave it entire
to my son;--but you don't understand this."

The doctor did understand the feeling fully. The fact, on the other
hand, was that, long as he had known him, the squire did not
understand the doctor.

"I would you could, Mr Gresham," said the doctor, "so that your mind
might be happier; but that cannot be, and, therefore, I say again,
that Frank will do very well yet, although he will not inherit
fourteen thousand pounds a year; and I would have you say the same
thing to yourself."

"Ah! you don't understand it," persisted the squire. "You don't know
how a man feels when he--Ah, well! it's no use my troubling you with
what cannot be mended. I wonder whether Umbleby is about the place
anywhere?"

The doctor was again standing with his back against the
chimney-piece, and with his hands in his pockets.

"You did not see Umbleby as you came in?" again asked the squire.

"No, I did not; and if you will take my advice you will not see him
now; at any rate with reference to this money."

"I tell you I must get it from someone; you say Scatcherd won't let
me have it."

"No, Mr Gresham; I did not say that."

"Well, you said what was as bad. Augusta is to be married in
September, and the money must be had. I have agreed to give Moffat
six thousand pounds, and he is to have the money down in hard cash."

"Six thousand pounds," said the doctor. "Well, I suppose that is not
more than your daughter should have. But then, five times six are
thirty; thirty thousand pounds will be a large sum to make up."

The father thought to himself that his younger girls were but
children, and that the trouble of arranging their marriage portions
might well be postponed a while. Sufficient for the day is the evil
thereof.

"That Moffat is a griping, hungry fellow," said the squire. "I
suppose Augusta likes him; and, as regards money, it is a good
match."

"If Miss Gresham loves him, that is everything. I am not in love with
him myself; but then, I am not a young lady."

"The de Courcys are very fond of him. Lady de Courcy says that he is
a perfect gentleman, and thought very much of in London."

"Oh! if Lady de Courcy says that, of course, it's all right," said
the doctor, with a quiet sarcasm, that was altogether thrown away on
the squire.

The squire did not like any of the de Courcys; especially, he did not
like Lady de Courcy; but still he was accessible to a certain amount
of gratification in the near connexion which he had with the earl and
countess; and when he wanted to support his family greatness, would
sometimes weakly fall back upon the grandeur of Courcy Castle. It
was only when talking to his wife that he invariably snubbed the
pretensions of his noble relatives.

The two men after this remained silent for a while; and then the
doctor, renewing the subject for which he had been summoned into the
book-room, remarked, that as Scatcherd was now in the country--he
did not say, was now at Boxall Hill, as he did not wish to wound the
squire's ears--perhaps he had better go and see him, and ascertain
in what way this affair of the money might be arranged. There was
no doubt, he said, that Scatcherd would supply the sum required at
a lower rate of interest than that at which it could be procured
through Umbleby's means.

"Very well," said the squire. "I'll leave it in your hands, then. I
think ten thousand pounds will do. And now I'll dress for dinner."
And then the doctor left him.

Perhaps the reader will suppose after this that the doctor had some
pecuniary interest of his own in arranging the squire's loans; or, at
any rate, he will think that the squire must have so thought. Not in
the least; neither had he any such interest, nor did the squire think
that he had any. What Dr Thorne did in this matter the squire well
knew was done for love. But the squire of Greshamsbury was a great
man at Greshamsbury; and it behoved him to maintain the greatness of
his squirehood when discussing his affairs with the village doctor.
So much he had at any rate learnt from his contact with the de
Courcys.

And the doctor--proud, arrogant, contradictory, headstrong as he
was--why did he bear to be thus snubbed? Because he knew that the
squire of Greshamsbury, when struggling with debt and poverty,
required an indulgence for his weakness. Had Mr Gresham been in easy
circumstances, the doctor would by no means have stood so placidly
with his hands in his pockets, and have had Mr Umbleby thus thrown in
his teeth. The doctor loved the squire, loved him as his own oldest
friend; but he loved him ten times better as being in adversity than
he could ever have done had things gone well at Greshamsbury in his
time.

While this was going on downstairs, Mary was sitting upstairs with
Beatrice Gresham in the schoolroom. The old schoolroom, so called,
was now a sitting-room, devoted to the use of the grown-up young
ladies of the family, whereas one of the old nurseries was now the
modern schoolroom. Mary well knew her way to the sanctum, and,
without asking any questions, walked up to it when her uncle went to
the squire. On entering the room she found that Augusta and the Lady
Alexandrina were also there, and she hesitated for a moment at the
door.

"Come in, Mary," said Beatrice, "you know my cousin Alexandrina."
Mary came in, and having shaken hands with her two friends, was
bowing to the lady, when the lady condescended, put out her noble
hand, and touched Miss Thorne's fingers.

Beatrice was Mary's friend, and many heart-burnings and much mental
solicitude did that young lady give to her mother by indulging in
such a friendship. But Beatrice, with some faults, was true at heart,
and she persisted in loving Mary Thorne in spite of the hints which
her mother so frequently gave as to the impropriety of such an
affection.

Nor had Augusta any objection to the society of Miss Thorne. Augusta
was a strong-minded girl, with much of the de Courcy arrogance, but
quite as well inclined to show it in opposition to her mother as in
any other form. To her alone in the house did Lady Arabella show much
deference. She was now going to make a suitable match with a man of
large fortune, who had been procured for her as an eligible _parti_
by her aunt, the countess. She did not pretend, had never pretended,
that she loved Mr Moffat, but she knew, she said, that in the present
state of her father's affairs such a match was expedient. Mr Moffat
was a young man of very large fortune, in Parliament, inclined to
business, and in every way recommendable. He was not a man of birth,
to be sure; that was to be lamented;--in confessing that Mr Moffat
was not a man of birth, Augusta did not go so far as to admit that he
was the son of a tailor; such, however, was the rigid truth in this
matter--he was not a man of birth, that was to be lamented; but in
the present state of affairs at Greshamsbury, she understood well
that it was her duty to postpone her own feelings in some respect. Mr
Moffat would bring fortune; she would bring blood and connexion. And
as she so said, her bosom glowed with strong pride to think that she
would be able to contribute so much more towards the proposed future
partnership than her husband would do.

'Twas thus that Miss Gresham spoke of her match to her dear friends,
her cousins the de Courcys for instance, to Miss Oriel, her sister
Beatrice, and even to Mary Thorne. She had no enthusiasm, she
admitted, but she thought she had good judgment. She thought she
had shown good judgment in accepting Mr Moffat's offer, though she
did not pretend to any romance of affection. And, having so said,
she went to work with considerable mental satisfaction, choosing
furniture, carriages, and clothes, not extravagantly as her mother
would have done, not in deference to sterner dictates of the latest
fashion as her aunt would have done, with none of the girlish glee
in new purchases which Beatrice would have felt, but with sound
judgment. She bought things that were rich, for her husband was to be
rich, and she meant to avail herself of his wealth; she bought things
that were fashionable, for she meant to live in the fashionable
world; but she bought what was good, and strong, and lasting, and
worth its money.

Augusta Gresham had perceived early in life that she could not obtain
success either as an heiress, or as a beauty, nor could she shine
as a wit; she therefore fell back on such qualities as she had, and
determined to win the world as a strong-minded, useful woman. That
which she had of her own was blood; having that, she would in all
ways do what in her lay to enhance its value. Had she not possessed
it, it would to her mind have been the vainest of pretences.

When Mary came in, the wedding preparations were being discussed. The
number and names of the bridesmaids were being settled, the dresses
were on the tapis, the invitations to be given were talked over.
Sensible as Augusta was, she was not above such feminine cares; she
was, indeed, rather anxious that the wedding should go off well. She
was a little ashamed of her tailor's son, and therefore anxious that
things should be as brilliant as possible.

The bridesmaid's names had just been written on a card as Mary
entered the room. There were the Ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta,
and Alexandrina of course at the head of it; then came Beatrice and
the twins; then Miss Oriel, who, though only a parson's sister, was
a person of note, birth, and fortune. After this there had been here
a great discussion whether or not there should be any more. If there
were to be one more there must be two. Now Miss Moffat had expressed
a direct wish, and Augusta, though she would much rather have done
without her, hardly knew how to refuse. Alexandrina--we hope we
may be allowed to drop the "lady" for the sake of brevity, for the
present scene only--was dead against such an unreasonable request.
"We none of us know her, you know; and it would not be comfortable."
Beatrice strongly advocated the future sister-in-law's acceptance
into the bevy; she had her own reasons; she was pained that Mary
Thorne should not be among the number, and if Miss Moffat were
accepted, perhaps Mary might be brought in as her colleague.

"If you have Miss Moffat," said Alexandrina, "you must have dear
Pussy too; and I really think that Pussy is too young; it will be
troublesome." Pussy was the youngest Miss Gresham, who was now only
eight years old, and whose real name was Nina.

"Augusta," said Beatrice, speaking with some slight hesitation, some
soupçon of doubt, before the high authority of her noble cousin, "if
you do have Miss Moffat would you mind asking Mary Thorne to join
her? I think Mary would like it, because, you see, Patience Oriel
is to be one; and we have known Mary much longer than we have known
Patience."

Then out and spake the Lady Alexandrina.

"Beatrice, dear, if you think of what you are asking, I am sure you
will see that it would not do; would not do at all. Miss Thorne is a
very nice girl, I am sure; and, indeed, what little I have seen of
her I highly approve. But, after all, who is she? Mamma, I know,
thinks that Aunt Arabella has been wrong to let her be here so much,
but--"

Beatrice became rather red in the face, and, in spite of the dignity
of her cousin, was preparing to defend her friend.

"Mind, I am not saying a word against Miss Thorne."

"If I am married before her, she shall be one of my bridesmaids,"
said Beatrice.

"That will probably depend on circumstances," said the Lady
Alexandrina; I find that I cannot bring my courteous pen to drop the
title. "But Augusta is very peculiarly situated. Mr Moffat is, you
see, not of the very highest birth; and, therefore, she should take
care that on her side every one about her is well born."

"Then you cannot have Miss Moffat," said Beatrice.

"No; I would not if I could help it," said the cousin.

"But the Thornes are as good a family as the Greshams," said
Beatrice. She had not quite the courage to say, as good as the de
Courcys.

"I dare say they are; and if this was Miss Thorne of Ullathorne,
Augusta probably would not object to her. But can you tell me who
Miss Mary Thorne is?"

"She is Dr Thorne's niece."

"You mean that she is called so; but do you know who her father
was, or who her mother was? I, for one, must own I do not. Mamma, I
believe, does, but--"

At this moment the door opened gently and Mary Thorne entered the
room.

It may easily be conceived, that while Mary was making her
salutations the three other young ladies were a little cast aback.
The Lady Alexandrina, however, quickly recovered herself, and, by her
inimitable presence of mind and facile grace of manner, soon put the
matter on a proper footing.

"We were discussing Miss Gresham's marriage," said she; "I am sure I
may mention to an acquaintance of so long standing as Miss Thorne,
that the first of September has been now fixed for the wedding."

Miss Gresham! Acquaintance of so long standing! Why, Mary and Augusta
Gresham had for years, we will hardly say now for how many, passed
their mornings together in the same schoolroom; had quarrelled, and
squabbled, and caressed and kissed, and been all but as sisters to
each other. Acquaintance indeed! Beatrice felt that her ears were
tingling, and even Augusta was a little ashamed. Mary, however,
knew that the cold words had come from a de Courcy, and not from a
Gresham, and did not, therefore, resent them.

"So it's settled, Augusta, is it?" said she; "the first of September.
I wish you joy with all my heart," and, coming round, she put her arm
over Augusta's shoulder and kissed her. The Lady Alexandrina could
not but think that the doctor's niece uttered her congratulations
very much as though she were speaking to an equal; very much as
though she had a father and mother of her own.

"You will have delicious weather," continued Mary. "September, and
the beginning of October, is the nicest time of the year. If I were
going honeymooning it is just the time of year I would choose."

"I wish you were, Mary," said Beatrice.

"So do not I, dear, till I have found some decent sort of a body to
honeymoon along with me. I won't stir out of Greshamsbury till I have
sent you off before me, at any rate. And where will you go, Augusta?"

"We have not settled that," said Augusta. "Mr Moffat talks of Paris."

"Who ever heard of going to Paris in September?" said the Lady
Alexandrina.

"Or who ever heard of the gentleman having anything to say on the
matter?" said the doctor's niece. "Of course Mr Moffat will go
wherever you are pleased to take him."

The Lady Alexandrina was not pleased to find how completely the
doctor's niece took upon herself to talk, and sit, and act at
Greshamsbury as though she was on a par with the young ladies of
the family. That Beatrice should have allowed this would not have
surprised her; but it was to be expected that Augusta would have
shown better judgment.

"These things require some tact in their management; some delicacy
when high interests are at stake," said she; "I agree with Miss
Thorne in thinking that, in ordinary circumstances, with ordinary
people, perhaps, the lady should have her way. Rank, however, has its
drawbacks, Miss Thorne, as well as its privileges."

"I should not object to the drawbacks," said the doctor's niece,
"presuming them to be of some use; but I fear I might fail in getting
on so well with the privileges."

The Lady Alexandrina looked at her as though not fully aware whether
she intended to be pert. In truth, the Lady Alexandrina was rather in
the dark on the subject. It was almost impossible, it was incredible,
that a fatherless, motherless, doctor's niece should be pert to an
earl's daughter at Greshamsbury, seeing that that earl's daughter was
the cousin of the Miss Greshams. And yet the Lady Alexandrina hardly
knew what other construction to put on the words she had just heard.

It was at any rate clear to her that it was not becoming that she
should just then stay any longer in that room. Whether she intended
to be pert or not, Miss Mary Thorne was, to say the least, very free.
The de Courcy ladies knew what was due to them--no ladies better;
and, therefore, the Lady Alexandrina made up her mind at once to go
to her own bedroom.

"Augusta," she said, rising slowly from her chair with much stately
composure, "it is nearly time to dress; will you come with me? We
have a great deal to settle, you know."

So she swam out of the room, and Augusta, telling Mary that she would
see her again at dinner, swam--no, tried to swim--after her. Miss
Gresham had had great advantages; but she had not been absolutely
brought up at Courcy Castle, and could not as yet quite assume the
Courcy style of swimming.

"There," said Mary, as the door closed behind the rustling muslins
of the ladies. "There, I have made an enemy for ever, perhaps two;
that's satisfactory."

"And why have you done it, Mary? When I am fighting your battles
behind your back, why do you come and upset it all by making the
whole family of the de Courcys dislike you? In such a matter as that,
they'll all go together."

"I am sure they will," said Mary; "whether they would be equally
unanimous in a case of love and charity, that, indeed, is another
question."

"But why should you try to make my cousin angry; you that ought to
have so much sense? Don't you remember what you were saying yourself
the other day, of the absurdity of combatting pretences which the
world sanctions?"

"I do, Trichy, I do; don't scold me now. It is so much easier to
preach than to practise. I do so wish I was a clergyman."

"But you have done so much harm, Mary."

"Have I?" said Mary, kneeling down on the ground at her friend's
feet. "If I humble myself very low; if I kneel through the whole
evening in a corner; if I put my neck down and let all your cousins
trample on it, and then your aunt, would not that make atonement? I
would not object to wearing sackcloth, either; and I'd eat a little
ashes--or, at any rate, I'd try."

"I know you're clever, Mary; but still I think you're a fool. I do,
indeed."

"I am a fool, Trichy, I do confess it; and am not a bit clever; but
don't scold me; you see how humble I am; not only humble but umble,
which I look upon to be the comparative, or, indeed, superlative
degree. Or perhaps there are four degrees; humble, umble, stumble,
tumble; and then, when one is absolutely in the dirt at their feet,
perhaps these big people won't wish one to stoop any further."

"Oh, Mary!"

"And, oh, Trichy! you don't mean to say I mayn't speak out before
you. There, perhaps you'd like to put your foot on my neck." And then
she put her head down to the footstool and kissed Beatrice's feet.

"I'd like, if I dared, to put my hand on your cheek and give you a
good slap for being such a goose."

"Do; do, Trichy: you shall tread on me, or slap me, or kiss me;
whichever you like."

"I can't tell you how vexed I am," said Beatrice; "I wanted to
arrange something."

"Arrange something! What? arrange what? I love arranging. I fancy
myself qualified to be an arranger-general in female matters. I
mean pots and pans, and such like. Of course I don't allude to
extraordinary people and extraordinary circumstances that require
tact, and delicacy, and drawbacks, and that sort of thing."

"Very well, Mary."

"But it's not very well; it's very bad if you look like that. Well,
my pet, there I won't. I won't allude to the noble blood of your
noble relatives either in joke or in earnest. What is it you want to
arrange, Trichy?"

"I want you to be one of Augusta's bridesmaids."

"Good heavens, Beatrice! Are you mad? What! Put me, even for a
morning, into the same category of finery as the noble blood from
Courcy Castle!"

"Patience is to be one."

"But that is no reason why Impatience should be another, and I should
be very impatient under such honours. No, Trichy; joking apart, do
not think of it. Even if Augusta wished it I should refuse. I should
be obliged to refuse. I, too, suffer from pride; a pride quite as
unpardonable as that of others: I could not stand with your four
lady-cousins behind your sister at the altar. In such a galaxy they
would be the stars and I--"

"Why, Mary, all the world knows that you are prettier than any of
them!"

"I am all the world's very humble servant. But, Trichy, I should
not object if I were as ugly as the veiled prophet and they all as
beautiful as Zuleika. The glory of that galaxy will be held to depend
not on its beauty, but on its birth. You know how they would look at
me; how they would scorn me; and there, in church, at the altar, with
all that is solemn round us, I could not return their scorn as I
might do elsewhere. In a room I'm not a bit afraid of them all." And
Mary was again allowing herself to be absorbed by that feeling of
indomitable pride, of antagonism to the pride of others, which she
herself in her cooler moments was the first to blame.

"You often say, Mary, that that sort of arrogance should be despised
and passed over without notice."

"So it should, Trichy. I tell you that as a clergyman tells you to
hate riches. But though the clergyman tells you so, he is not the
less anxious to be rich himself."

"I particularly wish you to be one of Augusta's bridesmaids."

"And I particularly wish to decline the honour; which honour has
not been, and will not be, offered to me. No, Trichy. I will not be
Augusta's bridesmaid, but--but--but--"

"But what, dearest?"

"But, Trichy, when some one else is married, when the new wing has
been built to a house that you know of--"

"Now, Mary, hold your tongue, or you know you'll make me angry."

"I do so like to see you angry. And when that time comes, when that
wedding does take place, then I will be a bridesmaid, Trichy. Yes!
even though I am not invited. Yes! though all the de Courcys in
Barsetshire should tread upon me and obliterate me. Though I should
be as dust among the stars, though I should creep up in calico among
their satins and lace, I will nevertheless be there; close, close to
the bride; to hold something for her, to touch her dress, to feel
that I am near to her, to--to--to--" and she threw her arms round her
companion, and kissed her over and over again. "No, Trichy; I won't
be Augusta's bridesmaid; I'll bide my time for bridesmaiding."

What protestations Beatrice made against the probability of such an
event as foreshadowed in her friend's promise we will not repeat. The
afternoon was advancing, and the ladies also had to dress for dinner,
to do honour to the young heir.




CHAPTER V

Frank Gresham's First Speech


We have said, that over and above those assembled in the house, there
came to the Greshamsbury dinner on Frank's birthday the Jacksons
of the Grange, consisting of Mr and Mrs Jackson; the Batesons from
Annesgrove, viz., Mr and Mrs Bateson, and Miss Bateson, their
daughter--an unmarried lady of about fifty; the Bakers of Mill Hill,
father and son; and Mr Caleb Oriel, the rector, with his beautiful
sister, Patience. Dr Thorne, and his niece Mary, we count among those
already assembled at Greshamsbury.

There was nothing very magnificent in the number of the guests thus
brought together to do honour to young Frank; but he, perhaps, was
called on to take a more prominent part in the proceedings, to be
made more of a hero than would have been the case had half the county
been there. In that case the importance of the guests would have been
so great that Frank would have got off with a half-muttered speech or
two; but now he had to make a separate oration to every one, and very
weary work he found it.

The Batesons, Bakers, and Jacksons were very civil; no doubt the more
so from an unconscious feeling on their part, that as the squire was
known to be a little out at elbows as regards money, any deficiency
on their part might be considered as owing to the present state
of affairs at Greshamsbury. Fourteen thousand a year will receive
honour; in that case there is no doubt, and the man absolutely
possessing it is not apt to be suspicious as to the treatment he may
receive; but the ghost of fourteen thousand a year is not always so
self-assured. Mr Baker, with his moderate income, was a very much
richer man than the squire; and, therefore, he was peculiarly forward
in congratulating Frank on the brilliancy of his prospects.

Poor Frank had hardly anticipated what there would be to do, and
before dinner was announced he was very tired of it. He had no warmer
feeling for any of the grand cousins than a very ordinary cousinly
love; and he had resolved, forgetful of birth and blood, and all
those gigantic considerations which, now that manhood had come upon
him, he was bound always to bear in mind,--he had resolved to sneak
out to dinner comfortably with Mary Thorne if possible; and if not
with Mary, then with his other love, Patience Oriel.

Great, therefore, was his consternation at finding that, after being
kept continually in the foreground for half an hour before dinner, he
had to walk out to the dining-room with his aunt the countess, and
take his father's place for the day at the bottom of the table.

"It will now depend altogether upon yourself, Frank, whether you
maintain or lose that high position in the county which has been held
by the Greshams for so many years," said the countess, as she walked
through the spacious hall, resolving to lose no time in teaching
to her nephew that great lesson which it was so imperative that he
should learn.

Frank took this as an ordinary lecture, meant to inculcate general
good conduct, such as old bores of aunts are apt to inflict on
youthful victims in the shape of nephews and nieces.

"Yes," said Frank; "I suppose so; and I mean to go along all square,
aunt, and no mistake. When I get back to Cambridge, I'll read like
bricks."

His aunt did not care two straws about his reading. It was not by
reading that the Greshams of Greshamsbury had held their heads up in
the county, but by having high blood and plenty of money. The blood
had come naturally to this young man; but it behoved him to look for
the money in a great measure himself. She, Lady de Courcy, could
doubtless help him; she might probably be able to fit him with a wife
who would bring her money onto his birth. His reading was a matter in
which she could in no way assist him; whether his taste might lead
him to prefer books or pictures, or dogs and horses, or turnips in
drills, or old Italian plates and dishes, was a matter which did not
much signify; with which it was not at all necessary that his noble
aunt should trouble herself.

"Oh! you are going to Cambridge again, are you? Well, if your father
wishes it;--though very little is ever gained now by a university
connexion."

"I am to take my degree in October, aunt; and I am determined, at any
rate, that I won't be plucked."

"Plucked!"

"No; I won't be plucked. Baker was plucked last year, and all because
he got into the wrong set at John's. He's an excellent fellow if you
knew him. He got among a set of men who did nothing but smoke and
drink beer. Malthusians, we call them."

"Malthusians!"

"'Malt,' you know, aunt, and 'use;' meaning that they drink beer. So
poor Harry Baker got plucked. I don't know that a fellow's any the
worse; however, I won't get plucked."

By this time the party had taken their place round the long board,
Mr Gresham sitting at the top, in the place usually occupied by Lady
Arabella. She, on the present occasion, sat next to her son on the
one side, as the countess did on the other. If, therefore, Frank now
went astray, it would not be from want of proper leading.

"Aunt, will you have some beef?" said he, as soon as the soup
and fish had been disposed of, anxious to perform the rites of
hospitality now for the first time committed to his charge.

"Do not be in a hurry, Frank," said his mother; "the servants will--"

"Oh! ah! I forgot; there are cutlets and those sort of things. My
hand is not in yet for this work, aunt. Well, as I was saying about
Cambridge--"

"Is Frank to go back to Cambridge, Arabella?" said the countess to
her sister-in-law, speaking across her nephew.

"So his father seems to say."

"Is it not a waste of time?" asked the countess.

"You know I never interfere," said the Lady Arabella; "I never liked
the idea of Cambridge myself at all. All the de Courcys were Christ
Church men; but the Greshams, it seems, were always at Cambridge."

"Would it not be better to send him abroad at once?"

"Much better, I would think," said the Lady Arabella; "but you know,
I never interfere: perhaps you would speak to Mr Gresham."

The countess smiled grimly, and shook her head with a decidedly
negative shake. Had she said out loud to the young man, "Your father
is such an obstinate, pig-headed, ignorant fool, that it is no use
speaking to him; it would be wasting fragrance on the desert air,"
she could not have spoken more plainly. The effect on Frank was this:
that he said to himself, speaking quite as plainly as Lady de Courcy
had spoken by her shake of the face, "My mother and aunt are always
down on the governor, always; but the more they are down on him the
more I'll stick to him. I certainly will take my degree: I will read
like bricks; and I'll begin to-morrow."

"Now will you take some beef, aunt?" This was said out loud.

The Countess de Courcy was very anxious to go on with her lesson
without loss of time; but she could not, while surrounded by guests
and servants, enunciate the great secret: "You must marry money,
Frank; that is your one great duty; that is the matter to be borne
steadfastly in your mind." She could not now, with sufficient weight
and impress of emphasis, pour this wisdom into his ears; the more
especially as he was standing up to his work of carving, and was deep
to his elbows in horse-radish, fat, and gravy. So the countess sat
silent while the banquet proceeded.

"Beef, Harry?" shouted the young heir to his friend Baker. "Oh! but I
see it isn't your turn yet. I beg your pardon, Miss Bateson," and he
sent to that lady a pound and a half of excellent meat, cut out with
great energy in one slice, about half an inch thick.

And so the banquet went on.

Before dinner Frank had found himself obliged to make numerous small
speeches in answer to the numerous individual congratulations of his
friends; but these were as nothing to the one great accumulated onus
of an oration which he had long known that he should have to sustain
after the cloth was taken away. Someone of course would propose his
health, and then there would be a clatter of voices, ladies and
gentlemen, men and girls; and when that was done he would find
himself standing on his legs, with the room about him, going round
and round and round.

Having had a previous hint of this, he had sought advice from his
cousin, the Honourable George, whom he regarded as a dab at speaking;
at least, so he had heard the Honourable George say of himself.

"What the deuce is a fellow to say, George, when he stands up after
the clatter is done?"

"Oh, it's the easiest thing in life," said the cousin. "Only remember
this: you mustn't get astray; that is what they call presence of
mind, you know. I'll tell you what I do, and I'm often called up, you
know; at our agriculturals I always propose the farmers' daughters:
well, what I do is this--I keep my eye steadfastly fixed on one of
the bottles, and never move it."

"On one of the bottles!" said Frank; "wouldn't it be better if I made
a mark of some old covey's head? I don't like looking at the table."

"The old covey'd move, and then you'd be done; besides there isn't
the least use in the world in looking up. I've heard people say, who
go to those sort of dinners every day of their lives, that whenever
anything witty is said; the fellow who says it is sure to be looking
at the mahogany."

"Oh, you know I shan't say anything witty; I'll be quite the other
way."

"But there's no reason you shouldn't learn the manner. That's the way
I succeeded. Fix your eye on one of the bottles; put your thumbs in
your waist-coat pockets; stick out your elbows, bend your knees a
little, and then go ahead."

"Oh, ah! go ahead; that's all very well; but you can't go ahead if
you haven't got any steam."

"A very little does it. There can be nothing so easy as your speech.
When one has to say something new every year about the farmers'
daughters, why one has to use one's brains a bit. Let's see: how will
you begin? Of course, you'll say that you are not accustomed to this
sort of thing; that the honour conferred upon you is too much for
your feelings; that the bright array of beauty and talent around
you quite overpowers your tongue, and all that sort of thing. Then
declare you're a Gresham to the backbone."

"Oh, they know that."

"Well, tell them again. Then of course you must say something about
us; or you'll have the countess as black as old Nick."

"Abut my aunt, George? What on earth can I say about her when she's
there herself before me?"

"Before you! of course; that's just the reason. Oh, say any lie you
can think of; you must say something about us. You know we've come
down from London on purpose."

Frank, in spite of the benefit he was receiving from his cousin's
erudition, could not help wishing in his heart that they had all
remained in London; but this he kept to himself. He thanked his
cousin for his hints, and though he did not feel that the trouble
of his mind was completely cured, he began to hope that he might go
through the ordeal without disgracing himself.

Nevertheless, he felt rather sick at heart when Mr Baker got up to
propose the toast as soon as the servants were gone. The servants,
that is, were gone officially; but they were there in a body, men
and women, nurses, cooks, and ladies' maids, coachmen, grooms, and
footmen, standing in two doorways to hear what Master Frank would
say. The old housekeeper headed the maids at one door, standing
boldly inside the room; and the butler controlled the men at the
other, marshalling them back with a drawn corkscrew.

Mr Baker did not say much; but what he did say, he said well. They
had all seen Frank Gresham grow up from a child; and were now
required to welcome as a man amongst them one who was well qualified
to carry on the honour of that loved and respected family. His
young friend, Frank, was every inch a Gresham. Mr Baker omitted to
make mention of the infusion of de Courcy blood, and the countess,
therefore, drew herself up on her chair and looked as though she were
extremely bored. He then alluded tenderly to his own long friendship
with the present squire, Francis Newbold Gresham the elder; and sat
down, begging them to drink health, prosperity, long life, and an
excellent wife to their dear young friend, Francis Newbold Gresham
the younger.

There was a great jingling of glasses, of course; made the merrier
and the louder by the fact that the ladies were still there as
well as the gentlemen. Ladies don't drink toasts frequently; and,
therefore, the occasion coming rarely was the more enjoyed. "God
bless you, Frank!" "Your good health, Frank!" "And especially a
good wife, Frank!" "Two or three of them, Frank!" "Good health and
prosperity to you, Mr Gresham!" "More power to you, Frank, my boy!"
"May God bless you and preserve you, my dear boy!" and then a merry,
sweet, eager voice from the far end of the table, "Frank! Frank! Do
look at me, pray do Frank; I am drinking your health in real wine;
ain't I, papa?" Such were the addresses which greeted Mr Francis
Newbold Gresham the younger as he essayed to rise up on his feet for
the first time since he had come to man's estate.

When the clatter was at an end, and he was fairly on his legs, he
cast a glance before him on the table, to look for a decanter. He
had not much liked his cousin's theory of sticking to the bottle;
nevertheless, in the difficulty of the moment, it was well to have
any system to go by. But, as misfortune would have it, though the
table was covered with bottles, his eye could not catch one. Indeed,
his eye first could catch nothing, for the things swam before him,
and the guests all seemed to dance in their chairs.

Up he got, however, and commenced his speech. As he could not follow
his preceptor's advice as touching the bottle, he adopted his own
crude plan of "making a mark on some old covey's head," and therefore
looked dead at the doctor.

"Upon my word, I am very much obliged to you, gentlemen and ladies,
ladies and gentlemen, I should say, for drinking my health, and
doing me so much honour, and all that sort of thing. Upon my word I
am. Especially to Mr Baker. I don't mean you, Harry, you're not Mr
Baker."

"As much as you're Mr Gresham, Master Frank."

"But I am not Mr Gresham; and I don't mean to be for many a long year
if I can help it; not at any rate till we have had another coming of
age here."

"Bravo, Frank; and whose will that be?"

"That will be my son, and a very fine lad he will be; and I hope
he'll make a better speech than his father. Mr Baker said I was every
inch a Gresham. Well, I hope I am." Here the countess began to look
cold and angry. "I hope the day will never come when my father won't
own me for one."

"There's no fear, no fear," said the doctor, who was almost put out
of countenance by the orator's intense gaze. The countess looked
colder and more angry, and muttered something to herself about a
bear-garden.

"Gardez Gresham; eh? Harry! mind that when you're sticking in a gap
and I'm coming after you. Well, I am sure I am very obliged to you
for the honour you have all done me, especially the ladies, who don't
do this sort of thing on ordinary occasions. I wish they did; don't
you, doctor? And talking of the ladies, my aunt and cousins have come
all the way from London to hear me make this speech, which certainly
is not worth the trouble; but, all the same I am very much obliged
to them." And he looked round and made a little bow at the countess.
"And so I am to Mr and Mrs Jackson, and Mr and Mrs and Miss Bateson,
and Mr Baker--I'm not at all obliged to you, Harry--and to Mr Oriel
and Miss Oriel, and to Mr Umbleby, and to Dr Thorne, and to Mary--I
beg her pardon, I mean Miss Thorne." And then he sat down, amid the
loud plaudits of the company, and a string of blessings which came
from the servants behind him.

After this the ladies rose and departed. As she went, Lady Arabella,
kissed her son's forehead, and then his sisters kissed him, and one
or two of his lady-cousins; and then Miss Bateson shook him by the
hand. "Oh, Miss Bateson," said he, "I thought the kissing was to go
all round." So Miss Bateson laughed and went her way; and Patience
Oriel nodded at him, but Mary Thorne, as she quietly left the room,
almost hidden among the extensive draperies of the grander ladies,
hardly allowed her eyes to meet his.

He got up to hold the door for them as they passed; and as they went,
he managed to take Patience by the hand; he took her hand and pressed
it for a moment, but dropped it quickly, in order that he might go
through the same ceremony with Mary, but Mary was too quick for him.

"Frank," said Mr Gresham, as soon as the door was closed, "bring
your glass here, my boy;" and the father made room for his son close
beside himself. "The ceremony is now over, so you may have your place
of dignity." Frank sat himself down where he was told, and Mr Gresham
put his hand on his son's shoulder and half caressed him, while the
tears stood in his eyes. "I think the doctor is right, Baker, I think
he'll never make us ashamed of him."

"I am sure he never will," said Mr Baker.

"I don't think he ever will," said Dr Thorne.

The tones of the men's voices were very different. Mr Baker did not
care a straw about it; why should he? He had an heir of his own as
well as the squire; one also who was the apple of _his_ eye. But the
doctor,--he did care; he had a niece, to be sure, whom he loved,
perhaps as well as these men loved their sons; but there was room in
his heart also for young Frank Gresham.

After this small exposé of feeling they sat silent for a moment or
two. But silence was not dear to the heart of the Honourable John,
and so he took up the running.

"That's a niceish nag you gave Frank this morning," he said to his
uncle. "I was looking at him before dinner. He is a Monsoon, isn't
he?"

"Well I can't say I know how he was bred," said the squire. "He shows
a good deal of breeding."

"He's a Monsoon, I'm sure," said the Honourable John. "They've all
those ears, and that peculiar dip in the back. I suppose you gave a
goodish figure for him?"

"Not so very much," said the squire.

"He's a trained hunter, I suppose?"

"If not, he soon will be," said the squire.

"Let Frank alone for that," said Harry Baker.

"He jumps beautifully, sir," said Frank. "I haven't tried him myself,
but Peter made him go over the bar two or three times this morning."

The Honourable John was determined to give his cousin a helping hand,
as he considered it. He thought that Frank was very ill-used in being
put off with so incomplete a stud, and thinking also that the son had
not spirit enough to attack his father himself on the subject, the
Honourable John determined to do it for him.

"He's the making of a very nice horse, I don't doubt. I wish you had
a string like him, Frank."

Frank felt the blood rush to his face. He would not for worlds have
his father think that he was discontented, or otherwise than pleased
with the present he had received that morning. He was heartily
ashamed of himself in that he had listened with a certain degree of
complacency to his cousin's tempting; but he had no idea that the
subject would be repeated--and then repeated, too, before his father,
in a manner to vex him on such a day as this, before such people as
were assembled there. He was very angry with his cousin, and for a
moment forgot all his hereditary respect for a de Courcy.

"I tell you what, John," said he, "do you choose your day, some day
early in the season, and come out on the best thing you have, and
I'll bring, not the black horse, but my old mare; and then do you try
and keep near me. If I don't leave you at the back of Godspeed before
long, I'll give you the mare and the horse too."

The Honourable John was not known in Barsetshire as one of the most
forward of its riders. He was a man much addicted to hunting, as far
as the get-up of the thing was concerned; he was great in boots and
breeches; wondrously conversant with bits and bridles; he had quite
a collection of saddles; and patronised every newest invention for
carrying spare shoes, sandwiches, and flasks of sherry. He was
prominent at the cover side;--some people, including the master
of hounds, thought him perhaps a little too loudly prominent;
he affected a familiarity with the dogs, and was on speaking
acquaintance with every man's horse. But when the work was cut out,
when the pace began to be sharp, when it behoved a man either to ride
or visibly to decline to ride, then--so at least said they who had
not the de Courcy interest quite closely at heart--then, in those
heart-stirring moments, the Honourable John was too often found
deficient.

There was, therefore, a considerable laugh at his expense when Frank,
instigated to his innocent boast by a desire to save his father,
challenged his cousin to a trial of prowess. The Honourable John
was not, perhaps, as much accustomed to the ready use of his tongue
as was his honourable brother, seeing that it was not his annual
business to depict the glories of the farmers' daughters; at any
rate, on this occasion he seemed to be at some loss for words; he
shut up, as the slang phrase goes, and made no further allusion to
the necessity of supplying young Gresham with a proper string of
hunters.

But the old squire had understood it all; had understood the meaning
of his nephew's attack; had thoroughly understood also the meaning of
his son's defence, and the feeling which actuated it. He also had
thought of the stableful of horses which had belonged to himself when
he came of age; and of the much more humble position which his son
would have to fill than that which _his_ father had prepared for him.
He thought of this, and was sad enough, though he had sufficient
spirit to hide from his friends around him the fact, that the
Honourable John's arrow had not been discharged in vain.

"He shall have Champion," said the father to himself. "It is time for
me to give it up."

Now Champion was one of the two fine old hunters which the squire
kept for his own use. And it might have been said of him now, at the
period of which we are speaking, that the only really happy moments
of his life were those which he spent in the field. So much as to its
being time for him to give up.




CHAPTER VI

Frank Gresham's Early Loves


It was, we have said, the first of July, and such being the time of
the year, the ladies, after sitting in the drawing-room for half an
hour or so, began to think that they might as well go through the
drawing-room windows on to the lawn. First one slipped out a little
way, and then another; and then they got on to the lawn; and then
they talked of their hats; till, by degrees, the younger ones of the
party, and at last of the elder also, found themselves dressed for
walking.

The windows, both of the drawing-room and the dining-room, looked out
on to the lawn; and it was only natural that the girls should walk
from the former to the latter. It was only natural that they, being
there, should tempt their swains to come to them by the sight of
their broad-brimmed hats and evening dresses; and natural, also, that
the temptation should not be resisted. The squire, therefore, and the
elder male guests soon found themselves alone round their wine.

"Upon my word, we were enchanted by your eloquence, Mr Gresham, were
we not?" said Miss Oriel, turning to one of the de Courcy girls who
was with her.

Miss Oriel was a very pretty girl; a little older than Frank
Gresham,--perhaps a year or so. She had dark hair, large round dark
eyes, a nose a little too broad, a pretty mouth, a beautiful chin,
and, as we have said before, a large fortune;--that is, moderately
large--let us say twenty thousand pounds, there or thereabouts.
She and her brother had been living at Greshamsbury for the last
two years, the living having been purchased for him--such were
Mr Gresham's necessities--during the lifetime of the last old
incumbent. Miss Oriel was in every respect a nice neighbour; she was
good-humoured, lady-like, lively, neither too clever nor too stupid,
belonging to a good family, sufficiently fond of this world's good
things, as became a pretty young lady so endowed, and sufficiently
fond, also, of the other world's good things, as became the mistress
of a clergyman's house.

"Indeed, yes," said the Lady Margaretta. "Frank is very eloquent.
When he described our rapid journey from London, he nearly moved me
to tears. But well as he talks, I think he carves better."

"I wish you'd had to do it, Margaretta; both the carving and
talking."

"Thank you, Frank; you're very civil."

"But there's one comfort, Miss Oriel; it's over now, and done. A
fellow can't be made to come of age twice."

"But you'll take your degree, Mr Gresham; and then, of course,
there'll be another speech; and then you'll get married, and there
will be two or three more."

"I'll speak at your wedding, Miss Oriel, long before I do at my own."

"I shall not have the slightest objection. It will be so kind of you
to patronise my husband."

"But, by Jove, will he patronise me? I know you'll marry some awful
bigwig, or some terribly clever fellow; won't she, Margaretta?"

"Miss Oriel was saying so much in praise of you before you came out,"
said Margaretta, "that I began to think that her mind was intent on
remaining at Greshamsbury all her life."

Frank blushed, and Patience laughed. There was but a year's
difference in their age; Frank, however, was still a boy, though
Patience was fully a woman.

"I am ambitious, Lady Margaretta," said she. "I own it; but I am
moderate in my ambition. I do love Greshamsbury, and if Mr Gresham
had a younger brother, perhaps, you know--"

"Another just like myself, I suppose," said Frank.

"Oh, yes. I could not possibly wish for any change."

"Just as eloquent as you are, Frank," said the Lady Margaretta.

"And as good a carver," said Patience.

"Miss Bateson has lost her heart to him for ever, because of his
carving," said the Lady Margaretta.

"But perfection never repeats itself," said Patience.

"Well, you see, I have not got any brothers," said Frank; "so all I
can do is to sacrifice myself."

"Upon my word, Mr Gresham, I am under more than ordinary obligations
to you; I am indeed," and Miss Oriel stood still in the path, and
made a very graceful curtsy. "Dear me! only think, Lady Margaretta,
that I should be honoured with an offer from the heir the very moment
he is legally entitled to make one."

"And done with so much true gallantry, too," said the other;
"expressing himself quite willing to postpone any views of his own or
your advantage."

"Yes," said Patience; "that's what I value so much: had he loved me
now, there would have been no merit on his part; but a sacrifice, you
know--"

"Yes, ladies are so fond of such sacrifices, Frank, upon my word, I
had no idea you were so very excellent at making speeches."

"Well," said Frank, "I shouldn't have said sacrifice, that was a
slip; what I meant was--"

"Oh, dear me," said Patience, "wait a minute; now we are going
to have a regular declaration. Lady Margaretta, you haven't got
a scent-bottle, have you? And if I should faint, where's the
garden-chair?"

"Oh, but I'm not going to make a declaration at all," said Frank.

"Are you not? Oh! Now, Lady Margaretta, I appeal to you; did you not
understand him to say something very particular?"

"Certainly, I thought nothing could be plainer," said the Lady
Margaretta.

"And so, Mr Gresham, I am to be told, that after all it means
nothing," said Patience, putting her handkerchief up to her eyes.

"It means that you are an excellent hand at quizzing a fellow like
me."

"Quizzing! No; but you are an excellent hand at deceiving a poor
girl like me. Well, remember I have got a witness; here is Lady
Margaretta, who heard it all. What a pity it is that my brother is
a clergyman. You calculated on that, I know; or you would never had
served me so."

She said so just as her brother joined them, or rather just as he
had joined Lady Margaretta de Courcy; for her ladyship and Mr Oriel
walked on in advance by themselves. Lady Margaretta had found it
rather dull work, making a third in Miss Oriel's flirtation with her
cousin; the more so as she was quite accustomed to take a principal
part herself in all such transactions. She therefore not unwillingly
walked on with Mr Oriel. Mr Oriel, it must be conceived, was not a
common, everyday parson, but had points about him which made him
quite fit to associate with an earl's daughter. And as it was known
that he was not a marrying man, having very exalted ideas on that
point connected with his profession, the Lady Margaretta, of course,
had the less objection to trust herself alone with him.

But directly she was gone, Miss Oriel's tone of banter ceased. It was
very well making a fool of a lad of twenty-one when others were by;
but there might be danger in it when they were alone together.

"I don't know any position on earth more enviable than yours, Mr
Gresham," said she, quite soberly and earnestly; "how happy you ought
to be."

"What, in being laughed at by you, Miss Oriel, for pretending to be
a man, when you choose to make out that I am only a boy? I can bear
to be laughed at pretty well generally, but I can't say that your
laughing at me makes me feel so happy as you say I ought to be."

Frank was evidently of an opinion totally different from that of Miss
Oriel. Miss Oriel, when she found herself _tête-à-tête_ with him,
thought it was time to give over flirting; Frank, however, imagined
that it was just the moment for him to begin. So he spoke and looked
very languishing, and put on him quite the airs of an Orlando.

"Oh, Mr Gresham, such good friends as you and I may laugh at each
other, may we not?"

"You may do what you like, Miss Oriel: beautiful women I believe
always may; but you remember what the spider said to the fly, 'That
which is sport to you, may be death to me.'" Anyone looking at
Frank's face as he said this, might well have imagined that he was
breaking his very heart for love of Miss Oriel. Oh, Master Frank!
Master Frank! if you act thus in the green leaf, what will you do in
the dry?

While Frank Gresham was thus misbehaving himself, and going on as
though to him belonged the privilege of falling in love with pretty
faces, as it does to ploughboys and other ordinary people, his great
interests were not forgotten by those guardian saints who were so
anxious to shower down on his head all manner of temporal blessings.

Another conversation had taken place in the Greshamsbury gardens,
in which nothing light had been allowed to present itself; nothing
frivolous had been spoken. The countess, the Lady Arabella, and Miss
Gresham had been talking over Greshamsbury affairs, and they had
latterly been assisted by the Lady Amelia, than whom no de Courcy
ever born was more wise, more solemn, more prudent, or more proud.
The ponderosity of her qualifications for nobility was sometimes too
much even for her mother, and her devotion to the peerage was such,
that she would certainly have declined a seat in heaven if offered to
her without the promise that it should be in the upper house.

The subject first discussed had been Augusta's prospects. Mr Moffat
had been invited to Courcy Castle, and Augusta had been taken thither
to meet him, with the express intention on the part of the countess,
that they should be man and wife. The countess had been careful to
make it intelligible to her sister-in-law and niece, that though Mr
Moffat would do excellently well for a daughter of Greshamsbury, he
could not be allowed to raise his eyes to a female scion of Courcy
Castle.

"Not that we personally dislike him," said the Lady Amelia; "but rank
has its drawbacks, Augusta." As the Lady Amelia was now somewhat
nearer forty than thirty, and was still allowed to walk,


   "In maiden meditation, fancy free,"


it may be presumed that in her case rank had been found to have
serious drawbacks.

To this Augusta said nothing in objection. Whether desirable by a
de Courcy or not, the match was to be hers, and there was no doubt
whatever as to the wealth of the man whose name she was to take; the
offer had been made, not to her, but to her aunt; the acceptance
had been expressed, not by her, but by her aunt. Had she thought of
recapitulating in her memory all that had ever passed between Mr
Moffat and herself, she would have found that it did not amount to
more than the most ordinary conversation between chance partners
in a ball-room. Nevertheless, she was to be Mrs Moffat. All that Mr
Gresham knew of him was, that when he met the young man for the first
and only time in his life, he found him extremely hard to deal with
in the matter of money. He had insisted on having ten thousand pounds
with his wife, and at last refused to go on with the match unless
he got six thousand pounds. This latter sum the poor squire had
undertaken to pay him.

Mr Moffat had been for a year or two M.P. for Barchester; having
been assisted in his views on that ancient city by all the de
Courcy interest. He was a Whig, of course. Not only had Barchester,
departing from the light of other days, returned a Whig member of
Parliament, but it was declared, that at the next election, now near
at hand, a Radical would be sent up, a man pledged to the ballot, to
economies of all sorts, one who would carry out Barchester politics
in all their abrupt, obnoxious, pestilent virulence. This was one
Scatcherd, a great railway contractor, a man who was a native of
Barchester, who had bought property in the neighbourhood, and who had
achieved a sort of popularity there and elsewhere by the violence of
his democratic opposition to the aristocracy. According to this man's
political tenets, the Conservatives should be laughed at as fools,
but the Whigs should be hated as knaves.

Mr Moffat was now coming down to Courcy Castle to look after his
electioneering interests, and Miss Gresham was to return with her
aunt to meet him. The countess was very anxious that Frank should
also accompany them. Her great doctrine, that he must marry money,
had been laid down with authority, and received without doubt. She
now pushed it further, and said that no time should be lost; that
he should not only marry money, but do so very early in life; there
was always danger in delay. The Greshams--of course she alluded only
to the males of the family--were foolishly soft-hearted; no one
could say what might happen. There was that Miss Thorne always at
Greshamsbury.

This was more than the Lady Arabella could stand. She protested
that there was at least no ground for supposing that Frank would
absolutely disgrace his family.

Still the countess persisted: "Perhaps not," she said; "but when
young people of perfectly different ranks were allowed to associate
together, there was no saying what danger might arise. They all knew
that old Mr Bateson--the present Mr Bateson's father--had gone off
with the governess; and young Mr Everbeery, near Taunton, had only
the other day married a cook-maid."

"But Mr Everbeery was always drunk, aunt," said Augusta, feeling
called upon to say something for her brother.

"Never mind, my dear; these things do happen, and they are very
dreadful."

"Horrible!" said the Lady Amelia; "diluting the best blood of the
country, and paving the way for revolutions." This was very grand;
but, nevertheless, Augusta could not but feel that she perhaps might
be about to dilute the blood of her coming children in marrying the
tailor's son. She consoled herself by trusting that, at any rate, she
paved the way for no revolutions.

"When a thing is so necessary," said the countess, "it cannot be done
too soon. Now, Arabella, I don't say that anything will come of it;
but it may: Miss Dunstable is coming down to us next week. Now, we
all know that when old Dunstable died last year, he left over two
hundred thousand to his daughter."

"It is a great deal of money, certainly," said Lady Arabella.

"It would pay off everything, and a great deal more," said the
countess.

"It was ointment, was it not, aunt?" said Augusta.

"I believe so, my dear; something called the ointment of Lebanon, or
something of that sort: but there's no doubt about the money."

"But how old is she, Rosina?" asked the anxious mother.

"About thirty, I suppose; but I don't think that much signifies."

"Thirty," said Lady Arabella, rather dolefully. "And what is she
like? I think that Frank already begins to like girls that are young
and pretty."

"But surely, aunt," said the Lady Amelia, "now that he has come to
man's discretion, he will not refuse to consider all that he owes to
his family. A Mr Gresham of Greshamsbury has a position to support."
The de Courcy scion spoke these last words in the sort of tone that a
parish clergyman would use, in warning some young farmer's son that
he should not put himself on an equal footing with the ploughboys.

It was at last decided that the countess should herself convey to
Frank a special invitation to Courcy Castle, and that when she got
him there, she should do all that lay in her power to prevent his
return to Cambridge, and to further the Dunstable marriage.

"We did think of Miss Dunstable for Porlock, once," she said,
naïvely; "but when we found that it wasn't much over two hundred
thousand, why, that idea fell to the ground." The terms on which the
de Courcy blood might be allowed to dilute itself were, it must be
presumed, very high indeed.

Augusta was sent off to find her brother, and to send him to the
countess in the small drawing-room. Here the countess was to have
her tea, apart from the outer common world, and here, without
interruption, she was to teach her great lesson to her nephew.

Augusta did find her brother, and found him in the worst of bad
society--so at least the stern de Courcys would have thought. Old Mr
Bateson and the governess, Mr Everbeery and his cook's diluted blood,
and ways paved for revolutions, all presented themselves to Augusta's
mind when she found her brother walking with no other company than
Mary Thorne, and walking with her, too, in much too close proximity.

How he had contrived to be off with the old love and so soon on with
the new, or rather, to be off with the new love and again on with the
old, we will not stop to inquire. Had Lady Arabella, in truth, known
all her son's doings in this way, could she have guessed how very
nigh he had approached the iniquity of old Mr Bateson, and to the
folly of young Mr Everbeery, she would in truth have been in a hurry
to send him off to Courcy Castle and Miss Dunstable. Some days
before the commencement of our story, young Frank had sworn in sober
earnest--in what he intended for his most sober earnest, his most
earnest sobriety--that he loved Mary Thorne with a love for which
words could find no sufficient expression--with a love that could
never die, never grow dim, never become less, which no opposition on
the part of others could extinguish, which no opposition on her part
could repel; that he might, could, would, and should have her for his
wife, and that if she told him she didn't love him, he would--

"Oh, oh! Mary; do you love me? Don't you love me? Won't you love me?
Say you will. Oh, Mary, dearest Mary, will you? won't you? do you?
don't you? Come now, you have a right to give a fellow an answer."

With such eloquence had the heir of Greshamsbury, when not yet
twenty-one years of age, attempted to possess himself of the
affections of the doctor's niece. And yet three days afterwards he
was quite ready to flirt with Miss Oriel.

If such things are done in the green wood, what will be done in the
dry?

And what had Mary said when these fervent protestations of an undying
love had been thrown at her feet? Mary, it must be remembered, was
very nearly of the same age as Frank; but, as I and others have so
often said before, "Women grow on the sunny side of the wall." Though
Frank was only a boy, it behoved Mary to be something more than a
girl. Frank might be allowed, without laying himself open to much
just reproach, to throw all of what he believed to be his heart into
a protestation of what he believed to be love; but Mary was in duty
bound to be more thoughtful, more reticent, more aware of the facts
of their position, more careful of her own feelings, and more careful
also of his.

And yet she could not put him down as another young lady might put
down another young gentleman. It is very seldom that a young man,
unless he be tipsy, assumes an unwelcome familiarity in his early
acquaintance with any girl; but when acquaintance has been long and
intimate, familiarity must follow as a matter of course. Frank and
Mary had been so much together in his holidays, had so constantly
consorted together as boys and girls, that, as regarded her, he had
not that innate fear of a woman which represses a young man's tongue;
and she was so used to his good-humour, his fun, and high jovial
spirits, and was, withal, so fond of them and him, that it was very
difficult for her to mark with accurate feeling, and stop with
reserved brow, the shade of change from a boy's liking to a man's
love.

And Beatrice, too, had done harm in this matter. With a spirit
painfully unequal to that of her grand relatives, she had quizzed
Mary and Frank about their early flirtations. This she had done; but
had instinctively avoided doing so before her mother and sister, and
had thus made a secret of it, as it were, between herself, Mary, and
her brother;--had given currency, as it were, to the idea that there
might be something serious between the two. Not that Beatrice had
ever wished to promote a marriage between them, or had even thought
of such a thing. She was girlish, thoughtless, imprudent, inartistic,
and very unlike a de Courcy. Very unlike a de Courcy she was in all
that; but, nevertheless, she had the de Courcy veneration for blood,
and, more than that, she had the Gresham feeling joined to that of
the de Courcys. The Lady Amelia would not for worlds have had the
de Courcy blood defiled; but gold she thought could not defile.
Now Beatrice was ashamed of her sister's marriage, and had often
declared, within her own heart, that nothing could have made her
marry a Mr Moffat.

She had said so also to Mary, and Mary had told her that she was
right. Mary also was proud of blood, was proud of her uncle's blood,
and the two girls talked together in all the warmth of girlish
confidence, of the great glories of family traditions and family
honours. Beatrice had talked in utter ignorance as to her friend's
birth; and Mary, poor Mary, she had talked, being as ignorant; but
not without a strong suspicion that, at some future time, a day of
sorrow would tell her some fearful truth.

On one point Mary's mind was strongly made up. No wealth, no mere
worldly advantage could make any one her superior. If she were born
a gentlewoman, then was she fit to match with any gentleman. Let
the most wealthy man in Europe pour all his wealth at her feet, she
could, if so inclined, give him back at any rate more than that.
That offered at her feet she knew she would never tempt her to yield
up the fortress of her heart, the guardianship of her soul, the
possession of her mind; not that alone, nor that, even, as any
possible slightest fraction of a make-weight.

If she were born a gentlewoman! And then came to her mind those
curious questions; what makes a gentleman? what makes a gentlewoman?
What is the inner reality, the spiritualised quintessence of that
privilege in the world which men call rank, which forces the
thousands and hundreds of thousands to bow down before the few elect?
What gives, or can give it, or should give it?

And she answered the question. Absolute, intrinsic, acknowledged,
individual merit must give it to its possessor, let him be whom, and
what, and whence he might. So far the spirit of democracy was strong
with her. Beyond this it could be had but by inheritance, received
as it were second-hand, or twenty-second-hand. And so far the spirit
of aristocracy was strong within her. All this she had, as may be
imagined, learnt in early years from her uncle; and all this she was
at great pains to teach Beatrice Gresham, the chosen of her heart.

When Frank declared that Mary had a right to give him an answer,
he meant that he had a right to expect one. Mary acknowledged this
right, and gave it to him.

"Mr Gresham," she said.

"Oh, Mary; Mr Gresham!"

"Yes, Mr Gresham. It must be Mr Gresham after that. And, moreover, it
must be Miss Thorne as well."

"I'll be shot if it shall, Mary."

"Well; I can't say that I shall be shot if it be not so; but if it be
not so, if you do not agree that it shall be so, I shall be turned
out of Greshamsbury."

"What! you mean my mother?" said Frank.

"Indeed, I mean no such thing," said Mary, with a flash from her eye
that made Frank almost start. "I mean no such thing. I mean you, not
your mother. I am not in the least afraid of Lady Arabella; but I am
afraid of you."

"Afraid of me, Mary!"

"Miss Thorne; pray, pray, remember. It must be Miss Thorne. Do not
turn me out of Greshamsbury. Do not separate me from Beatrice. It
is you that will drive me out; no one else. I could stand my ground
against your mother--I feel I could; but I cannot stand against you
if you treat me otherwise than--than--"

"Otherwise than what? I want to treat you as the girl I have chosen
from all the world as my wife."

"I am sorry you should so soon have found it necessary to make a
choice. But, Mr Gresham, we must not joke about this at present. I am
sure you would not willingly injure me; but if you speak to me, or of
me, again in that way, you will injure me, injure me so much that I
shall be forced to leave Greshamsbury in my own defence. I know you
are too generous to drive me to that."

And so the interview had ended. Frank, of course, went upstairs to
see if his new pocket-pistols were all ready, properly cleaned,
loaded, and capped, should he find, after a few days' experience,
that prolonged existence was unendurable.

However, he managed to live through the subsequent period; doubtless
with a view of preventing any disappointment to his father's guests.




CHAPTER VII

The Doctor's Garden


Mary had contrived to quiet her lover with considerable propriety
of demeanour. Then came on her the somewhat harder task of quieting
herself. Young ladies, on the whole, are perhaps quite as susceptible
of the softer feelings as young gentlemen are. Now Frank Gresham was
handsome, amiable, by no means a fool in intellect, excellent in
heart; and he was, moreover, a gentleman, being the son of Mr Gresham
of Greshamsbury. Mary had been, as it were, brought up to love him.
Had aught but good happened to him, she would have cried as for a
brother. It must not therefore be supposed that when Frank Gresham
told her that he loved her, she had heard it altogether unconcerned.

He had not, perhaps, made his declaration with that propriety of
language in which such scenes are generally described as being
carried on. Ladies may perhaps think that Mary should have been
deterred, by the very boyishness of his manner, from thinking at all
seriously on the subject. His "will you, won't you--do you, don't
you?" does not sound like the poetic raptures of a highly inspired
lover. But, nevertheless, there had been warmth, and a reality in it
not in itself repulsive; and Mary's anger--anger? no, not anger--her
objections to the declarations were probably not based on the
absurdity of her lover's language.

We are inclined to think that these matters are not always discussed
by mortal lovers in the poetically passionate phraseology which is
generally thought to be appropriate for their description. A man
cannot well describe that which he has never seen nor heard; but
the absolute words and acts of one such scene did once come to the
author's knowledge. The couple were by no means plebeian, or below
the proper standard of high bearing and high breeding; they were
a handsome pair, living among educated people, sufficiently given
to mental pursuits, and in every way what a pair of polite lovers
ought to be. The all-important conversation passed in this wise. The
site of the passionate scene was the sea-shore, on which they were
walking, in autumn.

Gentleman. "Well, Miss ----, the long and short of it is this: here
I am; you can take me or leave me."

Lady--scratching a gutter on the sand with her parasol, so as to
allow a little salt water to run out of one hole into another. "Of
course, I know that's all nonsense."

Gentleman. "Nonsense! By Jove, it isn't nonsense at all: come, Jane;
here I am: come, at any rate you can say something."

Lady. "Yes, I suppose I can say something."

Gentleman. "Well, which is it to be; take me or leave me?"

Lady--very slowly, and with a voice perhaps hardly articulate,
carrying on, at the same time, her engineering works on a wider
scale. "Well, I don't exactly want to leave you."

And so the matter was settled: settled with much propriety and
satisfaction; and both the lady and gentleman would have thought, had
they ever thought about the matter at all, that this, the sweetest
moment of their lives, had been graced by all the poetry by which
such moments ought to be hallowed.

When Mary had, as she thought, properly subdued young Frank, the
offer of whose love she, at any rate, knew was, at such a period of
his life, an utter absurdity, then she found it necessary to subdue
herself. What happiness on earth could be greater than the possession
of such a love, had the true possession been justly and honestly
within her reach? What man could be more lovable than such a man as
would grow from such a boy? And then, did she not love him,--love him
already, without waiting for any change? Did she not feel that there
was that about him, about him and about herself, too, which might so
well fit them for each other? It would be so sweet to be the sister
of Beatrice, the daughter of the squire, to belong to Greshamsbury as
a part and parcel of itself.

But though she could not restrain these thoughts, it never for a
moment occurred to her to take Frank's offer in earnest. Though she
was a grown woman, he was still a boy. He would have to see the world
before he settled in it, and would change his mind about woman half a
score of times before he married. Then, too, though she did not like
the Lady Arabella, she felt that she owed something, if not to her
kindness, at least to her forbearance; and she knew, felt inwardly
certain, that she would be doing wrong, that the world would say
she was doing wrong, that her uncle would think her wrong, if she
endeavoured to take advantage of what had passed.

She had not for an instant doubted; not for a moment had she
contemplated it as possible that she should ever become Mrs Gresham
because Frank had offered to make her so; but, nevertheless, she
could not help thinking of what had occurred--of thinking of it, most
probably much more than Frank did himself.

A day or two afterwards, on the evening before Frank's birthday, she
was alone with her uncle, walking in the garden behind their house,
and she then essayed to question him, with the object of learning if
she were fitted by her birth to be the wife of such a one as Frank
Gresham. They were in the habit of walking there together when he
happened to be at home of a summer's evening. This was not often the
case, for his hours of labour extended much beyond those usual to the
upper working world, the hours, namely, between breakfast and dinner;
but those minutes that they did thus pass together, the doctor
regarded as perhaps the pleasantest of his life.

"Uncle," said she, after a while, "what do you think of this marriage
of Miss Gresham's?"

"Well, Minnie"--such was his name of endearment for her--"I can't say
I have thought much about it, and I don't suppose anybody else has
either."

"She must think about it, of course; and so must he, I suppose."

"I'm not so sure of that. Some folks would never get married if they
had to trouble themselves with thinking about it."

"I suppose that's why you never got married, uncle?"

"Either that, or thinking of it too much. One is as bad as the
other."

Mary had not contrived to get at all near her point as yet; so she
had to draw off, and after a while begin again.

"Well, I have been thinking about it, at any rate, uncle."

"That's very good of you; that will save me the trouble; and perhaps
save Miss Gresham too. If you have thought it over thoroughly, that
will do for all."

"I believe Mr Moffat is a man of no family."

"He'll mend in that point, no doubt, when he has got a wife."

"Uncle, you're a goose; and what is worse, a very provoking goose."

"Niece, you're a gander; and what is worse, a very silly gander. What
is Mr Moffat's family to you and me? Mr Moffat has that which ranks
above family honours. He is a very rich man."

"Yes," said Mary, "I know he is rich; and a rich man I suppose can
buy anything--except a woman that is worth having."

"A rich man can buy anything," said the doctor; "not that I meant to
say that Mr Moffat has bought Miss Gresham. I have no doubt that they
will suit each other very well," he added with an air of decisive
authority, as though he had finished the subject.

But his niece was determined not to let him pass so. "Now, uncle,"
said she, "you know you are pretending to a great deal of worldly
wisdom, which, after all, is not wisdom at all in your eyes."

"Am I?"

"You know you are: and as for the impropriety of discussing Miss
Gresham's marriage--"

"I did not say it was improper."

"Oh, yes, you did; of course such things must be discussed. How is
one to have an opinion if one does not get it by looking at the
things which happen around us?"

"Now I am going to be blown up," said Dr Thorne.

"Dear uncle, do be serious with me."

"Well, then, seriously, I hope Miss Gresham will be very happy as Mrs
Moffat."

"Of course you do: so do I. I hope it as much as I can hope what I
don't at all see ground for expecting."

"People constantly hope without any such ground."

"Well, then, I'll hope in this case. But, uncle--"

"Well, my dear?"

"I want your opinion, truly and really. If you were a girl--"

"I am perfectly unable to give any opinion founded on so strange an
hypothesis."

"Well; but if you were a marrying man."

"The hypothesis is quite as much out of my way."

"But, uncle, I am a girl, and perhaps I may marry;--or at any rate
think of marrying some day."

"The latter alternative is certainly possible enough."

"Therefore, in seeing a friend taking such a step, I cannot but
speculate on the matter as though I were myself in her place. If I
were Miss Gresham, should I be right?"

"But, Minnie, you are not Miss Gresham."

"No, I am Mary Thorne; it is a very different thing, I know. I
suppose _I_ might marry any one without degrading myself."

It was almost ill-natured of her to say this; but she had not meant
to say it in the sense which the sounds seemed to bear. She had
failed in being able to bring her uncle to the point she wished
by the road she had planned, and in seeking another road, she had
abruptly fallen into unpleasant places.

"I should be very sorry that my niece should think so," said he; "and
am sorry, too, that she should say so. But, Mary, to tell the truth,
I hardly know at what you are driving. You are, I think, not so clear
minded--certainly, not so clear worded--as is usual with you."

"I will tell you, uncle;" and, instead of looking up into his face,
she turned her eyes down on the green lawn beneath her feet.

"Well, Minnie, what is it?" and he took both her hands in his.

"I think that Miss Gresham should not marry Mr Moffat. I think so
because her family is high and noble, and because he is low and
ignoble. When one has an opinion on such matters, one cannot but
apply it to things and people around one; and having applied my
opinion to her, the next step naturally is to apply it to myself.
Were I Miss Gresham, I would not marry Mr Moffat though he rolled
in gold. I know where to rank Miss Gresham. What I want to know is,
where I ought to rank myself?"

They had been standing when she commenced her last speech; but as
she finished it, the doctor moved on again, and she moved with him.
He walked on slowly without answering her; and she, out of her full
mind, pursued aloud the tenor of her thoughts.

"If a woman feels that she would not lower herself by marrying in
a rank beneath herself, she ought also to feel that she would not
lower a man that she might love by allowing him to marry into a rank
beneath his own--that is, to marry her."

"That does not follow," said the doctor quickly. "A man raises a
woman to his own standard, but a woman must take that of the man she
marries."

Again they were silent, and again they walked on, Mary holding her
uncle's arm with both her hands. She was determined, however, to come
to the point, and after considering for a while how best she might
do it, she ceased to beat any longer about the bush, and asked him a
plain question.

"The Thornes are as good a family as the Greshams, are they not?"

"In absolute genealogy they are, my dear. That is, when I choose to
be an old fool and talk of such matters in a sense different from
that in which they are spoken of by the world at large, I may say
that the Thornes are as good, or perhaps better, than the Greshams,
but I should be sorry to say so seriously to any one. The Greshams
now stand much higher in the county than the Thornes do."

"But they are of the same class."

"Yes, yes; Wilfred Thorne of Ullathorne, and our friend the squire
here, are of the same class."

"But, uncle, I and Augusta Gresham--are we of the same class?"

"Well, Minnie, you would hardly have me boast that I am the same
class with the squire--I, a poor country doctor?"

"You are not answering me fairly, dear uncle; dearest uncle, do you
not know that you are not answering me fairly? You know what I mean.
Have I a right to call the Thornes of Ullathorne my cousins?"

"Mary, Mary, Mary!" said he after a minute's pause, still allowing
his arm to hang loose, that she might hold it with both her hands.
"Mary, Mary, Mary! I would that you had spared me this!"

"I could not have spared it to you for ever, uncle."

"I would that you could have done so; I would that you could!"

"It is over now, uncle: it is told now. I will grieve you no more.
Dear, dear, dearest! I should love you more than ever now; I would,
I would, I would if that were possible. What should I be but for
you? What must I have been but for you?" And she threw herself on
his breast, and clinging with her arms round his neck, kissed his
forehead, cheeks, and lips.

There was nothing more said then on the subject between them. Mary
asked no further question, nor did the doctor volunteer further
information. She would have been most anxious to ask about her
mother's history had she dared to do so; but she did not dare to ask;
she could not bear to be told that her mother had been, perhaps was,
a worthless woman. That she was truly a daughter of a brother of the
doctor, that she did know. Little as she had heard of her relatives
in her early youth, few as had been the words which had fallen from
her uncle in her hearing as to her parentage, she did know this, that
she was the daughter of Henry Thorne, a brother of the doctor, and a
son of the old prebendary. Trifling little things that had occurred,
accidents which could not be prevented, had told her this; but not
a word had ever passed any one's lips as to her mother. The doctor,
when speaking of his youth, had spoken of her father; but no one had
spoken of her mother. She had long known that she was the child of a
Thorne; now she knew also that she was no cousin of the Thornes of
Ullathorne; no cousin, at least, in the world's ordinary language, no
niece indeed of her uncle, unless by his special permission that she
should be so.

When the interview was over, she went up alone to the drawing-room,
and there she sat thinking. She had not been there long before her
uncle came up to her. He did not sit down, or even take off the hat
which he still wore; but coming close to her, and still standing, he
spoke thus:--

"Mary, after what has passed I should be very unjust and very cruel
to you not to tell you one thing more than you have now learned. Your
mother was unfortunate in much, not in everything; but the world,
which is very often stern in such matters, never judged her to have
disgraced herself. I tell you this, my child, in order that you may
respect her memory;" and so saying, he again left her without giving
her time to speak a word.

What he then told her he had told in mercy. He felt what must be her
feelings when she reflected that she had to blush for her mother;
that not only could she not speak of her mother, but that she might
hardly think of her with innocence; and to mitigate such sorrow as
this, and also to do justice to the woman whom his brother had so
wronged, he had forced himself to reveal so much as is stated above.

And then he walked slowly by himself, backwards and forwards through
the garden, thinking of what he had done with reference to this girl,
and doubting whether he had done wisely and well. He had resolved,
when first the little infant was given over to his charge, that
nothing should be known of her or by her as to her mother. He was
willing to devote himself to this orphan child of his brother, this
last seedling of his father's house; but he was not willing so to do
this as to bring himself in any manner into familiar contact with the
Scatcherds. He had boasted to himself that he, at any rate, was a
gentleman; and that she, if she were to live in his house, sit at his
table, and share his hearth, must be a lady. He would tell no lie
about her; he would not to any one make her out to be aught other or
aught better than she was; people would talk about her of course,
only let them not talk to him; he conceived of himself--and the
conception was not without due ground--that should any do so, he
had that within him which would silence them. He would never claim
for this little creature--thus brought into the world without a
legitimate position in which to stand--he would never claim for her
any station that would not properly be her own. He would make for her
a station as best he could. As he might sink or swim, so should she.

So he had resolved; but things had arranged themselves, as they often
do, rather than been arranged by him. During ten or twelve years no
one had heard of Mary Thorne; the memory of Henry Thorne and his
tragic death had passed away; the knowledge that an infant had been
born whose birth was connected with that tragedy, a knowledge never
widely spread, had faded down into utter ignorance. At the end of
these twelve years, Dr Thorne had announced, that a young niece, a
child of a brother long since dead, was coming to live with him. As
he had contemplated, no one spoke to him; but some people did no
doubt talk among themselves. Whether or not the exact truth was
surmised by any, it matters not to say; with absolute exactness,
probably not; with great approach to it, probably yes. By one person,
at any rate, no guess whatever was made; no thought relative to Dr
Thorne's niece ever troubled him; no idea that Mary Scatcherd had
left a child in England ever occurred to him; and that person was
Roger Scatcherd, Mary's brother.

To one friend, and only one, did the doctor tell the whole truth,
and that was to the old squire. "I have told you," said the doctor,
"partly that you may know that the child has no right to mix with
your children if you think much of such things. Do you, however, see
to this. I would rather that no one else should be told."

No one else had been told; and the squire had "seen to it," by
accustoming himself to look at Mary Thorne running about the house
with his own children as though she were of the same brood. Indeed,
the squire had always been fond of Mary, had personally noticed her,
and, in the affair of Mam'selle Larron, had declared that he would
have her placed at once on the bench of magistrates;--much to the
disgust of the Lady Arabella.

And so things had gone on and on, and had not been thought of with
much downright thinking; till now, when she was one-and-twenty
years of age, his niece came to him, asking as to her position, and
inquiring in what rank of life she was to look for a husband.

And so the doctor walked backwards and forwards through the garden,
slowly, thinking now with some earnestness what if, after all, he
had been wrong about his niece? What if by endeavouring to place her
in the position of a lady, he had falsely so placed her, and robbed
her of all legitimate position? What if there was no rank of life to
which she could now properly attach herself?

And then, how had it answered, that plan of his of keeping her all
to himself? He, Dr Thorne, was still a poor man; the gift of saving
money had not been his; he had ever had a comfortable house for her
to live in, and, in spite of Doctors Fillgrave, Century, Rerechild,
and others, had made from his profession an income sufficient for
their joint wants; but he had not done as others do: he had no three
or four thousand pounds in the Three per Cents. on which Mary might
live in some comfort when he should die. Late in life he had insured
his life for eight hundred pounds; and to that, and that only, had
he to trust for Mary's future maintenance. How had it answered,
then, this plan of letting her be unknown to, and undreamed of by,
those who were as near to her on her mother's side as he was on the
father's? On that side, though there had been utter poverty, there
was now absolute wealth.

But when he took her to himself, had he not rescued her from the very
depths of the lowest misery: from the degradation of the workhouse;
from the scorn of honest-born charity-children; from the lowest of
the world's low conditions? Was she not now the apple of his eye, his
one great sovereign comfort--his pride, his happiness, his glory?
Was he to make her over, to make any portion of her over to others,
if, by doing so, she might be able to share the wealth, as well as
the coarse manners and uncouth society of her at present unknown
connexions? He, who had never worshipped wealth on his own behalf;
he, who had scorned the idol of gold, and had ever been teaching her
to scorn it; was he now to show that his philosophy had all been
false as soon as the temptation to do so was put in his way?

But yet, what man would marry this bastard child, without a sixpence,
and bring not only poverty, but ill blood also on his own children?
It might be very well for him, Dr Thorne; for him whose career was
made, whose name, at any rate, was his own; for him who had a fixed
standing-ground in the world; it might be well for him to indulge in
large views of a philosophy antagonistic to the world's practice; but
had he a right to do it for his niece? What man would marry a girl
so placed? For those among whom she might have legitimately found
a level, education had now utterly unfitted her. And then, he well
knew that she would never put out her hand in token of love to any
one without telling all she knew and all she surmised as to her own
birth.

And that question of this evening; had it not been instigated by some
appeal to her heart? Was there not already within her breast some
cause for disquietude which had made her so pertinacious? Why else
had she told him then, for the first time, that she did not know
where to rank herself? If such an appeal had been made to her, it
must have come from young Frank Gresham. What, in such case, would it
behove him to do? Should he pack up his all, his lancet-cases, pestle
and mortar, and seek anew fresh ground in a new world, leaving behind
a huge triumph to those learned enemies of his, Fillgrave, Century,
and Rerechild? Better that than remain at Greshamsbury at the cost of
his child's heart and pride.

And so he walked slowly backwards and forwards through his garden,
meditating these things painfully enough.




CHAPTER VIII

Matrimonial Prospects


It will of course be remembered that Mary's interview with the other
girls at Greshamsbury took place some two or three days subsequently
to Frank's generous offer of his hand and heart. Mary had quite made
up her mind that the whole thing was to be regarded as a folly, and
that it was not to be spoken of to any one; but yet her heart was
sore enough. She was full of pride, and yet she knew she must bow her
neck to the pride of others. Being, as she was herself, nameless, she
could not but feel a stern, unflinching antagonism, the antagonism of
a democrat, to the pretensions of others who were blessed with that
of which she had been deprived. She had this feeling; and yet, of
all the things that she coveted, she most coveted that, for glorying
in which, she was determined to heap scorn on others. She said to
herself, proudly, that God's handiwork was the inner man, the inner
woman, the naked creature animated by a living soul; that all other
adjuncts were but man's clothing for the creature; all others,
whether stitched by tailors or contrived by kings. Was it not within
her capacity to do as nobly, to love as truly, to worship her God in
heaven with as perfect a faith, and her god on earth with as leal a
troth, as though blood had descended to her purely through scores
of purely born progenitors? So to herself she spoke; and yet, as
she said it, she knew that were she a man, such a man as the heir
of Greshamsbury should be, nothing would tempt her to sully her
children's blood by mating herself with any one that was base born.
She felt that were she an Augusta Gresham, no Mr Moffat, let his
wealth be what it might, should win her hand unless he too could tell
of family honours and a line of ancestors.

And so, with a mind at war with itself, she came forth armed to do
battle against the world's prejudices, those prejudices she herself
loved so well.

And was she to give up her old affections, her feminine loves,
because she found that she was a cousin to nobody? Was she no longer
to pour out her heart to Beatrice Gresham with all the girlish
volubility of an equal? Was she to be severed from Patience Oriel,
and banished--or rather was she to banish herself--from the free
place she had maintained in the various youthful female conclaves
held within that parish of Greshamsbury?

Hitherto, what Mary Thorne would say, what Miss Thorne suggested in
such or such a matter, was quite as frequently asked as any opinion
from Augusta Gresham--quite as frequently, unless when it chanced
that any of the de Courcy girls were at the house. Was this to be
given up? These feelings had grown up among them since they were
children, and had not hitherto been questioned among them. Now they
were questioned by Mary Thorne. Was she in fact to find that her
position had been a false one, and must be changed?

Such had been her feelings when she protested that she would not be
Augusta Gresham's bridesmaid, and offered to put her neck beneath
Beatrice's foot; when she drove the Lady Margaretta out of the room,
and gave her own opinion as to the proper grammatical construction of
the word humble; such also had been her feelings when she kept her
hand so rigidly to herself while Frank held the dining-room door open
for her to pass through.

"Patience Oriel," said she to herself, "can talk to him of her father
and mother: let Patience take his hand; let her talk to him;" and
then, not long afterwards, she saw that Patience did talk to him; and
seeing it, she walked along silent, among some of the old people, and
with much effort did prevent a tear from falling down her cheek.

But why was the tear in her eye? Had she not proudly told Frank that
his love-making was nothing but a boy's silly rhapsody? Had she not
said so while she had yet reason to hope that her blood was as good
as his own? Had she not seen at a glance that his love tirade was
worthy of ridicule, and of no other notice? And yet there was a tear
now in her eye because this boy, whom she had scolded from her, whose
hand, offered in pure friendship, she had just refused, because he,
so rebuffed by her, had carried his fun and gallantry to one who
would be less cross to him!

She could hear as she was walking, that while Lady Margaretta was
with them, their voices were loud and merry; and her sharp ear could
also hear, when Lady Margaretta left them, that Frank's voice became
low and tender. So she walked on, saying nothing, looking straight
before her, and by degrees separating herself from all the others.

The Greshamsbury grounds were on one side somewhat too closely hemmed
in by the village. On this side was a path running the length of one
of the streets of the village; and far down the path, near to the
extremity of the gardens, and near also to a wicket-gate which led
out into the village, and which could be opened from the inside, was
a seat, under a big yew-tree, from which, through a breach in the
houses, might be seen the parish church, standing in the park on the
other side. Hither Mary walked alone, and here she seated herself,
determined to get rid of her tears and their traces before she again
showed herself to the world.

"I shall never be happy here again," said she to herself; "never. I
am no longer one of them, and I cannot live among them unless I am
so." And then an idea came across her mind that she hated Patience
Oriel; and then, instantly another idea followed it--quick as such
thoughts are quick--that she did not hate Patience Oriel at all; that
she liked her, nay, loved her; that Patience Oriel was a sweet girl;
and that she hoped the time would come when she might see her the
lady of Greshamsbury. And then the tear, which had been no whit
controlled, which indeed had now made itself master of her, came to a
head, and, bursting through the floodgates of the eye, came rolling
down, and in its fall, wetted her hand as it lay on her lap. "What a
fool! what an idiot! what an empty-headed cowardly fool I am!" said
she, springing up from the bench on her feet.

As she did so, she heard voices close to her, at the little gate.
They were those of her uncle and Frank Gresham.

"God bless you, Frank!" said the doctor, as he passed out of the
grounds. "You will excuse a lecture, won't you, from so old a
friend?--though you are a man now, and discreet, of course, by Act of
Parliament."

"Indeed I will, doctor," said Frank. "I will excuse a longer lecture
than that from you."

"At any rate it won't be to-night," said the doctor, as he
disappeared. "And if you see Mary, tell her that I am obliged to go;
and that I will send Janet down to fetch her."

Now Janet was the doctor's ancient maid-servant.

Mary could not move on without being perceived; she therefore stood
still till she heard the click of the door, and then began walking
rapidly back to the house by the path which had brought her thither.
The moment, however, that she did so, she found that she was
followed; and in a very few moments Frank was alongside of her.

"Oh, Mary!" said he, calling to her, but not loudly, before he quite
overtook her, "how odd that I should come across you just when I have
a message for you! and why are you all alone?"

Mary's first impulse was to reiterate her command to him to call her
no more by her Christian name; but her second impulse told her that
such an injunction at the present moment would not be prudent on her
part. The traces of her tears were still there; and she well knew
that a very little, the slightest show of tenderness on his part, the
slightest effort on her own to appear indifferent, would bring down
more than one other such intruder. It would, moreover, be better
for her to drop all outward sign that she remembered what had taken
place. So long, then, as he and she were at Greshamsbury together, he
should call her Mary if he pleased. He would soon be gone; and while
he remained, she would keep out of his way.

"Your uncle has been obliged to go away to see an old woman at
Silverbridge."

"At Silverbridge! why, he won't be back all night. Why could not the
old woman send for Dr Century?"

"I suppose she thought two old women could not get on well together."

Mary could not help smiling. She did not like her uncle going off so
late on such a journey; but it was always felt as a triumph when he
was invited into the strongholds of his enemies.

"And Janet is to come over for you. However, I told him it was quite
unnecessary to disturb another old woman, for that I should of course
see you home."

"Oh, no, Mr Gresham; indeed you'll not do that."

"Indeed, and indeed, I shall."

"What! on this great day, when every lady is looking for you, and
talking of you. I suppose you want to set the countess against me for
ever. Think, too, how angry Lady Arabella will be if you are absent
on such an errand as this."

"To hear you talk, Mary, one would think that you were going to
Silverbridge yourself."

"Perhaps I am."

"If I did not go with you, some of the other fellows would. John, or
George--"

"Good gracious, Frank! Fancy either of the Mr de Courcys walking home
with me!"

She had forgotten herself, and the strict propriety on which she had
resolved, in the impossibility of forgoing her little joke against
the de Courcy grandeur; she had forgotten herself, and had called
him Frank in her old, former, eager, free tone of voice; and then,
remembering she had done so, she drew herself up, bit her lips, and
determined to be doubly on her guard in the future.

"Well, it shall be either one of them or I," said Frank: "perhaps you
would prefer my cousin George to me?"

"I should prefer Janet to either, seeing that with her I should not
suffer the extreme nuisance of knowing that I was a bore."

"A bore! Mary, to me?"

"Yes, Mr Gresham, a bore to you. Having to walk home through the mud
with village young ladies is boring. All gentlemen feel it to be so."

"There is no mud; if there were you would not be allowed to walk at
all."

"Oh! village young ladies never care for such things, though
fashionable gentlemen do."

"I would carry you home, Mary, if it would do you a service," said
Frank, with considerable pathos in his voice.

"Oh, dear me! pray do not, Mr Gresham. I should not like it at all,"
said she: "a wheelbarrow would be preferable to that."

"Of course. Anything would be preferable to my arm, I know."

"Certainly; anything in the way of a conveyance. If I were to act
baby; and you were to act nurse, it really would not be comfortable
for either of us."

Frank Gresham felt disconcerted, though he hardly knew why. He was
striving to say something tender to his lady-love; but every word
that he spoke she turned into joke. Mary did not answer him coldly
or unkindly; but, nevertheless, he was displeased. One does not like
to have one's little offerings of sentimental service turned into
burlesque when one is in love in earnest. Mary's jokes had appeared
so easy too; they seemed to come from a heart so little troubled.
This, also, was cause of vexation to Frank. If he could but have
known all, he would, perhaps, have been better pleased.

He determined not to be absolutely laughed out of his tenderness.
When, three days ago, he had been repulsed, he had gone away owning
to himself that he had been beaten; owning so much, but owning it
with great sorrow and much shame. Since that he had come of age;
since that he had made speeches, and speeches had been made to him;
since that he had gained courage by flirting with Patience Oriel. No
faint heart ever won a fair lady, as he was well aware; he resolved,
therefore, that his heart should not be faint, and that he would see
whether the fair lady might not be won by becoming audacity.

"Mary," said he, stopping in the path--for they were now near the
spot where it broke out upon the lawn, and they could already hear
the voices of the guests--"Mary, you are unkind to me."

"I am not aware of it, Mr Gresham; but if I am, do not you retaliate.
I am weaker than you, and in your power; do not you, therefore, be
unkind to me."

"You refused my hand just now," continued he. "Of all the people here
at Greshamsbury, you are the only one that has not wished me joy; the
only one--"

"I do wish you joy; I will wish you joy; there is my hand," and she
frankly put out her ungloved hand. "You are quite man enough to
understand me: there is my hand; I trust you use it only as it is
meant to be used."

He took it in his and pressed it cordially, as he might have done
that of any other friend in such a case; and then--did not drop it
as he should have done. He was not a St Anthony, and it was most
imprudent in Miss Thorne to subject him to such a temptation.

"Mary," said he; "dear Mary! dearest Mary! if you did but know how I
love you!"

As he said this, holding Miss Thorne's hand, he stood on the pathway
with his back towards the lawn and house, and, therefore, did not at
first see his sister Augusta, who had just at that moment come upon
them. Mary blushed up to her straw hat, and, with a quick jerk,
recovered her hand. Augusta saw the motion, and Mary saw that Augusta
had seen it.

From my tedious way of telling it, the reader will be led to imagine
that the hand-squeezing had been protracted to a duration quite
incompatible with any objection to such an arrangement on the part of
the lady; but the fault is mine: in no part hers. Were I possessed
of a quick spasmodic style of narrative, I should have been able
to include it all--Frank's misbehaviour, Mary's immediate anger,
Augusta's arrival, and keen, Argus-eyed inspection, and then Mary's
subsequent misery--in five words and half a dozen dashes and inverted
commas. The thing should have been so told; for, to do Mary justice,
she did not leave her hand in Frank's a moment longer than she could
help herself.

Frank, feeling the hand withdrawn, and hearing, when it was too late,
the step on the gravel, turned sharply round. "Oh, it's you, is it,
Augusta? Well, what do you want?"

Augusta was not naturally very ill-natured, seeing that in her veins
the high de Courcy blood was somewhat tempered by an admixture of
the Gresham attributes; nor was she predisposed to make her brother
her enemy by publishing to the world any of his little tender
peccadilloes; but she could not but bethink herself of what her aunt
had been saying as to the danger of any such encounters as that she
just now had beheld; she could not but start at seeing her brother
thus, on the very brink of the precipice of which the countess had
specially forewarned her mother. She, Augusta, was, as she well knew,
doing her duty by her family by marrying a tailor's son for whom she
did not care a chip, seeing the tailor's son was possessed of untold
wealth. Now when one member of a household is making a struggle for a
family, it is painful to see the benefit of that struggle negatived
by the folly of another member. The future Mrs Moffat did feel
aggrieved by the fatuity of the young heir, and, consequently, took
upon herself to look as much like her Aunt de Courcy as she could do.

"Well, what is it?" said Frank, looking rather disgusted. "What makes
you stick your chin up and look in that way?" Frank had hitherto been
rather a despot among his sisters, and forgot that the eldest of
them was now passing altogether from under his sway to that of the
tailor's son.

"Frank," said Augusta, in a tone of voice which did honour to the
great lessons she had lately received. "Aunt de Courcy wants to see
you immediately in the small drawing-room;" and, as she said so, she
resolved to say a few words of advice to Miss Thorne as soon as her
brother should have left them.

"In the small drawing-room, does she? Well, Mary, we may as well go
together, for I suppose it is tea-time now."

"You had better go at once, Frank," said Augusta; "the countess will
be angry if you keep her waiting. She has been expecting you these
twenty minutes. Mary Thorne and I can return together."

There was something in the tone in which the words, "Mary Thorne,"
were uttered, which made Mary at once draw herself up. "I hope," said
she, "that Mary Thorne will never be any hindrance to either of you."

Frank's ear had also perceived that there was something in the tone
of his sister's voice not boding comfort to Mary; he perceived that
the de Courcy blood in Augusta's veins was already rebelling against
the doctor's niece on his part, though it had condescended to submit
itself to the tailor's son on her own part.

"Well, I am going," said he; "but look here Augusta, if you say one
word of Mary--"

Oh, Frank! Frank! you boy, you very boy! you goose, you silly goose!
Is that the way you make love, desiring one girl not to tell of
another, as though you were three children, tearing your frocks and
trousers in getting through the same hedge together? Oh, Frank!
Frank! you, the full-blown heir of Greshamsbury? You, a man already
endowed with a man's discretion? You, the forward rider, that did but
now threaten young Harry Baker and the Honourable John to eclipse
them by prowess in the field? You, of age? Why, thou canst not as yet
have left thy mother's apron-string!

"If you say one word of Mary--"

So far had he got in his injunction to his sister, but further than
that, in such a case, was he never destined to proceed. Mary's
indignation flashed upon him, striking him dumb long before the sound
of her voice reached his ears; and yet she spoke as quick as the
words would come to her call, and somewhat loudly too.

"Say one word of Mary, Mr Gresham! And why should she not say as many
words of Mary as she may please? I must tell you all now, Augusta!
and I must also beg you not to be silent for my sake. As far as I am
concerned, tell it to whom you please. This was the second time your
brother--"

"Mary, Mary," said Frank, deprecating her loquacity.

"I beg your pardon, Mr Gresham; you have made it necessary that I
should tell your sister all. He has now twice thought it well to
amuse himself by saying to me words which it was ill-natured in him
to speak, and--"

"Ill-natured, Mary!"

"Ill-natured in him to speak," continued Mary, "and to which it would
be absurd for me to listen. He probably does the same to others," she
added, being unable in heart to forget that sharpest of her wounds,
that flirtation of his with Patience Oriel; "but to me it is almost
cruel. Another girl might laugh at him, or listen to him, as she
would choose; but I can do neither. I shall now keep away from
Greshamsbury, at any rate till he has left it; and, Augusta, I can
only beg you to understand, that, as far as I am concerned, there is
nothing which may not be told to all the world."

And, so saying, she walked on a little in advance of them, as proud
as a queen. Had Lady de Courcy herself met her at this moment, she
would almost have felt herself forced to shrink out of the pathway.
"Not say a word of me!" she repeated to herself, but still out loud.
"No word need be left unsaid on my account; none, none."

Augusta followed her, dumfounded at her indignation; and Frank also
followed, but not in silence. When his first surprise at Mary's
great anger was over, he felt himself called upon to say some word
that might tend to exonerate his lady-love; and some word also of
protestation as to his own purpose.

"There is nothing to be told, nothing, at least of Mary," he said,
speaking to his sister; "but of me, you may tell this, if you choose
to disoblige your brother--that I love Mary Thorne with all my heart;
and that I will never love any one else."

By this time they had reached the lawn, and Mary was able to turn
away from the path which led up to the house. As she left them she
said in a voice, now low enough, "I cannot prevent him from talking
nonsense, Augusta; but you will bear me witness, that I do not
willingly hear it." And, so saying, she started off almost in a run
towards the distant part of the gardens, in which she saw Beatrice.

Frank, as he walked up to the house with his sister, endeavoured to
induce her to give him a promise that she would tell no tales as to
what she had heard and seen.

"Of course, Frank, it must be all nonsense," she had said; "and you
shouldn't amuse yourself in such a way."

"Well, but, Guss, come, we have always been friends; don't let us
quarrel just when you are going to be married." But Augusta would
make no promise.

Frank, when he reached the house, found the countess waiting for him,
sitting in the little drawing-room by herself,--somewhat impatiently.
As he entered he became aware that there was some peculiar gravity
attached to the coming interview. Three persons, his mother, one of
his younger sisters, and the Lady Amelia, each stopped him to let
him know that the countess was waiting; and he perceived that a
sort of guard was kept upon the door to save her ladyship from any
undesirable intrusion.

The countess frowned at the moment of his entrance, but soon smoothed
her brow, and invited him to take a chair ready prepared for him
opposite to the elbow of the sofa on which she was leaning. She had a
small table before her, on which was her teacup, so that she was able
to preach at him nearly as well as though she had been ensconced in a
pulpit.

"My dear Frank," said she, in a voice thoroughly suitable to the
importance of the communication, "you have to-day come of age."

Frank remarked that he understood that such was the case, and added
that "that was the reason for all the fuss."

"Yes; you have to-day come of age. Perhaps I should have been glad to
see such an occasion noticed at Greshamsbury with some more suitable
signs of rejoicing."

"Oh, aunt! I think we did it all very well."

"Greshamsbury, Frank, is, or at any rate ought to be, the seat of the
first commoner in Barsetshire.

"Well; so it is. I am quite sure there isn't a better fellow than
father anywhere in the county."

The countess sighed. Her opinion of the poor squire was very
different from Frank's. "It is no use now," said she, "looking back
to that which cannot be cured. The first commoner in Barsetshire
should hold a position--I will not of course say equal to that of a
peer."

"Oh dear no; of course not," said Frank; and a bystander might have
thought that there was a touch of satire in his tone.

"No, not equal to that of a peer; but still of very paramount
importance. Of course my first ambition is bound up in Porlock."

"Of course," said Frank, thinking how very weak was the staff on
which his aunt's ambition rested; for Lord Porlock's youthful career
had not been such as to give unmitigated satisfaction to his parents.

"Is bound up in Porlock:" and then the countess plumed herself; but
the mother sighed. "And next to Porlock, Frank, my anxiety is about
you."

"Upon my honour, aunt, I am very much obliged. I shall be all right,
you'll see."

"Greshamsbury, my dear boy, is not now what it used to be."

"Isn't it?" asked Frank.

"No, Frank; by no means. I do not wish to say a word against your
father. It may, perhaps have been his misfortune, rather than his
fault--"

"She is always down on the governor; always," said Frank to himself;
resolving to stick bravely to the side of the house to which he had
elected to belong.

"But there is the fact, Frank, too plain to us all; Greshamsbury is
not what it was. It is your duty to restore it to its former
importance."

"My duty!" said Frank, rather puzzled.

"Yes, Frank, your duty. It all depends on you now. Of course you know
that your father owes a great deal of money."

Frank muttered something. Tidings had in some shape reached his ear
that his father was not comfortably circumstances as regarded money.

"And then, he has sold Boxall Hill. It cannot be expected that Boxall
Hill shall be repurchased, as some horrid man, a railway-maker, I
believe--"

"Yes; that's Scatcherd."

"Well, he has built a house there, I'm told; so I presume that it
cannot be bought back: but it will be your duty, Frank, to pay all
the debts that there are on the property, and to purchase what, at
any rate, will be equal to Boxall Hill."

Frank opened his eyes wide and stared at his aunt, as though doubting
much whether or no she were in her right mind. He pay off the
family debts! He buy up property of four thousand pounds a year!
He remained, however, quite quiet, waiting the elucidation of the
mystery.

"Frank, of course you understand me."

Frank was obliged to declare, that just at the present moment he did
not find his aunt so clear as usual.

"You have but one line of conduct left you, Frank: your position,
as heir to Greshamsbury, is a good one; but your father has
unfortunately so hampered you with regard to money, that unless you
set the matter right yourself, you can never enjoy that position. Of
course you must marry money."

"Marry money!" said he, considering for the first time that in all
probability Mary Thorne's fortune would not be extensive. "Marry
money!"

"Yes, Frank. I know no man whose position so imperatively demands it;
and luckily for you, no man can have more facility for doing so. In
the first place you are very handsome."

Frank blushed like a girl of sixteen.

"And then, as the matter is made plain to you at so early an age,
you are not of course hampered by any indiscreet tie; by any absurd
engagement."

Frank blushed again; and then saying to himself, "How much the old
girl knows about it!" felt a little proud of his passion for Mary
Thorne, and of the declaration he had made to her.

"And your connexion with Courcy Castle," continued the countess, now
carrying up the list of Frank's advantages to its great climax, "will
make the matter so easy for you, that really, you will hardly have
any difficulty."

Frank could not but say how much obliged he felt to Courcy Castle and
its inmates.

"Of course I would not wish to interfere with you in any underhand
way, Frank; but I will tell you what has occurred to me. You have
heard, probably, of Miss Dunstable?"

"The daughter of the ointment of Lebanon man?"

"And of course you know that her fortune is immense," continued
the countess, not deigning to notice her nephew's allusion to the
ointment. "Quite immense when compared with the wants and position of
any commoner. Now she is coming to Courcy Castle, and I wish you to
come and meet her."

"But, aunt, just at this moment I have to read for my degree like
anything. I go up, you know, in October."

"Degree!" said the countess. "Why, Frank, I am talking to you of
your prospects in life, of your future position, of that on which
everything hangs, and you tell me of your degree!"

Frank, however, obstinately persisted that he must take his degree,
and that he should commence reading hard at six a.m. to-morrow
morning.

"You can read just as well at Courcy Castle. Miss Dunstable will
not interfere with that," said his aunt, who knew the expediency of
yielding occasionally; "but I must beg you will come over and meet
her. You will find her a most charming young woman, remarkably well
educated I am told, and--"

"How old is she?" asked Frank.

"I really cannot say exactly," said the countess; "but it is not, I
imagine, matter of much moment."

"Is she thirty?" asked Frank, who looked upon an unmarried woman of
that age as quite an old maid.

"I dare say she may be about that age," said the countess, who
regarded the subject from a very different point of view.

"Thirty!" said Frank out loud, but speaking, nevertheless, as though
to himself.

"It is a matter of no moment," said his aunt, almost angrily. "When
the subject itself is of such vital importance, objections of no
real weight should not be brought into view. If you wish to hold up
your head in the country; if you wish to represent your county in
Parliament, as has been done by your father, your grandfather, and
your great-grandfathers; if you wish to keep a house over your head,
and to leave Greshamsbury to your son after you, you must marry
money. What does it signify whether Miss Dunstable be twenty-eight
or thirty? She has got money; and if you marry her, you may then
consider that your position in life is made."

Frank was astonished at his aunt's eloquence; but, in spite of
that eloquence, he made up his mind that he would not marry Miss
Dunstable. How could he, indeed, seeing that his troth was already
plighted to Mary Thorne in the presence of his sister? This
circumstance, however, he did not choose to plead to his aunt, so he
recapitulated any other objections that presented themselves to his
mind.

In the first place, he was so anxious about his degree that he could
not think of marrying at present; then he suggested that it might be
better to postpone the question till the season's hunting should be
over; he declared that he could not visit Courcy Castle till he got a
new suit of clothes home from the tailor; and ultimately remembered
that he had a particular engagement to go fly-fishing with Mr Oriel
on that day week.

None, however, of these valid reasons were sufficiently potent to
turn the countess from her point.

"Nonsense, Frank," said she, "I wonder that you can talk of
fly-fishing when the property of Greshamsbury is at stake. You will
go with Augusta and myself to Courcy Castle to-morrow."

"To-morrow, aunt!" he said, in the tone in which a condemned criminal
might make his ejaculation on hearing that a very near day had been
named for his execution. "To-morrow!"

"Yes, we return to-morrow, and shall be happy to have your company.
My friends, including Miss Dunstable, come on Thursday. I am quite
sure you will like Miss Dunstable. I have settled all that with your
mother, so we need say nothing further about it. And now, good-night,
Frank."

Frank, finding that there was nothing more to be said, took his
departure, and went out to look for Mary. But Mary had gone home with
Janet half an hour since, so he betook himself to his sister
Beatrice.

"Beatrice," said he, "I am to go to Courcy Castle to-morrow."

"So I heard mamma say."

"Well; I only came of age to-day, and I will not begin by running
counter to them. But I tell you what, I won't stay above a week
at Courcy Castle for all the de Courcys in Barsetshire. Tell me,
Beatrice, did you ever hear of a Miss Dunstable?"




CHAPTER IX

Sir Roger Scatcherd


Enough has been said in this narrative to explain to the reader that
Roger Scatcherd, who was whilom a drunken stone-mason in Barchester,
and who had been so prompt to avenge the injury done to his sister,
had become a great man in the world. He had become a contractor,
first for little things, such as half a mile or so of a railway
embankment, or three or four canal bridges, and then a contractor for
great things, such as Government hospitals, locks, docks, and quays,
and had latterly had in his hands the making of whole lines of
railway.

He had been occasionally in partnership with one man for one thing,
and then with another for another; but had, on the whole, kept his
interests to himself, and now at the time of our story, he was a very
rich man.

And he had acquired more than wealth. There had been a time when the
Government wanted the immediate performance of some extraordinary
piece of work, and Roger Scatcherd had been the man to do it. There
had been some extremely necessary bit of a railway to be made in half
the time that such work would properly demand, some speculation to
be incurred requiring great means and courage as well, and Roger
Scatcherd had been found to be the man for the time. He was then
elevated for the moment to the dizzy pinnacle of a newspaper hero,
and became one of those "whom the king delighteth to honour." He went
up one day to kiss Her Majesty's hand, and come down to his new grand
house at Boxall Hill, Sir Roger Scatcherd, Bart.

"And now, my lady," said he, when he explained to his wife the high
state to which she had been called by his exertions and the Queen's
prerogative, "let's have a bit of dinner, and a drop of som'at hot."
Now the drop of som'at hot signified a dose of alcohol sufficient to
send three ordinary men very drunk to bed.

While conquering the world Roger Scatcherd had not conquered his old
bad habits. Indeed, he was the same man at all points that he had
been when formerly seen about the streets of Barchester with his
stone-mason's apron tucked up round his waist. The apron he had
abandoned, but not the heavy prominent thoughtful brow, with the
wildly flashing eye beneath it. He was still the same good companion,
and still also the same hard-working hero. In this only had he
changed, that now he would work, and some said equally well, whether
he were drunk or sober. Those who were mostly inclined to make a
miracle of him--and there was a school of worshippers ready to adore
him as their idea of a divine, superhuman, miracle-moving, inspired
prophet--declared that his wondrous work was best done, his
calculations most quickly and most truly made, that he saw with most
accurate eye into the far-distant balance of profit and loss, when
he was under the influence of the rosy god. To these worshippers his
breakings-out, as his periods of intemperance were called in his own
set, were his moments of peculiar inspiration--his divine frenzies,
in which he communicated most closely with those deities who preside
over trade transactions; his Eleusinian mysteries, to approach him in
which was permitted only to a few of the most favoured.

"Scatcherd has been drunk this week past," they would say one to
another, when the moment came at which it was to be decided whose
offer should be accepted for constructing a harbour to hold all the
commerce of Lancashire, or to make a railway from Bombay to Canton.
"Scatcherd has been drunk this week past; I am told that he has taken
over three gallons of brandy." And then they felt sure that none but
Scatcherd would be called upon to construct the dock or make the
railway.

But be this as it may, be it true or false that Sir Roger was most
efficacious when in his cups, there can be no doubt that he could not
wallow for a week in brandy, six or seven times every year, without
in a great measure injuring, and permanently injuring, the outward
man. Whatever immediate effect such symposiums might have on the
inner mind--symposiums indeed they were not; posiums I will call
them, if I may be allowed; for in latter life, when he drank heavily,
he drank alone--however little for evil, or however much for good the
working of his brain might be affected, his body suffered greatly. It
was not that he became feeble or emaciated, old-looking or inactive,
that his hand shook, or that his eye was watery; but that in the
moments of his intemperance his life was often not worth a day's
purchase. The frame which God had given to him was powerful beyond
the power of ordinary men; powerful to act in spite of these violent
perturbations; powerful to repress and conquer the qualms and
headaches and inward sicknesses to which the votaries of Bacchus are
ordinarily subject; but this power was not without its limit. If
encroached on too far, it would break and fall and come asunder, and
then the strong man would at once become a corpse.

Scatcherd had but one friend in the world. And, indeed, this friend
was no friend in the ordinary acceptance of the word. He neither ate
with him nor drank with him, nor even frequently talked with him.
Their pursuits in life were wide asunder. Their tastes were all
different. The society in which each moved very seldom came together.
Scatcherd had nothing in unison with this solitary friend; but he
trusted him, and he trusted no other living creature on God's earth.

He trusted this man; but even him he did not trust thoroughly; not at
least as one friend should trust another. He believed that this man
would not rob him; would probably not lie to him; would not endeavour
to make money of him; would not count him up or speculate on him, and
make out a balance of profit and loss; and, therefore, he determined
to use him. But he put no trust whatever in his friend's counsel, in
his modes of thought; none in his theory, and none in his practice.
He disliked his friend's counsel, and, in fact, disliked his
society, for his friend was somewhat apt to speak to him in a manner
approaching to severity. Now Roger Scatcherd had done many things
in the world, and made much money; whereas his friend had done but
few things, and made no money. It was not to be endured that the
practical, efficient man should be taken to task by the man who
proved himself to be neither practical nor efficient; not to be
endured, certainly, by Roger Scatcherd, who looked on men of his own
class as the men of the day, and on himself as by no means the least
among them.

The friend was our friend Dr Thorne.

The doctor's first acquaintance with Scatcherd has been already
explained. He was necessarily thrown into communication with the man
at the time of the trial, and Scatcherd then had not only sufficient
sense, but sufficient feeling also to know that the doctor behaved
very well. This communication had in different ways been kept up
between them. Soon after the trial Scatcherd had begun to rise, and
his first savings had been entrusted to the doctor's care. This had
been the beginning of a pecuniary connexion which had never wholly
ceased, and which had led to the purchase of Boxall Hill, and to the
loan of large sums of money to the squire.

In another way also there had been a close alliance between them, and
one not always of a very pleasant description. The doctor was, and
long had been, Sir Roger's medical attendant, and, in his unceasing
attempts to rescue the drunkard from the fate which was so much to
be dreaded, he not unfrequently was driven into a quarrel with his
patient.

One thing further must be told of Sir Roger. In politics he was as
violent a Radical as ever, and was very anxious to obtain a position
in which he could bring his violence to bear. With this view he was
about to contest his native borough of Barchester, in the hope of
being returned in opposition to the de Courcy candidate; and with
this object he had now come down to Boxall Hill.

Nor were his claims to sit for Barchester such as could be despised.
If money were to be of avail, he had plenty of it, and was prepared
to spend it; whereas, rumour said that Mr Moffat was equally
determined to do nothing so foolish. Then again, Sir Roger had a sort
of rough eloquence, and was able to address the men of Barchester in
language that would come home to their hearts, in words that would
endear him to one party while they made him offensively odious to the
other; but Mr Moffat could make neither friends nor enemies by his
eloquence. The Barchester roughs called him a dumb dog that could not
bark, and sometimes sarcastically added that neither could he bite.
The de Courcy interest, however, was at his back, and he had also the
advantage of possession. Sir Roger, therefore, knew that the battle
was not to be won without a struggle.

Dr Thorne got safely back from Silverbridge that evening, and found
Mary waiting to give him his tea. He had been called there to a
consultation with Dr Century, that amiable old gentleman having so
far fallen away from the high Fillgrave tenets as to consent to the
occasional endurance of such degradation.

The next morning he breakfasted early, and, having mounted his strong
iron-grey cob, started for Boxall Hill. Not only had he there to
negotiate the squire's further loan, but also to exercise his medical
skill. Sir Roger having been declared contractor for cutting a canal
from sea to sea, through the Isthmus of Panama, had been making a
week of it; and the result was that Lady Scatcherd had written rather
peremptorily to her husband's medical friend.

The doctor consequently trotted off to Boxall Hill on his iron-grey
cob. Among his other merits was that of being a good horseman, and
he did much of his work on horseback. The fact that he occasionally
took a day with the East Barsetshires, and that when he did so he
thoroughly enjoyed it, had probably not failed to add something to
the strength of the squire's friendship.

"Well, my lady, how is he? Not much the matter, I hope?" said the
doctor, as he shook hands with the titled mistress of Boxall Hill in
a small breakfast-parlour in the rear of the house. The show-rooms
of Boxall Hill were furnished most magnificently, but they were set
apart for company; and as the company never came--seeing that they
were never invited--the grand rooms and the grand furniture were not
of much material use to Lady Scatcherd.

"Indeed then, doctor, he's just bad enough," said her ladyship, not
in a very happy tone of voice; "just bad enough. There's been some'at
at the back of his head, rapping, and rapping, and rapping; and if
you don't do something, I'm thinking it will rap him too hard yet."

"Is he in bed?"

"Why, yes, he is in bed; for when he was first took he couldn't very
well help hisself, so we put him to bed. And then, he don't seem to
be quite right yet about the legs, so he hasn't got up; but he's got
that Winterbones with him to write for him, and when Winterbones is
there, Scatcherd might as well be up for any good that bed'll do
him."

Mr Winterbones was confidential clerk to Sir Roger. That is to say,
he was a writing-machine of which Sir Roger made use to do certain
work which could not well be adjusted without some contrivance. He
was a little, withered, dissipated, broken-down man, whom gin and
poverty had nearly burnt to a cinder, and dried to an ash. Mind he
had none left, nor care for earthly things, except the smallest
modicum of substantial food, and the largest allowance of liquid
sustenance. All that he had ever known he had forgotten, except how
to count up figures and to write: the results of his counting and his
writing never stayed with him from one hour to another; nay, not from
one folio to another. Let him, however, be adequately screwed up with
gin, and adequately screwed down by the presence of his master, and
then no amount of counting and writing would be too much for him.
This was Mr Winterbones, confidential clerk to the great Sir Roger
Scatcherd.

"We must send Winterbones away, I take it," said the doctor.

"Indeed, doctor, I wish you would. I wish you'd send him to Bath, or
anywhere else out of the way. There is Scatcherd, he takes brandy;
and there is Winterbones, he takes gin; and it'd puzzle a woman to
say which is worst, master or man."

It will seem from this, that Lady Scatcherd and the doctor were on
very familiar terms as regarded her little domestic inconveniences.

"Tell Sir Roger I am here, will you?" said the doctor.

"You'll take a drop of sherry before you go up?" said the lady.

"Not a drop, thank you," said the doctor.

"Or, perhaps, a little cordial?"

"Not a drop of anything, thank you; I never do, you know."

"Just a thimbleful of this?" said the lady, producing from some
recess under a sideboard a bottle of brandy; "just a thimbleful? It's
what he takes himself."

When Lady Scatcherd found that even this argument failed, she led the
way to the great man's bedroom.

"Well, doctor! well, doctor! well, doctor!" was the greeting with
which our son of Galen was saluted some time before he entered the
sick-room. His approaching step was heard, and thus the ci-devant
Barchester stone-mason saluted his coming friend. The voice was loud
and powerful, but not clear and sonorous. What voice that is nurtured
on brandy can ever be clear? It had about it a peculiar huskiness, a
dissipated guttural tone, which Thorne immediately recognised, and
recognised as being more marked, more guttural, and more husky than
heretofore.

"So you've smelt me out, have you, and come for your fee? Ha! ha!
ha! Well, I have had a sharpish bout of it, as her ladyship there
no doubt has told you. Let her alone to make the worst of it. But,
you see, you're too late, man. I've bilked the old gentleman again
without troubling you."

"Anyway, I'm glad you're something better, Scatcherd."

"Something! I don't know what you call something. I never was better
in my life. Ask Winterbones there."

"Indeed, now, Scatcherd, you ain't; you're bad enough if you only
knew it. And as for Winterbones, he has no business here up in your
bedroom, which stinks of gin so, it does. Don't you believe him,
doctor; he ain't well, nor yet nigh well."

Winterbones, when the above ill-natured allusion was made to
the aroma coming from his libations, might be seen to deposit
surreptitiously beneath the little table at which he sat, the cup
with which he had performed them.

The doctor, in the meantime, had taken Sir Roger's hand on the
pretext of feeling his pulse, but was drawing quite as much
information from the touch of the sick man's skin, and the look of
the sick man's eye.

"I think Mr Winterbones had better go back to the London office,"
said he. "Lady Scatcherd will be your best clerk for some time, Sir
Roger."

"Then I'll be d---- if Mr Winterbones does anything of the kind,"
said he; "so there's an end of that."

"Very well," said the doctor. "A man can die but once. It is my duty
to suggest measures for putting off the ceremony as long as possible.
Perhaps, however, you may wish to hasten it."

"Well, I am not very anxious about it, one way or the other," said
Scatcherd. And as he spoke there came a fierce gleam from his eye,
which seemed to say--"If that's the bugbear with which you wish to
frighten me, you will find that you are mistaken."

"Now, doctor, don't let him talk that way, don't," said Lady
Scatcherd, with her handkerchief to her eyes.

"Now, my lady, do you cut it; cut at once," said Sir Roger, turning
hastily round to his better-half; and his better-half, knowing that
the province of a woman is to obey, did cut it. But as she went she
gave the doctor a pull by the coat's sleeve, so that thereby his
healing faculties might be sharpened to the very utmost.

"The best woman in the world, doctor; the very best," said he, as the
door closed behind the wife of his bosom.

"I'm sure of it," said the doctor.

"Yes, till you find a better one," said Scatcherd. "Ha! ha! ha! but
good or bad, there are some things which a woman can't understand,
and some things which she ought not to be let to understand."

"It's natural she should be anxious about your health, you know."

"I don't know that," said the contractor. "She'll be very well off.
All that whining won't keep a man alive, at any rate."

There was a pause, during which the doctor continued his medical
examination. To this the patient submitted with a bad grace; but
still he did submit.

"We must turn over a new leaf, Sir Roger; indeed we must."

"Bother," said Sir Roger.

"Well, Scatcherd; I must do my duty to you, whether you like it or
not."

"That is to say, I am to pay you for trying to frighten me."

"No human nature can stand such shocks as these much longer."

"Winterbones," said the contractor, turning to his clerk, "go down,
go down, I say; but don't be out of the way. If you go to the
public-house, by G----, you may stay there for me. When I take a
drop,--that is if I ever do, it does not stand in the way of work."
So Mr Winterbones, picking up his cup again, and concealing it in
some way beneath his coat flap, retreated out of the room, and the
two friends were alone.

"Scatcherd," said the doctor, "you have been as near your God, as any
man ever was who afterwards ate and drank in this world."

"Have I, now?" said the railway hero, apparently somewhat startled.

"Indeed you have; indeed you have."

"And now I'm all right again?"

"All right! How can you be all right, when you know that your limbs
refuse to carry you? All right! why the blood is still beating round
your brain with a violence that would destroy any other brain but
yours."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Scatcherd. He was very proud of thinking
himself to be differently organised from other men. "Ha! ha! ha!
Well, and what am I to do now?"

The whole of the doctor's prescription we will not give at length.
To some of his ordinances Sir Roger promised obedience; to others he
objected violently, and to one or two he flatly refused to listen.
The great stumbling-block was this, that total abstinence from
business for two weeks was enjoined; and that it was impossible, so
Sir Roger said, that he should abstain for two days.

"If you work," said the doctor, "in your present state, you will
certainly have recourse to the stimulus of drink; and if you drink,
most assuredly you will die."

"Stimulus! Why do you think I can't work without Dutch courage?"

"Scatcherd, I know that there is brandy in the room at this moment,
and that you have been taking it within these two hours."

"You smell that fellow's gin," said Scatcherd.

"I feel the alcohol working within your veins," said the doctor, who
still had his hand on his patient's arm.

Sir Roger turned himself roughly in the bed so as to get away from
his Mentor, and then he began to threaten in his turn.

"I'll tell you what it is, doctor; I've made up my mind, and I'll do
it. I'll send for Fillgrave."

"Very well," said he of Greshamsbury, "send for Fillgrave. Your case
is one in which even he can hardly go wrong."

"You think you can hector me, and do as you like because you had me
under your thumb in other days. You're a very good fellow, Thorne,
but I ain't sure that you are the best doctor in all England."

"You may be sure I am not; you may take me for the worst if you will.
But while I am here as your medical adviser, I can only tell you the
truth to the best of my thinking. Now the truth is this, that another
bout of drinking will in all probability kill you; and any recourse
to stimulus in your present condition may do so."

"I'll send for Fillgrave--"

"Well, send for Fillgrave, only do it at once. Believe me at any
rate in this, that whatever you do, you should do at once. Oblige
me in this; let Lady Scatcherd take away that brandy bottle till Dr
Fillgrave comes."

"I'm d---- if I do. Do you think I can't have a bottle of brandy in
my room without swigging?"

"I think you'll be less likely to swig it if you can't get at it."

Sir Roger made another angry turn in his bed as well as his
half-paralysed limbs would let him; and then, after a few moments'
peace, renewed his threats with increased violence.

"Yes; I'll have Fillgrave over here. If a man be ill, really ill,
he should have the best advice he can get. I'll have Fillgrave, and
I'll have that other fellow from Silverbridge to meet him. What's his
name?--Century."

The doctor turned his head away; for though the occasion was serious,
he could not help smiling at the malicious vengeance with which his
friend proposed to gratify himself.

"I will; and Rerechild too. What's the expense? I suppose five or six
pound apiece will do it; eh, Thorne?"

"Oh, yes; that will be liberal I should say. But, Sir Roger, will you
allow me to suggest what you ought to do? I don't know how far you
may be joking--"

"Joking!" shouted the baronet; "you tell a man he's dying and joking
in the same breath. You'll find I'm not joking."

"Well I dare say not. But if you have not full confidence in me--"

"I have no confidence in you at all."

"Then why not send to London? Expense is no object to you."

"It is an object; a great object."

"Nonsense! Send to London for Sir Omicron Pie: send for some man whom
you will really trust when you see him.

"There's not one of the lot I'd trust as soon as Fillgrave. I've
known Fillgrave all my life, and I trust him. I'll send for Fillgrave
and put my case in his hands. If any one can do anything for me,
Fillgrave is the man."

"Then in God's name send for Fillgrave," said the doctor. "And now,
good-bye, Scatcherd; and as you do send for him, give him a fair
chance. Do not destroy yourself by more brandy before he comes."

"That's my affair, and his; not yours," said the patient.

"So be it; give me your hand, at any rate, before I go. I wish you
well through it, and when you are well, I'll come and see you."

"Good-bye--good-bye; and look here, Thorne, you'll be talking to Lady
Scatcherd downstairs I know; now, no nonsense. You understand me, eh?
no nonsense, you know."




CHAPTER X

Sir Roger's Will


Dr Thorne left the room and went downstairs, being fully aware that
he could not leave the house without having some communication with
Lady Scatcherd. He was not sooner within the passage than he heard
the sick man's bell ring violently; and then the servant, passing
him on the staircase, received orders to send a mounted messenger
immediately to Barchester. Dr Fillgrave was to be summoned to come as
quickly as possible to the sick man's room, and Mr Winterbones was to
be sent up to write the note.

Sir Roger was quite right in supposing that there would be some words
between the doctor and her ladyship. How, indeed, was the doctor to
get out of the house without such, let him wish it ever so much?
There were words; and these were protracted, while the doctor's
cob was being ordered round, till very many were uttered which the
contractor would probably have regarded as nonsense.

Lady Scatcherd was no fit associate for the wives of English
baronets;--was no doubt by education and manners much better fitted
to sit in their servants' halls; but not on that account was she a
bad wife or a bad woman. She was painfully, fearfully, anxious for
that husband of hers, whom she honoured and worshipped, as it behoved
her to do, above all other men. She was fearfully anxious as to his
life, and faithfully believed, that if any man could prolong it, it
was that old and faithful friend whom she had known to be true to her
lord since their early married troubles.

When, therefore, she found that he had been dismissed, and that a
stranger was to be sent for in his place, her heart sank low within
her.

"But, doctor," she said, with her apron up to her eyes, "you ain't
going to leave him, are you?"

Dr Thorne did not find it easy to explain to her ladyship that
medical etiquette would not permit him to remain in attendance on her
husband after he had been dismissed and another physician called in
his place.

"Etiquette!" said she, crying. "What's etiquette to do with it when a
man is a-killing hisself with brandy?"

"Fillgrave will forbid that quite as strongly as I can do."

"Fillgrave!" said she. "Fiddlesticks! Fillgrave, indeed!"

Dr Thorne could almost have embraced her for the strong feeling of
thorough confidence on the one side, and thorough distrust on the
other, which she contrived to throw into those few words.

"I'll tell you what, doctor; I won't let the messenger go. I'll bear
the brunt of it. He can't do much now he ain't up, you know. I'll
stop the boy; we won't have no Fillgraves here."

This, however, was a step to which Dr Thorne would not assent. He
endeavoured to explain to the anxious wife, that after what had
passed he could not tender his medical services till they were again
asked for.

"But you can slip in as a friend, you know; and then by degrees you
can come round him, eh? can't you now, doctor? And as to the
payment--"

All that Dr Thorne said on the subject may easily be imagined. And in
this way, and in partaking of the lunch which was forced upon him, an
hour had nearly passed between his leaving Sir Roger's bedroom and
putting his foot in the stirrup. But no sooner had the cob begun to
move on the gravel-sweep before the house, than one of the upper
windows opened, and the doctor was summoned to another conference
with the sick man.

"He says you are to come back, whether or no," said Mr Winterbones,
screeching out of the window, and putting all his emphasis on the
last words.

"Thorne! Thorne! Thorne!" shouted the sick man from his sick-bed, so
loudly that the doctor heard him, seated as he was on horseback out
before the house.

"You're to come back, whether or no," repeated Winterbones, with
more emphasis, evidently conceiving that there was a strength of
injunction in that "whether or no" which would be found quite
invincible.

Whether actuated by these magic words, or by some internal process of
thought, we will not say; but the doctor did slowly, and as though
unwillingly, dismount again from his steed, and slowly retrace his
steps into the house.

"It is no use," he said to himself, "for that messenger has already
gone to Barchester."

"I have sent for Dr Fillgrave," were the first words which the
contractor said to him when he again found himself by the bedside.

"Did you call me back to tell me that?" said Thorne, who now realy
felt angry at the impertinent petulance of the man before him: "you
should consider, Scatcherd, that my time may be of value to others,
if not to you."

"Now don't be angry, old fellow," said Scatcherd, turning to him,
and looking at him with a countenance quite different from any that
he had shown that day; a countenance in which there was a show of
manhood,--some show also of affection. "You ain't angry now because
I've sent for Fillgrave?"

"Not in the least," said the doctor very complacently. "Not in the
least. Fillgrave will do as much good as I can do you."

"And that's none at all, I suppose; eh, Thorne?"

"That depends on yourself. He will do you good if you will tell him
the truth, and will then be guided by him. Your wife, your servant,
any one can be as good a doctor to you as either he or I; as good,
that is, in the main point. But you have sent for Fillgrave now; and
of course you must see him. I have much to do, and you must let me
go."

Scatcherd, however, would not let him go, but held his hand fast.
"Thorne," said he, "if you like it, I'll make them put Fillgrave
under the pump directly he comes here. I will indeed, and pay all the
damage myself."

This was another proposition to which the doctor could not consent;
but he was utterly unable to refrain from laughing. There was an
earnest look of entreaty about Sir Roger's face as he made the
suggestion; and, joined to this, there was a gleam of comic
satisfaction in his eye which seemed to promise, that if he received
the least encouragement he would put his threat into execution. Now
our doctor was not inclined to taking any steps towards subjecting
his learned brother to pump discipline; but he could not but admit to
himself that the idea was not a bad one.

"I'll have it done, I will, by heavens! if you'll only say the word,"
protested Sir Roger.

But the doctor did not say the word, and so the idea was passed off.

"You shouldn't be so testy with a man when he is ill," said
Scatcherd, still holding the doctor's hand, of which he had again got
possession; "specially not an old friend; and specially again when
you're been a-blowing of him up."

It was not worth the doctor's while to aver that the testiness
had all been on the other side, and that he had never lost his
good-humour; so he merely smiled, and asked Sir Roger if he could do
anything further for him.

"Indeed you can, doctor; and that's why I sent for you,--why I sent
for you yesterday. Get out of the room, Winterbones," he then said,
gruffly, as though he were dismissing from his chamber a dirty
dog. Winterbones, not a whit offended, again hid his cup under his
coat-tail and vanished.

"Sit down, Thorne, sit down," said the contractor, speaking quite in
a different manner from any that he had yet assumed. "I know you're
in a hurry, but you must give me half an hour. I may be dead before
you can give me another; who knows?"

The doctor of course declared that he hoped to have many a
half-hour's chat with him for many a year to come.

"Well, that's as may be. You must stop now, at any rate. You can make
the cob pay for it, you know."

The doctor took a chair and sat down. Thus entreated to stop, he had
hardly any alternative but to do so.

"It wasn't because I'm ill that I sent for you, or rather let her
ladyship send for you. Lord bless you, Thorne; do you think I don't
know what it is that makes me like this? When I see that poor wretch,
Winterbones, killing himself with gin, do you think I don't know
what's coming to myself as well as him?

"Why do you take it then? Why do you do it? Your life is not like
his. Oh, Scatcherd! Scatcherd!" and the doctor prepared to pour out
the flood of his eloquence in beseeching this singular man to abstain
from his well-known poison.

"Is that all you know of human nature, doctor? Abstain. Can you
abstain from breathing, and live like a fish does under water?"

"But Nature has not ordered you to drink, Scatcherd."

"Habit is second nature, man; and a stronger nature than the first.
And why should I not drink? What else has the world given me for
all that I have done for it? What other resource have I? What other
gratification?"

"Oh, my God! Have you not unbounded wealth? Can you not do anything
you wish? be anything you choose?"

"No," and the sick man shrieked with an energy that made him audible
all through the house. "I can do nothing that I would choose to do;
be nothing that I would wish to be! What can I do? What can I be?
What gratification can I have except the brandy bottle? If I go among
gentlemen, can I talk to them? If they have anything to say about
a railway, they will ask me a question: if they speak to me beyond
that, I must be dumb. If I go among my workmen, can they talk to me?
No; I am their master, and a stern master. They bob their heads and
shake in their shoes when they see me. Where are my friends? Here!"
said he, and he dragged a bottle from under his very pillow. "Where
are my amusements? Here!" and he brandished the bottle almost in the
doctor's face. "Where is my one resource, my one gratification, my
only comfort after all my toils. Here, doctor; here, here, here!"
and, so saying, he replaced his treasure beneath his pillow.

There was something so horrifying in this, that Dr Thorne shrank back
amazed, and was for a moment unable to speak.

"But, Scatcherd," he said at last; "surely you would not die for such
a passion as that?"

"Die for it? Aye, would I. Live for it while I can live; and die for
it when I can live no longer. Die for it! What is that for a man to
do? Do not men die for a shilling a day? What is a man the worse for
dying? What can I be the worse for dying? A man can die but once, you
said just now. I'd die ten times for this."

"You are speaking now either in madness, or else in folly, to startle
me."

"Folly enough, perhaps, and madness enough, also. Such a life as mine
makes a man a fool, and makes him mad too. What have I about me that
I should be afraid to die? I'm worth three hundred thousand pounds;
and I'd give it all to be able to go to work to-morrow with a hod and
mortar, and have a fellow clap his hand upon my shoulder, and say:
'Well, Roger, shall us have that 'ere other half-pint this morning?'
I'll tell you what, Thorne, when a man has made three hundred
thousand pounds, there's nothing left for him but to die. It's all
he's good for then. When money's been made, the next thing is to
spend it. Now the man who makes it has not the heart to do that."

The doctor, of course, in hearing all this, said something of a
tendency to comfort and console the mind of his patient. Not that
anything he could say would comfort or console the man; but that it
was impossible to sit there and hear such fearful truths--for as
regarded Scatcherd they were truths--without making some answer.

"This is as good as a play, isn't, doctor?" said the baronet. "You
didn't know how I could come out like one of those actor fellows.
Well, now, come; at last I'll tell you why I have sent for you.
Before that last burst of mine I made my will."

"You had a will made before that."

"Yes, I had. That will is destroyed. I burnt it with my own hand, so
that there should be no mistake about it. In that will I had named
two executors, you and Jackson. I was then partner with Jackson in
the York and Yeovil Grand Central. I thought a deal of Jackson then.
He's not worth a shilling now."

"Well, I'm exactly in the same category."

"No, you're not. Jackson is nothing without money; but money'll never
make you."

"No, nor I shan't make money," said the doctor.

"No, you never will. Nevertheless, there's my other will, there,
under that desk there; and I've put you in as sole executor."

"You must alter that, Scatcherd; you must indeed; with three hundred
thousand pounds to be disposed of, the trust is far too much for any
one man: besides you must name a younger man; you and I are of the
same age, and I may die the first."

"Now, doctor, doctor, no humbug; let's have no humbug from you.
Remember this; if you're not true, you're nothing."

"Well, but, Scatcherd--"

"Well, but doctor, there's the will, it's already made. I don't want
to consult you about that. You are named as executor, and if you have
the heart to refuse to act when I'm dead, why, of course, you can do
so."

The doctor was no lawyer, and hardly knew whether he had any means
of extricating himself from this position in which his friend was
determined to place him.

"You'll have to see that will carried out, Thorne. Now I'll tell you
what I have done."

"You're not going to tell me how you have disposed of your property?"

"Not exactly; at least not all of it. One hundred thousand I've left
in legacies, including, you know, what Lady Scatcherd will have."

"Have you not left the house to Lady Scatcherd?"

"No; what the devil would she do with a house like this? She doesn't
know how to live in it now she has got it. I have provided for her;
it matters not how. The house and the estate, and the remainder of my
money, I have left to Louis Philippe."

"What! two hundred thousand pounds?" said the doctor.

"And why shouldn't I leave two hundred thousand pounds to my son,
even to my eldest son if I had more than one? Does not Mr Gresham
leave all his property to his heir? Why should not I make an eldest
son as well as Lord de Courcy or the Duke of Omnium? I suppose a
railway contractor ought not to be allowed an eldest son by Act of
Parliament! Won't my son have a title to keep up? And that's more
than the Greshams have among them."

The doctor explained away what he said as well as he could. He could
not explain that what he had really meant was this, that Sir Roger
Scatcherd's son was not a man fit to be trusted with the entire
control of an enormous fortune.

Sir Roger Scatcherd had but one child; that child which had been born
in the days of his early troubles, and had been dismissed from his
mother's breast in order that the mother's milk might nourish the
young heir of Greshamsbury. The boy had grown up, but had become
strong neither in mind nor body. His father had determined to make
a gentleman of him, and had sent to Eton and to Cambridge. But
even this receipt, generally as it is recognised, will not make a
gentleman. It is hard, indeed, to define what receipt will do so,
though people do have in their own minds some certain undefined, but
yet tolerably correct ideas on the subject. Be that as it may, two
years at Eton, and three terms at Cambridge, did not make a gentleman
of Louis Philippe Scatcherd.

Yes; he was christened Louis Philippe, after the King of the French.
If one wishes to look out in the world for royal nomenclature, to
find children who have been christened after kings and queens, or
the uncles and aunts of kings and queens, the search should be made
in the families of democrats. None have so servile a deference for
the very nail-parings of royalty; none feel so wondering an awe at
the exaltation of a crowned head; none are so anxious to secure
themselves some shred or fragment that has been consecrated by the
royal touch. It is the distance which they feel to exist between
themselves and the throne which makes them covet the crumbs of
majesty, the odds and ends and chance splinters of royalty.

There was nothing royal about Louis Philippe Scatcherd but his
name. He had now come to man's estate, and his father, finding the
Cambridge receipt to be inefficacious, had sent him abroad to travel
with a tutor. The doctor had from time to time heard tidings of this
youth; he knew that he had already shown symptoms of his father's
vices, but no symptoms of his father's talents; he knew that he had
begun life by being dissipated, without being generous; and that at
the age of twenty-one he had already suffered from delirium tremens.

It was on this account that he had expressed disapprobation, rather
than surprise, when he heard that his father intended to bequeath
the bulk of his large fortune to the uncontrolled will of this
unfortunate boy.

"I have toiled for my money hard, and I have a right to do as I like
with it. What other satisfaction can it give me?"

The doctor assured him that he did not at all mean to dispute this.

"Louis Philippe will do well enough, you'll find," continued the
baronet, understanding what was passing within his companion's
breast. "Let a young fellow sow his wild oats while he is young, and
he'll be steady enough when he grows old."

"But what if he never lives to get through the sowing?" thought the
doctor to himself. "What if the wild-oats operation is carried on
in so violent a manner as to leave no strength in the soil for the
product of a more valuable crop?" It was of no use saying this,
however, so he allowed Scatcherd to continue.

"If I'd had a free fling when I was a youngster, I shouldn't have
been so fond of the brandy bottle now. But any way, my son shall be
my heir. I've had the gumption to make the money, but I haven't the
gumption to spend it. My son, however, shall be able to ruffle it
with the best of them. I'll go bail he shall hold his head higher
than ever young Gresham will be able to hold his. They are much of
the same age, as well I have cause to remember;--and so has her
ladyship there."

Now the fact was, that Sir Roger Scatcherd felt in his heart no
special love for young Gresham; but with her ladyship it might almost
be a question whether she did not love the youth whom she had nursed
almost as well as that other one who was her own proper offspring.

"And will you not put any check on thoughtless expenditure? If
you live ten or twenty years, as we hope you may, it will become
unnecessary; but in making a will, a man should always remember he
may go off suddenly."

"Especially if he goes to bed with a brandy bottle under his head;
eh, doctor? But, mind, that's a medical secret, you know; not a word
of that out of the bedroom."

Dr Thorne could but sigh. What could he say on such a subject to such
a man as this?

"Yes, I have put a check on his expenditure. I will not let his daily
bread depend on any man; I have therefore left him five hundred a
year at his own disposal, from the day of my death. Let him make what
ducks and drakes of that he can."

"Five hundred a year certainly is not much," said the doctor.

"No; nor do I want to keep him to that. Let him have whatever he
wants if he sets about spending it properly. But the bulk of the
property--this estate of Boxall Hill, and the Greshamsbury mortgage,
and those other mortgages--I have tied up in this way: they shall be
all his at twenty-five; and up to that age it shall be in your power
to give him what he wants. If he shall die without children before
he shall be twenty-five years of age, they are all to go to Mary's
eldest child."

Now Mary was Sir Roger's sister, the mother, therefore, of Miss
Thorne, and, consequently, the wife of the respectable ironmonger who
went to America, and the mother of a family there.

"Mary's eldest child!" said the doctor, feeling that the perspiration
had nearly broken out on his forehead, and that he could hardly
control his feelings. "Mary's eldest child! Scatcherd, you should
be more particular in your description, or you will leave your best
legacy to the lawyers."

"I don't know, and never heard the name of one of them."

"But do you mean a boy or a girl?"

"They may be all girls for what I know, or all boys; besides, I
don't care which it is. A girl would probably do best with it. Only
you'd have to see that she married some decent fellow; you'd be her
guardian."

"Pooh, nonsense," said the doctor. "Louis will be five-and-twenty in
a year or two."

"In about four years."

"And for all that's come and gone yet, Scatcherd, you are not going
to leave us yourself quite so soon as all that."

"Not if I can help it, doctor; but that's as may be."

"The chances are ten to one that such a clause in your will will
never come to bear."

"Quite so, quite so. If I die, Louis Philippe won't; but I thought it
right to put in something to prevent his squandering it all before he
comes to his senses."

"Oh! quite right, quite right. I think I would have named a later age
than twenty-five."

"So would not I. Louis Philippe will be all right by that time.
That's my lookout. And now, doctor, you know my will; and if I die
to-morrow, you will know what I want you to do for me."

"You have merely said the eldest child, Scatcherd?"

"That's all; give it here, and I'll read it to you."

"No, no; never mind. The eldest child! You should be more particular,
Scatcherd; you should, indeed. Consider what an enormous interest may
have to depend on those words."

"Why, what the devil could I say? I don't know their names; never
even heard them. But the eldest is the eldest, all the world over.
Perhaps I ought to say the youngest, seeing that I am only a railway
contractor."

Scatcherd began to think that the doctor might now as well go away
and leave him to the society of Winterbones and the brandy; but, much
as our friend had before expressed himself in a hurry, he now seemed
inclined to move very leisurely. He sat there by the bedside, resting
his hands on his knees and gazing unconsciously at the counterpane.
At last he gave a deep sigh, and then he said, "Scatcherd, you must
be more particular in this. If I am to have anything to do with it,
you must, indeed, be more explicit."

"Why, how the deuce can I be more explicit? Isn't her eldest living
child plain enough, whether he be Jack, or she be Gill?"

"What did your lawyer say to this, Scatcherd?"

"Lawyer! You don't suppose I let my lawyer know what I was putting.
No; I got the form and the paper, and all that from him, and had him
here, in one room, while Winterbones and I did it in another. It's
all right enough. Though Winterbones wrote it, he did it in such a
way he did not know what he was writing."

The doctor sat a while longer, still looking at the counterpane,
and then got up to depart. "I'll see you again soon," said he;
"to-morrow, probably."

"To-morrow!" said Sir Roger, not at all understanding why Dr Thorne
should talk of returning so soon. "To-morrow! why I ain't so bad as
that, man, am I? If you come so often as that you'll ruin me."

"Oh, not as a medical man; not as that; but about this will,
Scatcherd. I must think if over; I must, indeed."

"You need not give yourself the least trouble in the world about my
will till I'm dead; not the least. And who knows--maybe, I may be
settling your affairs yet; eh, doctor? looking after your niece when
you're dead and gone, and getting a husband for her, eh? Ha! ha! ha!"

And then, without further speech, the doctor went his way.




CHAPTER XI

The Doctor Drinks His Tea


The doctor got on his cob and went his way, returning duly to
Greshamsbury. But, in truth, as he went he hardly knew whither he was
going, or what he was doing. Sir Roger had hinted that the cob would
be compelled to make up for lost time by extra exertion on the road;
but the cob had never been permitted to have his own way as to pace
more satisfactorily than on the present occasion. The doctor, indeed,
hardly knew that he was on horseback, so completely was he enveloped
in the cloud of his own thoughts.

In the first place, that alternative which it had become him to put
before the baronet as one unlikely to occur--that of the speedy death
of both father and son--was one which he felt in his heart of hearts
might very probably come to pass.

"The chances are ten to one that such a clause will never be brought
to bear." This he had said partly to himself, so as to ease the
thoughts which came crowding on his brain; partly, also, in pity for
the patient and the father. But now that he thought the matter over,
he felt that there were no such odds. Were not the odds the other
way? Was it not almost probable that both these men might be gathered
to their long account within the next four years? One, the elder, was
a strong man, indeed; one who might yet live for years to come if he
would but give himself fair play. But then, he himself protested,
and protested with a truth too surely grounded, that fair play to
himself was beyond his own power to give. The other, the younger,
had everything against him. Not only was he a poor, puny creature,
without physical strength, one of whose life a friend could never
feel sure under any circumstances, but he also was already addicted
to his father's vices; he also was already killing himself with
alcohol.

And then, if these two men did die within the prescribed period, if
this clause in Sir Roger's will were brought to bear, if it should
become his, Dr Thorne's, duty to see that clause carried out, how
would he be bound to act? That woman's eldest child was his own
niece, his adopted bairn, his darling, the pride of his heart, the
cynosure of his eye, his child also, his own Mary. Of all his duties
on this earth, next to that one great duty to his God and conscience,
was his duty to her. What, under these circumstances, did his duty to
her require of him?

But then, that one great duty, that duty which she would be the first
to expect from him; what did that demand of him? Had Scatcherd made
his will without saying what its clauses were, it seemed to Thorne
that Mary must have been the heiress, should that clause become
necessarily operative. Whether she were so or not would at any rate
be for lawyers to decide. But now the case was very different.
This rich man had confided in him, and would it not be a breach of
confidence, an act of absolute dishonesty--an act of dishonesty both
to Scatcherd and to that far-distant American family, to that father,
who, in former days, had behaved so nobly, and to that eldest child
of his, would it not be gross dishonesty to them all if he allowed
this man to leave a will by which his property might go to a person
never intended to be his heir?

Long before he had arrived at Greshamsbury his mind on this point
had been made up. Indeed, it had been made up while sitting there by
Scatcherd's bedside. It had not been difficult to make up his mind to
so much; but then, his way out of this dishonesty was not so easy for
him to find. How should he set this matter right so as to inflict no
injury on his niece, and no sorrow to himself--if that indeed could
be avoided?

And then other thoughts crowded on his brain. He had always
professed--professed at any rate to himself and to her--that of all
the vile objects of a man's ambition, wealth, wealth merely for its
own sake, was the vilest. They, in their joint school of inherent
philosophy, had progressed to ideas which they might find it not easy
to carry out, should they be called on by events to do so. And if
this would have been difficult to either when acting on behalf of
self alone, how much more difficult when one might have to act for
the other! This difficulty had now come to the uncle. Should he, in
this emergency, take upon himself to fling away the golden chance
which might accrue to his niece if Scatcherd should be encouraged to
make her partly his heir?

"He'd want her to go and live there--to live with him and his wife.
All the money in the Bank of England would not pay her for such
misery," said the doctor to himself, as he slowly rode into his own
yard.

On one point, and one only, had he definitely made up his mind. On
the following day he would go over again to Boxall Hill, and would
tell Scatcherd the whole truth. Come what might, the truth must be
the best. And so, with some gleam of comfort, he went into the house,
and found his niece in the drawing-room with Patience Oriel.

"Mary and I have been quarrelling," said Patience. "She says the
doctor is the greatest man in a village; and I say the parson is, of
course."

"I only say that the doctor is the most looked after," said Mary.
"There's another horrid message for you to go to Silverbridge, uncle.
Why can't that Dr Century manage his own people?"

"She says," continued Miss Oriel, "that if a parson was away for a
month, no one would miss him; but that a doctor is so precious that
his very minutes are counted."

"I am sure uncle's are. They begrudge him his meals. Mr Oriel never
gets called away to Silverbridge."

"No; we in the Church manage our parish arrangements better than you
do. We don't let strange practitioners in among our flocks because
the sheep may chance to fancy them. Our sheep have to put up with our
spiritual doses whether they like them or not. In that respect we are
much the best off. I advise you, Mary, to marry a clergyman, by all
means."

"I will when you marry a doctor," said she.

"I am sure nothing on earth would give me greater pleasure," said
Miss Oriel, getting up and curtseying very low to Dr Thorne; "but I
am not quite prepared for the agitation of an offer this morning, so
I'll run away."

And so she went; and the doctor, getting on his other horse, started
again for Silverbridge, wearily enough. "She's happy now where she
is," said he to himself, as he rode along. "They all treat her there
as an equal at Greshamsbury. What though she be no cousin to the
Thornes of Ullathorne. She has found her place there among them all,
and keeps it on equal terms with the best of them. There is Miss
Oriel; her family is high; she is rich, fashionable, a beauty,
courted by every one; but yet she does not look down on Mary. They
are equal friends together. But how would it be if she were taken to
Boxall Hill, even as a recognised niece of the rich man there? Would
Patience Oriel and Beatrice Gresham go there after her? Could she be
happy there as she is in my house here, poor though it be? It would
kill her to pass a month with Lady Scatcherd and put up with that
man's humours, to see his mode of life, to be dependent on him, to
belong to him." And then the doctor, hurrying on to Silverbridge,
again met Dr Century at the old lady's bedside, and having made his
endeavours to stave off the inexorable coming of the grim visitor,
again returned to his own niece and his own drawing-room.

"You must be dead, uncle," said Mary, as she poured out his tea for
him, and prepared the comforts of that most comfortable meal--tea,
dinner, and supper, all in one. "I wish Silverbridge was fifty miles
off."

"That would only make the journey worse; but I am not dead yet, and,
what is more to the purpose, neither is my patient." And as he spoke
he contrived to swallow a jorum of scalding tea, containing in
measure somewhat near a pint. Mary, not a whit amazed at this feat,
merely refilled the jorum without any observation; and the doctor
went on stirring the mixture with his spoon, evidently oblivious that
any ceremony had been performed by either of them since the first
supply had been administered to him.

When the clatter of knives and forks was over, the doctor turned
himself to the hearthrug, and putting one leg over the other, he
began to nurse it as he looked with complacency at his third cup of
tea, which stood untasted beside him. The fragments of the solid
banquet had been removed, but no sacrilegious hand had been laid on
the teapot and the cream-jug.

"Mary," said he, "suppose you were to find out to-morrow morning
that, by some accident, you had become a great heiress, would you be
able to suppress your exultation?"

"The first thing I'd do, would be to pronounce a positive edict that
you should never go to Silverbridge again; at least without a day's
notice."

"Well, and what next? what would you do next?"

"The next thing--the next thing would be to send to Paris for a
French bonnet exactly like the one Patience Oriel had on. Did you see
it?"

"Well I can't say I did; bonnets are invisible now; besides I never
remark anybody's clothes, except yours."

"Oh! do look at Miss Oriel's bonnet the next time you see her. I
cannot understand why it should be so, but I am sure of this--no
English fingers could put together such a bonnet as that; and I am
nearly sure that no French fingers could do it in England."

"But you don't care so much about bonnets, Mary!" This the doctor
said as an assertion; but there was, nevertheless, somewhat of a
question involved in it.

"Don't I, though?" said she. "I do care very much about bonnets;
especially since I saw Patience this morning. I asked how much it
cost--guess."

"Oh! I don't know--a pound?"

"A pound, uncle!"

"What! a great deal more? Ten pounds?"

"Oh, uncle."

"What! more than ten pounds? Then I don't think even Patience Oriel
ought to give it."

"No, of course she would not; but, uncle, it really cost a hundred
francs!"

"Oh! a hundred francs; that's four pounds, isn't it? Well, and how
much did your last new bonnet cost?"

"Mine! oh, nothing--five and ninepence, perhaps; I trimmed it myself.
If I were left a great fortune, I'd send to Paris to-morrow; no,
I'd go myself to Paris to buy a bonnet, and I'd take you with me to
choose it."

The doctor sat silent for a while meditating about this, during
which he unconsciously absorbed the tea beside him; and Mary again
replenished his cup.

"Come, Mary," said he at last, "I'm in a generous mood; and as I am
rather more rich than usual, we'll send to Paris for a French bonnet.
The going for it must wait a while longer I am afraid."

"You're joking."

"No, indeed. If you know the way to send--that I must confess would
puzzle me; but if you'll manage the sending, I'll manage the paying;
and you shall have a French bonnet."

"Uncle!" said she, looking up at him.

"Oh, I'm not joking; I owe you a present, and I'll give you that."

"And if you do, I'll tell you what I'll do with it. I'll cut it into
fragments, and burn them before your face. Why, uncle, what do you
take me for? You're not a bit nice to-night to make such an offer as
that to me; not a bit, not a bit." And then she came over from her
seat at the tea-tray and sat down on a foot-stool close at his knee.
"Because I'd have a French bonnet if I had a large fortune, is that a
reason why I should like one now? if you were to pay four pounds for
a bonnet for me, it would scorch my head every time I put it on."

"I don't see that: four pounds would not ruin me. However, I don't
think you'd look a bit better if you had it; and, certainly, I should
not like to scorch these locks," and putting his hand upon her
shoulders, he played with her hair.

"Patience has a pony-phaeton, and I'd have one if I were rich; and
I'd have all my books bound as she does; and, perhaps, I'd give fifty
guineas for a dressing-case."

"Fifty guineas!"

"Patience did not tell me; but so Beatrice says. Patience showed it
to me once, and it is a darling. I think I'd have the dressing-case
before the bonnet. But, uncle--"

"Well?"

"You don't suppose I want such things?"

"Not improperly. I am sure you do not."

"Not properly, or improperly; not much, or little. I covet many
things; but nothing of that sort. You know, or should know, that I do
not. Why did you talk of buying a French bonnet for me?"

Dr Thorne did not answer this question, but went on nursing his leg.

"After all," said he, "money is a fine thing."

"Very fine, when it is well come by," she answered; "that is, without
detriment to the heart or soul."

"I should be a happier man if you were provided for as is Miss Oriel.
Suppose, now, I could give you up to a rich man who would be able to
insure you against all wants?"

"Insure me against all wants! Oh, that would be a man. That would be
selling me, wouldn't it, uncle? Yes, selling me; and the price you
would receive would be freedom from future apprehensions as regards
me. It would be a cowardly sale for you to make; and then, as to
me--me the victim. No, uncle; you must bear the misery of having to
provide for me--bonnets and all. We are in the same boat, and you
shan't turn me overboard."

"But if I were to die, what would you do then?"

"And if I were to die, what would you do? People must be bound
together. They must depend on each other. Of course, misfortunes may
come; but it is cowardly to be afraid of them beforehand. You and I
are bound together, uncle; and though you say these things to tease
me, I know you do not wish to get rid of me."

"Well, well; we shall win through, doubtless; if not in one way, then
in another."

"Win through! Of course we shall; who doubts our winning? but,
uncle--"

"But, Mary."

"Well?"

"You haven't got another cup of tea, have you?"

"Oh, uncle! you have had five."

"No, my dear! not five; only four--only four, I assure you; I have
been very particular to count. I had one while I was--"

"Five uncle; indeed and indeed."

"Well, then, as I hate the prejudice which attaches luck to an odd
number, I'll have a sixth to show that I am not superstitious."

While Mary was preparing the sixth jorum, there came a knock at the
door. Those late summonses were hateful to Mary's ear, for they were
usually the forerunners of a midnight ride through the dark lanes to
some farmer's house. The doctor had been in the saddle all day, and,
as Janet brought the note into the room, Mary stood up as though to
defend her uncle from any further invasion on his rest.

"A note from the house, miss," said Janet: now "the house," in
Greshamsbury parlance, always meant the squire's mansion.

"No one ill at the house, I hope," said the doctor, taking the note
from Mary's hand. "Oh--ah--yes; it's from the squire--there's nobody
ill: wait a minute, Janet, and I'll write a line. Mary, lend me your
desk."

The squire, anxious as usual for money, had written to ask what
success the doctor had had in negotiating the new loan with Sir
Roger. The fact, however, was, that in his visit at Boxall Hill, the
doctor had been altogether unable to bring on the carpet the matter
of this loan. Subjects had crowded themselves in too quickly during
that interview--those two interviews at Sir Roger's bedside; and he
had been obliged to leave without even alluding to the question.

"I must at any rate go back now," said he to himself. So he wrote to
the squire, saying that he was to be at Boxall Hill again on the
following day, and that he would call at the house on his return.

"That's settled, at any rate," said he.

"What's settled?" said Mary.

"Why, I must go to Boxall Hill again to-morrow. I must go early, too,
so we'd better both be off to bed. Tell Janet I must breakfast at
half-past seven."

"You couldn't take me, could you? I should so like to see that Sir
Roger."

"To see Sir Roger! Why, he's ill in bed."

"That's an objection, certainly; but some day, when he's well, could
not you take me over? I have the greatest desire to see a man like
that; a man who began with nothing and now has more than enough to
buy the whole parish of Greshamsbury."

"I don't think you'd like him at all."

"Why not? I am sure I should; I am sure I should like him, and Lady
Scatcherd, too. I've heard you say that she is an excellent woman."

"Yes, in her way; and he, too, is good in his way; but they are
neither of them in your way: they are extremely vulgar--"

"Oh! I don't mind that; that would make them more amusing; one
doesn't go to those sort of people for polished manners."

"I don't think you'd find the Scatcherds pleasant acquaintances at
all," said the doctor, taking his bed-candle, and kissing his niece's
forehead as he left the room.




CHAPTER XII

When Greek Meets Greek, Then Comes the Tug of War


The doctor, that is our doctor, had thought nothing more of the
message which had been sent to that other doctor, Dr Fillgrave; nor
in truth did the baronet. Lady Scatcherd had thought of it, but her
husband during the rest of the day was not in a humour which allowed
her to remind him that he would soon have a new physician on his
hands; so she left the difficulty to arrange itself, waiting in some
little trepidation till Dr Fillgrave should show himself.

It was well that Sir Roger was not dying for want of his assistance,
for when the message reached Barchester, Dr Fillgrave was some five
or six miles out of town, at Plumstead; and as he did not get back
till late in the evening, he felt himself necessitated to put off his
visit to Boxall Hill till next morning. Had he chanced to have been
made acquainted with that little conversation about the pump, he
would probably have postponed it even yet a while longer.

He was, however, by no means sorry to be summoned to the bedside of
Sir Roger Scatcherd. It was well known at Barchester, and very well
known to Dr Fillgrave, that Sir Roger and Dr Thorne were old friends.
It was very well known to him also, that Sir Roger, in all his bodily
ailments, had hitherto been contented to entrust his safety to the
skill of his old friend. Sir Roger was in his way a great man, and
much talked of in Barchester, and rumour had already reached the
ears of the Barchester Galen, that the great railway contractor was
ill. When, therefore, he received a peremptory summons to go over to
Boxall Hill, he could not but think that some pure light had broken
in upon Sir Roger's darkness, and taught him at last where to look
for true medical accomplishment.

And then, also, Sir Roger was the richest man in the county, and to
county practitioners a new patient with large means is a godsend; how
much greater a godsend when he be not only acquired, but taken also
from some rival practitioner, need hardly be explained.

Dr Fillgrave, therefore, was somewhat elated when, after a very early
breakfast, he stepped into the post-chaise which was to carry him
to Boxall Hill. Dr Fillgrave's professional advancement had been
sufficient to justify the establishment of a brougham, in which he
paid his ordinary visits round Barchester; but this was a special
occasion, requiring special speed, and about to produce no doubt a
special guerdon, and therefore a pair of post-horses were put into
request.

It was hardly yet nine when the post-boy somewhat loudly rang the
bell at Sir Roger's door; and then Dr Fillgrave, for the first time,
found himself in the new grand hall of Boxall Hill house.

"I'll tell my lady," said the servant, showing him into the grand
dining-room; and there for some fifteen minutes or twenty minutes Dr
Fillgrave walked up and down the length of the Turkey carpet all
alone.

Dr Fillgrave was not a tall man, and was perhaps rather more inclined
to corpulence than became his height. In his stocking-feet, according
to the usually received style of measurement, he was five feet five;
and he had a little round abdominal protuberance, which an inch and a
half added to the heels of his boots hardly enabled him to carry off
as well as he himself would have wished. Of this he was apparently
conscious, and it gave to him an air of not being entirely at his
ease. There was, however, a personal dignity in his demeanour, a
propriety in his gait, and an air of authority in his gestures which
should prohibit one from stigmatizing those efforts at altitude as a
failure. No doubt he did achieve much; but, nevertheless, the effort
would occasionally betray itself, and the story of the frog and the
ox would irresistibly force itself into one's mind at those moments
when it most behoved Dr Fillgrave to be magnificent.

But if the bulgy roundness of his person and the shortness of his
legs in any way detracted from his personal importance, these
trifling defects were, he was well aware, more than atoned for by the
peculiar dignity of his countenance. If his legs were short, his face
was not; if there was any undue preponderance below the waistcoat,
all was in due symmetry above the necktie. His hair was grey, not
grizzled nor white, but properly grey; and stood up straight from off
his temples on each side with an unbending determination of purpose.
His whiskers, which were of an admirable shape, coming down and
turning gracefully at the angle of his jaw, were grey also, but
somewhat darker than his hair. His enemies in Barchester declared
that their perfect shade was produced by a leaden comb. His eyes were
not brilliant, but were very effective, and well under command. He
was rather short-sighted, and a pair of eye-glasses was always on his
nose, or in his hand. His nose was long, and well pronounced, and his
chin, also, was sufficiently prominent; but the great feature of his
face was his mouth. The amount of secret medical knowledge of which
he could give assurance by the pressure of those lips was truly
wonderful. By his lips, also, he could be most exquisitely courteous,
or most sternly forbidding. And not only could he be either the one
or the other; but he could at his will assume any shade of difference
between the two, and produce any mixture of sentiment.

When Dr Fillgrave was first shown into Sir Roger's dining-room, he
walked up and down the room for a while with easy, jaunty step, with
his hands joined together behind his back, calculating the price
of the furniture, and counting the heads which might be adequately
entertained in a room of such noble proportions; but in seven or
eight minutes an air of impatience might have been seen to suffuse
his face. Why could he not be shown into the sick man's room? What
necessity could there be for keeping him there, as though he were
some apothecary with a box of leeches in his pocket? He then rang
the bell, perhaps a little violently. "Does Sir Roger know that I am
here?" he said to the servant. "I'll tell my lady," said the man,
again vanishing.

For five minutes more he walked up and down, calculating no longer
the value of the furniture, but rather that of his own importance.
He was not wont to be kept waiting in this way; and though Sir Roger
Scatcherd was at present a great and rich man, Dr Fillgrave had
remembered him a very small and a very poor man. He now began to
think of Sir Roger as the stone-mason, and to chafe somewhat more
violently at being so kept by such a man.

When one is impatient, five minutes is as the duration of all time,
and a quarter of an hour is eternity. At the end of twenty minutes
the step of Dr Fillgrave up and down the room had become very quick,
and he had just made up his mind that he would not stay there all
day to the serious detriment, perhaps fatal injury, of his other
expectant patients. His hand was again on the bell, and was about to
be used with vigour, when the door opened and Lady Scatcherd entered.

The door opened and Lady Scatcherd entered; but she did so very
slowly, as though she were afraid to come into her own dining-room.
We must go back a little and see how she had been employed during
those twenty minutes.

"Oh, laws!" Such had been her first exclamation on hearing that the
doctor was in the dining-room. She was standing at the time with her
housekeeper in a small room in which she kept her linen and jam,
and in which, in company with the same housekeeper, she spent the
happiest moments of her life.

"Oh laws! now, Hannah, what shall we do?"

"Send 'un up at once to master, my lady! let John take 'un up."

"There'll be such a row in the house, Hannah; I know there will."

"But sure-ly didn't he send for 'un? Let the master have the row
himself, then; that's what I'd do, my lady," added Hannah, seeing
that her ladyship still stood trembling in doubt, biting her
thumb-nail.

"You couldn't go up to the master yourself, could you now, Hannah?"
said Lady Scatcherd in her most persuasive tone.

"Why no," said Hannah, after a little deliberation; "no, I'm afeard I
couldn't."

"Then I must just face it myself." And up went the wife to tell her
lord that the physician for whom he had sent had come to attend his
bidding.

In the interview which then took place the baronet had not indeed
been violent, but he had been very determined. Nothing on earth, he
said, should induce him to see Dr Fillgrave and offend his dear old
friend Dr Thorne.

"But Roger," said her ladyship, half crying, or rather pretending to
cry in her vexation, "what shall I do with the man? How shall I get
him out of the house?"

"Put him under the pump," said the baronet; and he laughed his
peculiar low guttural laugh, which told so plainly of the havoc which
brandy had made in his throat.

"That's nonsense, Roger; you know I can't put him under the pump. Now
you are ill, and you'd better see him just for five minutes. I'll
make it all right with Dr Thorne."

"I'll be d---- if I do, my lady." All the people about Boxall Hill
called poor Lady Scatcherd "my lady" as if there was some excellent
joke in it; and, so, indeed, there was.

"You know you needn't mind nothing he says, nor yet take nothing he
sends: and I'll tell him not to come no more. Now do 'ee see him,
Roger."

But there was no coaxing Roger over now, or indeed ever: he was a
wilful, headstrong, masterful man; a tyrant always though never
a cruel one; and accustomed to rule his wife and household as
despotically as he did his gangs of workmen. Such men it is not easy
to coax over.

"You go down and tell him I don't want him, and won't see him, and
that's an end of it. If he chose to earn his money, why didn't he
come yesterday when he was sent for? I'm well now, and don't want
him; and what's more, I won't have him. Winterbones, lock the door."

So Winterbones, who during this interview had been at work at his
little table, got up to lock the door, and Lady Scatcherd had no
alternative but to pass through it before the last edict was obeyed.

Lady Scatcherd, with slow step, went downstairs and again sought
counsel with Hannah, and the two, putting their heads together,
agreed that the only cure for the present evil was to be found in a
good fee. So Lady Scatcherd, with a five-pound note in her hand, and
trembling in every limb, went forth to encounter the august presence
of Dr Fillgrave.

As the door opened, Dr Fillgrave dropped the bell-rope which was in
his hand, and bowed low to the lady. Those who knew the doctor well,
would have known from his bow that he was not well pleased; it was
as much as though he said, "Lady Scatcherd, I am your most obedient
humble servant; at any rate it appears that it is your pleasure to
treat me as such."

Lady Scatcherd did not understand all this; but she perceived at once
that the man was angry.

"I hope Sir Roger does not find himself worse," said the doctor. "The
morning is getting on; shall I step up and see him?"

"Hem! ha! oh! Why, you see, Dr Fillgrave, Sir Roger finds hisself
vastly better this morning, vastly so."

"I'm very glad to hear it; but as the morning is getting on, shall I
step up to see Sir Roger?"

"Why, Dr Fillgrave, sir, you see, he finds hisself so much hisself
this morning, that he a'most thinks it would be a shame to trouble
you."

"A shame to trouble me!" This was the sort of shame which Dr
Fillgrave did not at all comprehend. "A shame to trouble me! Why Lady
Scatcherd--"

Lady Scatcherd saw that she had nothing for it but to make the whole
matter intelligible. Moreover, seeing that she appreciated more
thoroughly the smallness of Dr Fillgrave's person than she did the
peculiar greatness of his demeanour, she began to be a shade less
afraid of him than she had thought she should have been.

"Yes, Dr Fillgrave; you see, when a man like he gets well, he can't
abide the idea of doctors: now, yesterday, he was all for sending for
you; but to-day he comes to hisself, and don't seem to want no doctor
at all."

Then did Dr Fillgrave seem to grow out of his boots, so suddenly did
he take upon himself sundry modes of expansive attitude;--to grow out
of his boots and to swell upwards, till his angry eyes almost looked
down on Lady Scatcherd, and each erect hair bristled up towards the
heavens.

"This is very singular, very singular, Lady Scatcherd; very singular,
indeed; very singular; quite unusual. I have come here from
Barchester, at some considerable inconvenience, at some very
considerable inconvenience, I may say, to my regular patients;
and--and--and--I don't know that anything so very singular ever
occurred to me before." And then Dr Fillgrave, with a compression of
his lips which almost made the poor woman sink into the ground, moved
towards the door.

Then Lady Scatcherd bethought her of her great panacea. "It isn't
about the money, you know, doctor," said she; "of course Sir Roger
don't expect you to come here with post-horses for nothing." In this,
by the by, Lady Scatcherd did not stick quite close to veracity,
for Sir Roger, had he known it, would by no means have assented to
any payment; and the note which her ladyship held in her hand was
taken from her own private purse. "It ain't at all about the money,
doctor;" and then she tendered the bank-note, which she thought would
immediately make all things smooth.

Now Dr Fillgrave dearly loved a five-pound fee. What physician is so
unnatural as not to love it? He dearly loved a five-pound fee; but he
loved his dignity better. He was angry also; and like all angry men,
he loved his grievance. He felt that he had been badly treated; but
if he took the money he would throw away his right to indulge in any
such feeling. At that moment his outraged dignity and his cherished
anger were worth more than a five-pound note. He looked at it with
wishful but still averted eyes, and then sternly refused the tender.

"No, madam," said he; "no, no;" and with his right hand raised with
his eye-glasses in it, he motioned away the tempting paper. "No; I
should have been happy to have given Sir Roger the benefit of any
medical skill I may have, seeing that I was specially called in--"

"But, doctor; if the man's well, you know--"

"Oh, of course; if he's well, and does not choose to see me, there's
an end of it. Should he have any relapse, as my time is valuable, he
will perhaps oblige me by sending elsewhere. Madam, good morning.
I will, if you will allow me, ring for my carriage--that is,
post-chaise."

"But, doctor, you'll take the money; you must take the money; indeed
you'll take the money," said Lady Scatcherd, who had now become
really unhappy at the idea that her husband's unpardonable whim had
brought this man with post-horses all the way from Barchester, and
that he was to be paid nothing for his time nor costs.

"No, madam, no. I could not think of it. Sir Roger, I have no doubt,
will know better another time. It is not a question of money; not at
all."

"But it is a question of money, doctor; and you really shall, you
must." And poor Lady Scatcherd, in her anxiety to acquit herself at
any rate of any pecuniary debt to the doctor, came to personal close
quarters with him, with the view of forcing the note into his hands.

"Quite impossible, quite impossible," said the doctor, still
cherishing his grievance, and valiantly rejecting the root of all
evil. "I shall not do anything of the kind, Lady Scatcherd."

"Now doctor, do 'ee; to oblige me."

"Quite out of the question." And so, with his hands and hat behind
his back, in token of his utter refusal to accept any pecuniary
accommodation of his injury, he made his way backwards to the door,
her ladyship perseveringly pressing him in front. So eager had been
the attack on him, that he had not waited to give his order about the
post-chaise, but made his way at once towards the hall.

"Now, do 'ee take it, do 'ee," pressed Lady Scatcherd.

"Utterly out of the question," said Dr Fillgrave, with great
deliberation, as he backed his way into the hall. As he did so, of
course he turned round,--and he found himself almost in the arms of
Dr Thorne.

As Burley must have glared at Bothwell when they rushed together in
the dread encounter on the mountain side; as Achilles may have glared
at Hector when at last they met, each resolved to test in fatal
conflict the prowess of the other, so did Dr Fillgrave glare at his
foe from Greshamsbury, when, on turning round on his exalted heel,
he found his nose on a level with the top button of Dr Thorne's
waistcoat.

And here, if it be not too tedious, let us pause a while to
recapitulate and add up the undoubted grievances of the Barchester
practitioner. He had made no effort to ingratiate himself into the
sheepfold of that other shepherd-dog; it was not by his seeking that
he was now at Boxall Hill; much as he hated Dr Thorne, full sure
as he felt of that man's utter ignorance, of his incapacity to
administer properly even a black dose, of his murdering propensities
and his low, mean, unprofessional style of practice; nevertheless, he
had done nothing to undermine him with these Scatcherds. Dr Thorne
might have sent every mother's son at Boxall Hill to his long
account, and Dr Fillgrave would not have interfered;--would not have
interfered unless specially and duly called upon to do so.

But he had been specially and duly called on. Before such a step was
taken some words must undoubtedly have passed on the subject between
Thorne and the Scatcherds. Thorne must have known what was to be
done. Having been so called, Dr Fillgrave had come--had come all the
way in a post-chaise--had been refused admittance to the sick man's
room, on the plea that the sick man was no longer sick; and just as
he was about to retire fee-less--for the want of the fee was not
the less a grievance from the fact of its having been tendered and
refused--fee-less, dishonoured, and in dudgeon, he encountered this
other doctor--this very rival whom he had been sent to supplant; he
encountered him in the very act of going to the sick man's room.

What mad fanatic Burley, what god-succoured insolent Achilles,
ever had such cause to swell with wrath as at that moment had Dr
Fillgrave? Had I the pen of Moliere, I could fitly tell of such
medical anger, but with no other pen can it be fitly told. He did
swell, and when the huge bulk of his wrath was added to his natural
proportions, he loomed gigantic before the eyes of the surrounding
followers of Sir Roger.

Dr Thorne stepped back three steps and took his hat from his head,
having, in the passage from the hall-door to the dining-room,
hitherto omitted to do so. It must be borne in mind that he had no
conception whatever that Sir Roger had declined to see the physician
for whom he had sent; none whatever that the physician was now about
to return, fee-less, to Barchester.

Dr Thorne and Dr Fillgrave were doubtless well-known enemies. All
the world of Barchester, and all that portion of the world of London
which is concerned with the lancet and the scalping-knife, were well
aware of this: they were continually writing against each other;
continually speaking against each other; but yet they had never
hitherto come to that positive personal collision which is held to
justify a cut direct. They very rarely saw each other; and when they
did meet, it was in some casual way in the streets of Barchester or
elsewhere, and on such occasions their habit had been to bow with
very cold propriety.

On the present occasion, Dr Thorne of course felt that Dr Fillgrave
had the whip-hand of him; and, with a sort of manly feeling on
such a point, he conceived it to be most compatible with his own
dignity to show, under such circumstances, more than his usual
courtesy--something, perhaps, amounting almost to cordiality. He
had been supplanted, _quoad_ doctor, in the house of this rich,
eccentric, railway baronet, and he would show that he bore no malice
on that account.

So he smiled blandly as he took off his hat, and in a civil speech he
expressed a hope that Dr Fillgrave had not found his patient to be in
any very unfavourable state.

Here was an aggravation to the already lacerated feelings of the
injured man. He had been brought thither to be scoffed at and scorned
at, that he might be a laughing-stock to his enemies, and food
for mirth to the vile-minded. He swelled with noble anger till he
would have burst, had it not been for the opportune padding of his
frock-coat.

"Sir," said he; "sir:" and he could hardly get his lips open to give
vent to the tumult of his heart. Perhaps he was not wrong; for it may
be that his lips were more eloquent than would have been his words.

"What's the matter?" said Dr Thorne, opening his eyes wide, and
addressing Lady Scatcherd over the head and across the hairs of the
irritated man below him. "What on earth is the matter? Is anything
wrong with Sir Roger?"

"Oh, laws, doctor!" said her ladyship. "Oh, laws; I'm sure it ain't
my fault. Here's Dr Fillgrave in a taking, and I'm quite ready to
pay him,--quite. If a man gets paid, what more can he want?" And she
again held out the five-pound note over Dr Fillgrave's head.

What more, indeed, Lady Scatcherd, can any of us want, if only
we could keep our tempers and feelings a little in abeyance? Dr
Fillgrave, however, could not so keep his; and, therefore, he did
want something more, though at the present moment he could have
hardly said what.

Lady Scatcherd's courage was somewhat resuscitated by the presence of
her ancient trusty ally; and, moreover, she began to conceive that
the little man before her was unreasonable beyond all conscience in
his anger, seeing that that for which he was ready to work had been
offered to him without any work at all.

"Madam," said he, again turning round at Lady Scatcherd, "I was
never before treated in such a way in any house in Barchester--
never--never."

"Good heavens, Dr Fillgrave!" said he of Greshamsbury, "what is the
matter?"

"I'll let you know what is the matter, sir," said he, turning round
again as quickly as before. "I'll let you know what is the matter.
I'll publish this, sir, to the medical world;" and as he shrieked
out the words of the threat, he stood on tiptoes and brandished his
eye-glasses up almost into his enemy's face.

"Don't be angry with Dr Thorne," said Lady Scatcherd. "Any ways, you
needn't be angry with him. If you must be angry with anybody--"

"I shall be angry with him, madam," ejaculated Dr Fillgrave, making
another sudden demi-pirouette. "I am angry with him--or, rather, I
despise him;" and completing the circle, Dr Fillgrave again brought
himself round in full front of his foe.

Dr Thorne raised his eyebrows and looked inquiringly at Lady
Scatcherd; but there was a quiet sarcastic motion round his mouth
which by no means had the effect of throwing oil on the troubled
waters.

"I'll publish the whole of this transaction to the medical world, Dr
Thorne--the whole of it; and if that has not the effect of rescuing
the people of Greshamsbury out of your hands, then--then--then, I
don't know what will. Is my carriage--that is, post-chaise there?"
and Dr Fillgrave, speaking very loudly, turned majestically to one of
the servants.

"What have I done to you, Dr Fillgrave," said Dr Thorne, now
absolutely laughing, "that you should determine to take my bread out
of my mouth? I am not interfering with your patient. I have come here
simply with reference to money matters appertaining to Sir Roger."

"Money matters! Very well--very well; money matters. That is your
idea of medical practice! Very well--very well. Is my post-chaise at
the door? I'll publish it all to the medical world--every word--every
word of it, every word of it."

"Publish what, you unreasonable man?"

"Man! sir; whom do you call a man? I'll let you know whether I'm a
man--post-chaise there!"

"Don't 'ee call him names now, doctor; don't 'ee, pray don't 'ee,"
said Lady Scatcherd.

By this time they had all got somewhere nearer the hall-door; but the
Scatcherd retainers were too fond of the row to absent themselves
willingly at Dr Fillgrave's bidding, and it did not appear that any
one went in search of the post-chaise.

"Man! sir; I'll let you know what it is to speak to me in that style.
I think, sir, you hardly know who I am."

"All that I know of you at present is, that you are my friend Sir
Roger's physician, and I cannot conceive what has occurred to make
you so angry." And as he spoke, Dr Thorne looked carefully at him to
see whether that pump-discipline had in truth been applied. There
were no signs whatever that cold water had been thrown upon Dr
Fillgrave.

"My post-chaise--is my post-chaise there? The medical world shall
know all; you may be sure, sir, the medical world shall know it all;"
and thus, ordering his post-chaise, and threatening Dr Thorne with
the medical world, Dr Fillgrave made his way to the door.

But the moment he put on his hat he returned. "No, madam," said
he. "No; it is quite out of the question: such an affair is not
to be arranged by such means. I'll publish it all to the medical
world--post-chaise there!" and then, using all his force, he flung
as far as he could into the hall a light bit of paper. It fell at Dr
Thorne's feet, who, raising it, found that it was a five-pound note.

"I put it into his hat just while he was in his tantrum," said Lady
Scatcherd. "And I thought that perhaps he would not find it till he
got to Barchester. Well I wish he'd been paid, certainly, although
Sir Roger wouldn't see him;" and in this manner Dr Thorne got some
glimpse of understanding into the cause of the great offence.

"I wonder whether Sir Roger will see _me_," said he, laughing.




CHAPTER XIII

The Two Uncles


"Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Sir Roger, lustily, as Dr Thorne
entered the room. "Well, if that ain't rich, I don't know what is.
Ha! ha! ha! But why did they not put him under the pump, doctor?"

The doctor, however, had too much tact, and too many things of
importance to say, to allow of his giving up much time to the
discussion of Dr Fillgrave's wrath. He had come determined to open
the baronet's eyes as to what would be the real effect of his will,
and he had also to negotiate a loan for Mr Gresham, if that might be
possible. Dr Thorne therefore began about the loan, that being the
easier subject, and found that Sir Roger was quite clear-headed as to
his money concerns, in spite of his illness. Sir Roger was willing
enough to lend Mr Gresham more money--six, eight, ten, twenty
thousand; but then, in doing so, he should insist on obtaining
possession of the title-deeds.

"What! the title-deeds of Greshamsbury for a few thousand pounds?"
said the doctor.

"I don't know whether you call ninety thousand pounds a few
thousands; but the debt will about amount to that."

"Ah! that's the old debt."

"Old and new together, of course; every shilling I lend more weakens
my security for what I have lent before."

"But you have the first claim, Sir Roger."

"It ought to be first and last to cover such a debt as that. If he
wants further accommodation, he must part with his deeds, doctor."

The point was argued backwards and forwards for some time without
avail, and the doctor then thought it well to introduce the other
subject.

"Well, Sir Roger, you're a hard man."

"No I ain't," said Sir Roger; "not a bit hard; that is, not a bit too
hard. Money is always hard. I know I found it hard to come by; and
there is no reason why Squire Gresham should expect to find me so
very soft."

"Very well; there is an end of that. I thought you would have done as
much to oblige me, that is all."

"What! take bad security to oblige you?"

"Well, there's an end of that."

"I'll tell you what; I'll do as much to oblige a friend as any one.
I'll lend you five thousand pounds, you yourself, without security at
all, if you want it."

"But you know I don't want it; or, at any rate, shan't take it."

"But to ask me to go on lending money to a third party, and he over
head and ears in debt, by way of obliging you, why, it's a little too
much."

"Well, there's an end of it. Now I've something to say to you about
that will of yours."

"Oh! that's settled."

"No, Scatcherd; it isn't settled. It must be a great deal more
settled before we have done with it, as you'll find when you hear
what I have to tell you."

"What you have to tell me!" said Sir Roger, sitting up in bed; "and
what have you to tell me?"

"Your will says your sister's eldest child."

"Yes; but that's only in the event of Louis Philippe dying before he
is twenty-five."

"Exactly; and now I know something about your sister's eldest child,
and, therefore, I have come to tell you."

"You know something about Mary's eldest child?"

"I do, Scatcherd; it is a strange story, and maybe it will make you
angry. I cannot help it if it does so. I should not tell you this if
I could avoid it; but as I do tell you, for your sake, as you will
see, and not for my own, I must implore you not to tell my secret to
others."

Sir Roger now looked at him with an altered countenance. There was
something in his voice of the authoritative tone of other days,
something in the doctor's look which had on the baronet the same
effect which in former days it had sometimes had on the stone-mason.

"Can you give me a promise, Scatcherd, that what I am about to tell
you shall not be repeated?"

"A promise! Well, I don't know what it's about, you know. I don't
like promises in the dark."

"Then I must leave it to your honour; for what I have to say must be
said. You remember my brother, Scatcherd?"

Remember his brother! thought the rich man to himself. The name of
the doctor's brother had not been alluded to between them since the
days of that trial; but still it was impossible but that Scatcherd
should well remember him.

"Yes, yes; certainly. I remember your brother," said he. "I remember
him well; there's no doubt about that."

"Well, Scatcherd," and, as he spoke, the doctor laid his hand with
kindness on the other's arm. "Mary's eldest child was my brother's
child as well.

"But there is no such child living," said Sir Roger; and, in his
violence, as he spoke he threw from off him the bedclothes, and tried
to stand upon the floor. He found, however, that he had no strength
for such an effort, and was obliged to remain leaning on the bed and
resting on the doctor's arm.

"There was no such child ever lived," said he. "What do you mean by
this?"

Dr Thorne would say nothing further till he had got the man into bed
again. This he at last effected, and then he went on with the story
in his own way.

"Yes, Scatcherd, that child is alive; and for fear that you should
unintentionally make her your heir, I have thought it right to tell
you this."

"A girl, is it?"

"Yes, a girl."

"And why should you want to spite her? If she is Mary's child, she is
your brother's child also. If she is my niece, she must be your niece
too. Why should you want to spite her? Why should you try to do her
such a terrible injury?"

"I do not want to spite her."

"Where is she? Who is she? What is she called? Where does she live?"

The doctor did not at once answer all these questions. He had made
up his mind that he would tell Sir Roger that this child was living,
but he had not as yet resolved to make known all the circumstances
of her history. He was not even yet quite aware whether it would be
necessary to say that this foundling orphan was the cherished darling
of his own house.

"Such a child, is, at any rate, living," said he; "of that I give
you my assurance; and under your will, as now worded, it might come
to pass that that child should be your heir. I do not want to spite
her, but I should be wrong to let you make your will without such
knowledge, seeing that I am possessed of it myself."

"But where is the girl?"

"I do not know that that signifies."

"Signifies! Yes; it does signify a great deal. But, Thorne, Thorne,
now that I remember it, now that I can think of things, it was--was
it not you yourself who told me that the baby did not live?"

"Very possibly."

"And was it a lie that you told me?"

"If so, yes. But it is no lie that I tell you now."

"I believed you then, Thorne; then, when I was a poor, broken-down
day-labourer, lying in jail, rotting there; but I tell you fairly, I
do not believe you now. You have some scheme in this."

"Whatever scheme I may have, you can frustrate by making another
will. What can I gain by telling you this? I only do so to induce you
to be more explicit in naming your heir."

They both remained silent for a while, during which the baronet
poured out from his hidden resource a glass of brandy and swallowed
it.

"When a man is taken aback suddenly by such tidings as these, he must
take a drop of something, eh, doctor?"

Dr Thorne did not see the necessity; but the present, he felt, was no
time for arguing the point.

"Come, Thorne, where is the girl? You must tell me that. She is my
niece, and I have a right to know. She shall come here, and I will do
something for her. By the Lord! I would as soon she had the money as
any one else, if she is anything of a good 'un;--some of it, that is.
Is she a good 'un?"

"Good!" said the doctor, turning away his face. "Yes; she is good
enough."

"She must be grown up by now. None of your light skirts, eh?"

"She is a good girl," said the doctor somewhat loudly and sternly. He
could hardly trust himself to say much on this point.

"Mary was a good girl, a very good girl, till"--and Sir Roger raised
himself up in his bed with his fist clenched, as though he were again
about to strike that fatal blow at the farm-yard gate. "But come,
it's no good thinking of that; you behaved well and manly, always.
And so poor Mary's child is alive; at least, you say so."

"I say so, and you may believe it. Why should I deceive you?"

"No, no; I don't see why. But then why did you deceive me before?"

To this the doctor chose to make no answer, and again there was
silence for a while.

"What do you call her, doctor?"

"Her name is Mary."

"The prettiest women's name going; there's no name like it," said the
contractor, with an unusual tenderness in his voice. "Mary--yes; but
Mary what? What other name does she go by?"

Here the doctor hesitated.

"Mary Scatcherd--eh?"

"No. Not Mary Scatcherd."

"Not Mary Scatcherd! Mary what, then? You, with your d---- pride,
wouldn't let her be called Mary Thorne, I know."

This was too much for the doctor. He felt that there were tears in
his eyes, so he walked away to the window to dry them, unseen. Had he
had fifty names, each more sacred than the other, the most sacred of
them all would hardly have been good enough for her.

"Mary what, doctor? Come, if the girl is to belong to me, if I am to
provide for her, I must know what to call her, and where to look for
her."

"Who talked of your providing for her?" said the doctor, turning
round at the rival uncle. "Who said that she was to belong to you?
She will be no burden to you; you are only told of this that you
may not leave your money to her without knowing it. She is provided
for--that is, she wants nothing; she will do well enough; you need
not trouble yourself about her."

"But if she's Mary's child, Mary's child in real truth, I will
trouble myself about her. Who else should do so? For the matter of
that, I'd as soon say her as any of those others in America. What do
I care about blood? I shan't mind her being a bastard. That is to
say, of course, if she's decently good. Did she ever get any kind of
teaching; book-learning, or anything of that sort?"

Dr Thorne at this moment hated his friend the baronet with almost a
deadly hatred; that he, rough brute as he was--for he was a rough
brute--that he should speak in such language of the angel who gave to
that home in Greshamsbury so many of the joys of Paradise--that he
should speak of her as in some degree his own, that he should inquire
doubtingly as to her attributes and her virtues. And then the doctor
thought of her Italian and French readings, of her music, of her nice
books, and sweet lady ways, of her happy companionship with Patience
Oriel, and her dear, bosom friendship with Beatrice Gresham. He
thought of her grace, and winning manners, and soft, polished
feminine beauty; and, as he did so, he hated Sir Roger Scatcherd, and
regarded him with loathing, as he might have regarded a wallowing
hog.

At last a light seemed to break in upon Sir Roger's mind. Dr Thorne,
he perceived, did not answer his last question. He perceived, also,
that the doctor was affected with some more than ordinary emotion.
Why should it be that this subject of Mary Scatcherd's child moved
him so deeply? Sir Roger had never been at the doctor's house at
Greshamsbury, had never seen Mary Thorne, but he had heard that
there lived with the doctor some young female relative; and thus a
glimmering light seemed to come in upon Sir Roger's bed.

He had twitted the doctor with his pride; had said that it was
impossible that the girl should be called Mary Thorne. What if she
were so called? What if she were now warming herself at the doctor's
hearth?

"Well, come, Thorne, what is it you call her? Tell it out, man. And,
look you, if it's your name she bears, I shall think more of you, a
deal more than ever I did yet. Come, Thorne, I'm her uncle too. I
have a right to know. She is Mary Thorne, isn't she?"

The doctor had not the hardihood nor the resolution to deny it.
"Yes," said he, "that is her name; she lives with me."

"Yes, and lives with all those grand folks at Greshamsbury too. I
have heard of that."

"She lives with me, and belongs to me, and is as my daughter."

"She shall come over here. Lady Scatcherd shall have her to stay with
her. She shall come to us. And as for my will, I'll make another.
I'll--"

"Yes, make another will--or else alter that one. But as to Miss
Thorne coming here--"

"What! Mary--"

"Well, Mary. As to Mary Thorne coming here, that I fear will not be
possible. She cannot have two homes. She has cast her lot with one of
her uncles, and she must remain with him now."

"Do you mean to say that she must never have any relation but one?"

"But one such as I am. She would not be happy over here. She does not
like new faces. You have enough depending on you; I have but her."

"Enough! why, I have only Louis Philippe. I could provide for a dozen
girls."

"Well, well, well, we will not talk about that."

"Ah! but, Thorne, you have told me of this girl now, and I cannot but
talk of her. If you wished to keep the matter dark, you should have
said nothing about it. She is my niece as much as yours. And, Thorne,
I loved my sister Mary quite as well as you loved your brother; quite
as well."

Any one who might now have heard and seen the contractor would have
hardly thought him to be the same man who, a few hours before, was
urging that the Barchester physician should be put under the pump.

"You have your son, Scatcherd. I have no one but that girl."

"I don't want to take her from you. I don't want to take her; but
surely there can be no harm in her coming here to see us? I can
provide for her, Thorne, remember that. I can provide for her without
reference to Louis Philippe. What are ten or fifteen thousand pounds
to me? Remember that, Thorne."

Dr Thorne did remember it. In that interview he remembered many
things, and much passed through his mind on which he felt himself
compelled to resolve somewhat too suddenly. Would he be justified
in rejecting, on behalf of Mary, the offer of pecuniary provision
which this rich relative seemed so well inclined to make? Or, if he
accepted it, would he in truth be studying her interests? Scatcherd
was a self-willed, obstinate man--now indeed touched by unwonted
tenderness; but he was one to whose lasting tenderness Dr Thorne
would be very unwilling to trust his darling. He did resolve, that on
the whole he should best discharge his duty, even to her, by keeping
her to himself, and rejecting, on her behalf, any participation in
the baronet's wealth. As Mary herself had said, "some people must
be bound together;" and their destiny, that of himself and his
niece, seemed to have so bound them. She had found her place at
Greshamsbury, her place in the world; and it would be better for
her now to keep it, than to go forth and seek another that would be
richer, but at the same time less suited to her.

"No, Scatcherd," he said at last, "she cannot come here; she would
not be happy here, and, to tell the truth, I do not wish her to know
that she has other relatives."

"Ah! she would be ashamed of her mother, you mean, and of her
mother's brother too, eh? She's too fine a lady, I suppose, to take
me by the hand and give me a kiss, and call me her uncle? I and Lady
Scatcherd would not be grand enough for her, eh?"

"You may say what you please, Scatcherd: I of course cannot stop
you."

"But I don't know how you'll reconcile what you are doing to your
conscience. What right can you have to throw away the girl's chance,
now that she has a chance? What fortune can you give her?"

"I have done what little I could," said Thorne, proudly.

"Well, well, well, well, I never heard such a thing in my life;
never. Mary's child, my own Mary's child, and I'm not to see her!
But, Thorne, I tell you what; I will see her. I'll go over to her,
I'll go to Greshamsbury, and tell her who I am, and what I can do
for her. I tell you fairly I will. You shall not keep her away from
those who belong to her, and can do her a good turn. Mary's daughter;
another Mary Scatcherd! I almost wish she were called Mary Scatcherd.
Is she like her, Thorne? Come, tell me that, is she like her mother."

"I do not remember her mother; at least not in health."

"Not remember her! ah, well. She was the handsomest girl in
Barchester, anyhow. That was given up to her. Well, I didn't think to
be talking of her again. Thorne, you cannot but expect that I shall
go over and see Mary's child?"

"Now, Scatcherd, look here," and the doctor, coming away from the
window, where he had been standing, sat himself down by the bedside,
"you must not come over to Greshamsbury."

"Oh! but I shall."

"Listen to me, Scatcherd. I do not want to praise myself in any way;
but when that girl was an infant, six months old, she was like to be
a thorough obstacle to her mother's fortune in life. Tomlinson was
willing to marry your sister, but he would not marry the child too.
Then I took the baby, and I promised her mother that I would be to
her as a father. I have kept my word as fairly as I have been able.
She has sat at my hearth, and drunk of my cup, and been to me as my
own child. After that, I have a right to judge what is best for her.
Her life is not like your life, and her ways are not as your ways--"

"Ah, that is just it; we are too vulgar for her."

"You may take it as you will," said the doctor, who was too much in
earnest to be in the least afraid of offending his companion. "I have
not said so; but I do say that you and she are unlike in your way of
living."

"She wouldn't like an uncle with a brandy bottle under his head, eh?"

"You could not see her without letting her know what is the connexion
between you; of that I wish to keep her in ignorance."

"I never knew any one yet who was ashamed of a rich connexion. How do
you mean to get a husband for her, eh?"

"I have told you of her existence," continued the doctor, not
appearing to notice what the baronet had last said, "because I found
it necessary that you should know the fact of your sister having left
this child behind her; you would otherwise have made a will different
from that intended, and there might have been a lawsuit, and mischief
and misery when we are gone. You must perceive that I have done this
in honesty to you; and you yourself are too honest to repay me by
taking advantage of this knowledge to make me unhappy."

"Oh, very well, doctor. At any rate, you are a brick, I will say
that. But I'll think of all this, I'll think of it; but it does
startle me to find that poor Mary has a child living so near to me."

"And now, Scatcherd, I will say good-bye. We part as friends, don't
we?"

"Oh, but doctor, you ain't going to leave me so. What am I to do?
What doses shall I take? How much brandy may I drink? May I have a
grill for dinner? D---- me, doctor, you have turned Fillgrave out of
the house. You mustn't go and desert me."

Dr Thorne laughed, and then, sitting himself down to write medically,
gave such prescriptions and ordinances as he found to be necessary.
They amounted but to this: that the man was to drink, if possible, no
brandy; and if that were not possible, then as little as might be.

This having been done, the doctor again proceeded to take his leave;
but when he got to the door he was called back. "Thorne! Thorne!
About that money for Mr Gresham; do what you like, do just what
you like. Ten thousand, is it? Well, he shall have it. I'll make
Winterbones write about it at once. Five per cent., isn't it? No,
four and a half. Well, he shall have ten thousand more."

"Thank you, Scatcherd, thank you, I am really very much obliged to
you, I am indeed. I wouldn't ask it if I was not sure your money is
safe. Good-bye, old fellow, and get rid of that bedfellow of yours,"
and again he was at the door.

"Thorne," said Sir Roger once more. "Thorne, just come back for a
minute. You wouldn't let me send a present would you,--fifty pounds
or so,--just to buy a few flounces?"

The doctor contrived to escape without giving a definite answer
to this question; and then, having paid his compliments to Lady
Scatcherd, remounted his cob and rode back to Greshamsbury.




CHAPTER XIV

Sentence of Exile


Dr Thorne did not at once go home to his own house. When he reached
the Greshamsbury gates, he sent his horse to its own stable by one of
the people at the lodge, and then walked on to the mansion. He had
to see the squire on the subject of the forthcoming loan, and he had
also to see Lady Arabella.

The Lady Arabella, though she was not personally attached to the
doctor with quite so much warmth as some others of her family, still
had reasons of her own for not dispensing with his visits to the
house. She was one of his patients, and a patient fearful of the
disease with which she was threatened. Though she thought the doctor
to be arrogant, deficient as to properly submissive demeanour
towards herself, an instigator to marital parsimony in her lord,
one altogether opposed to herself and her interest in Greshamsbury
politics, nevertheless, she did feel trust in him as a medical man.
She had no wish to be rescued out of his hands by any Dr Fillgrave,
as regarded that complaint of hers, much as she may have desired,
and did desire, to sever him from all Greshamsbury councils in all
matters not touching the healing art.

Now the complaint of which the Lady Arabella was afraid, was cancer:
and her only present confidant in this matter was Dr Thorne.

The first of the Greshamsbury circle whom he saw was Beatrice, and he
met her in the garden.

"Oh, doctor," said she, "where has Mary been this age? She has not
been up here since Frank's birthday."

"Well, that was only three days ago. Why don't you go down and ferret
her out in the village?"

"So I have done. I was there just now, and found her out. She was out
with Patience Oriel. Patience is all and all with her now. Patience
is all very well, but if they throw me over--"

"My dear Miss Gresham, Patience is and always was a virtue."

"A poor, beggarly, sneaking virtue after all, doctor. They should
have come up, seeing how deserted I am here. There's absolutely
nobody left."

"Has Lady de Courcy gone?"

"Oh, yes! All the de Courcys have gone. I think, between ourselves,
Mary stays away because she does not love them too well. They have
all gone, and taken Augusta and Frank with them."

"Has Frank gone to Courcy Castle?"

"Oh, yes; did you not hear? There was rather a fight about it. Master
Frank wanted to get off, and was as hard to catch as an eel, and then
the countess was offended; and papa said he didn't see why Frank was
to go if he didn't like it. Papa is very anxious about his degree,
you know."

The doctor understood it all as well as though it had been described
to him at full length. The countess had claimed her prey, in order
that she might carry him off to Miss Dunstable's golden embrace. The
prey, not yet old enough and wise enough to connect the worship of
Plutus with that of Venus, had made sundry futile feints and dodges
in the vain hope of escape. Then the anxious mother had enforced the
de Courcy behests with all a mother's authority. But the father,
whose ideas on the subject of Miss Dunstable's wealth had probably
not been consulted, had, as a matter of course, taken exactly the
other side of the question. The doctor did not require to be told all
this in order to know how the battle had raged. He had not yet heard
of the great Dunstable scheme; but he was sufficiently acquainted
with Greshamsbury tactics to understand that the war had been carried
on somewhat after this fashion.

As a rule, when the squire took a point warmly to heart, he was
wont to carry his way against the de Courcy interest. He could be
obstinate enough when it so pleased him, and had before now gone so
far as to tell his wife, that her thrice-noble sister-in-law might
remain at home at Courcy Castle--or, at any rate, not come to
Greshamsbury--if she could not do so without striving to rule him and
every one else when she got here. This had of course been repeated to
the countess, who had merely replied to it by a sisterly whisper, in
which she sorrowfully intimated that some men were born brutes, and
always would remain so.

"I think they all are," the Lady Arabella had replied; wishing,
perhaps, to remind her sister-in-law that the breed of brutes was as
rampant in West Barsetshire as in the eastern division of the county.

The squire, however, had not fought on this occasion with all his
vigour. There had, of course, been some passages between him and his
son, and it had been agreed that Frank should go for a fortnight to
Courcy Castle.

"We mustn't quarrel with them, you know, if we can help it," said the
father; "and, therefore, you must go sooner or later."

"Well, I suppose so; but you don't know how dull it is, governor."

"Don't I!" said Gresham.

"There's a Miss Dunstable to be there; did you ever hear of her,
sir?"

"No, never."

"She's a girl whose father used to make ointment, or something of
that sort."

"Oh, yes, to be sure; the ointment of Lebanon. He used to cover all
the walls in London. I haven't heard of him this year past."

"No; that's because he's dead. Well, she carries on the ointment now,
I believe; at any rate, she has got all the money. I wonder what
she's like."

"You'd better go and see," said the father, who now began to have
some inkling of an idea why the two ladies were so anxious to carry
his son off to Courcy Castle at this exact time. And so Frank had
packed up his best clothes, given a last fond look at the new black
horse, repeated his last special injunctions to Peter, and had then
made one of the stately _cortège_ which proceeded through the county
from Greshamsbury to Courcy Castle.

"I am very glad of that, very," said the squire, when he heard that
the money was to be forthcoming. "I shall get it on easier terms from
him than elsewhere; and it kills me to have continual bother about
such things." And Mr Gresham, feeling that that difficulty was tided
over for a time, and that the immediate pressure of little debts
would be abated, stretched himself on his easy chair as though he
were quite comfortable;--one may say almost elated.

How frequent it is that men on their road to ruin feel elation such
as this! A man signs away a moiety of his substance; nay, that were
nothing; but a moiety of the substance of his children; he puts
his pen to the paper that ruins him and them; but in doing so he
frees himself from a score of immediate little pestering, stinging
troubles: and, therefore, feels as though fortune has been almost
kind to him.

The doctor felt angry with himself for what he had done when he saw
how easily the squire adapted himself to this new loan. "It will make
Scatcherd's claim upon you very heavy," said he.

Mr Gresham at once read all that was passing through the doctor's
mind. "Well, what else can I do?" said he. "You wouldn't have me
allow my daughter to lose this match for the sake of a few thousand
pounds? It will be well at any rate to have one of them settled. Look
at that letter from Moffat."

The doctor took the letter and read it. It was a long, wordy,
ill-written rigmarole, in which that amorous gentleman spoke with
much rapture of his love and devotion for Miss Gresham; but at the
same time declared, and most positively swore, that the adverse
cruelty of his circumstances was such, that it would not allow him to
stand up like a man at the hymeneal altar until six thousand pounds
hard cash had been paid down at his banker's.

"It may be all right," said the squire; "but in my time gentlemen
were not used to write such letters as that to each other."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He did not know how far he would
be justified in saying much, even to his friend the squire, in
dispraise of his future son-in-law.

"I told him that he should have the money; and one would have thought
that that would have been enough for him. Well: I suppose Augusta
likes him. I suppose she wishes the match; otherwise, I would give
him such an answer to that letter as would startle him a little."

"What settlement is he to make?" said Thorne.

"Oh, that's satisfactory enough; couldn't be more so; a thousand a
year and the house at Wimbledon for her; that's all very well. But
such a lie, you know, Thorne. He's rolling in money, and yet he talks
of this beggarly sum as though he couldn't possibly stir without it."

"If I might venture to speak my mind," said Thorne.

"Well?" said the squire, looking at him earnestly.

"I should be inclined to say that Mr Moffat wants to cry off,
himself."

"Oh, impossible; quite impossible. In the first place, he was so very
anxious for the match. In the next place, it is such a great thing
for him. And then, he would never dare; you see, he is dependent on
the de Courcys for his seat."

"But suppose he loses his seat?"

"But there is not much fear of that, I think. Scatcherd may be a very
fine fellow, but I think they'll hardly return him at Barchester."

"I don't understand much about it," said Thorne; "but such things do
happen."

"And you believe that this man absolutely wants to get off the match;
absolutely thinks of playing such a trick as that on my daughter;--on
me?"

"I don't say he intends to do it; but it looks to me as though he
were making a door for himself, or trying to make a door: if so, your
having the money will stop him there."

"But, Thorne, don't you think he loves the girl? If I thought not--"

The doctor stood silent for a moment, and then he said, "I am not a
love-making man myself, but I think that if I were much in love with
a young lady I should not write such a letter as that to her father."

"By heavens! If I thought so," said the squire--"but, Thorne, we
can't judge of those fellows as one does of gentlemen; they are so
used to making money, and seeing money made, that they have an eye to
business in everything."

"Perhaps so, perhaps so," muttered the doctor, showing evidently that
he still doubted the warmth of Mr Moffat's affection.

"The match was none of my making, and I cannot interfere now to break
it off: it will give her a good position in the world; for, after
all, money goes a great way, and it is something to be in Parliament.
I can only hope she likes him. I do truly hope she likes him;" and
the squire also showed by the tone of his voice that, though he might
hope that his daughter was in love with her intended husband, he
hardly conceived it to be possible that she should be so.

And what was the truth of the matter? Miss Gresham was no more in
love with Mr Moffat than you are--oh, sweet, young, blooming beauty!
Not a whit more; not, at least, in your sense of the word, nor in
mine. She had by no means resolved within her heart that of all the
men whom she had ever seen, or ever could see, he was far away the
nicest and best. That is what you will do when you are in love, if
you be good for anything. She had no longing to sit near to him--the
nearer the better; she had no thought of his taste and his choice
when she bought her ribbons and bonnets; she had no indescribable
desire that all her female friends should be ever talking to her
about him. When she wrote to him, she did not copy her letters again
and again, so that she might be, as it were, ever speaking to him;
she took no special pride in herself because he had chosen her to
be his life's partner. In point of fact, she did not care one straw
about him.

And yet she thought she loved him; was, indeed, quite confident
that she did so; told her mother that she was sure Gustavus would
wish this, she knew Gustavus would like that, and so on; but as for
Gustavus himself, she did not care a chip for him.

She was in love with her match just as farmers are in love with
wheat at eighty shillings a quarter; or shareholders--innocent
gudgeons--with seven and half per cent. interest on their paid-up
capital. Eighty shillings a quarter, and seven and half per cent.
interest, such were the returns which she had been taught to look
for in exchange for her young heart; and, having obtained them, or
being thus about to obtain them, why should not her young heart be
satisfied? Had she not sat herself down obediently at the feet of her
lady Gamaliel, and should she not be rewarded? Yes, indeed, she shall
be rewarded.

And then the doctor went to the lady. On their medical secrets we
will not intrude; but there were other matters bearing on the course
of our narrative, as to which Lady Arabella found it necessary to say
a word or so to the doctor; and it is essential that we should know
what was the tenor of those few words so spoken.

How the aspirations, and instincts, and feelings of a household
become changed as the young birds begin to flutter with feathered
wings, and have half-formed thoughts of leaving the parental nest! A
few months back, Frank had reigned almost autocratic over the lesser
subjects of the kingdom of Greshamsbury. The servants, for instance,
always obeyed him, and his sisters never dreamed of telling anything
which he directed should not be told. All his mischief, all his
troubles, and all his loves were confided to them, with the sure
conviction that they would never be made to stand in evidence against
him.

Trusting to this well-ascertained state of things, he had not
hesitated to declare his love for Miss Thorne before his sister
Augusta. But his sister Augusta had now, as it were, been received
into the upper house; having duly received, and duly profited by the
lessons of her great instructress, she was now admitted to sit in
conclave with the higher powers: her sympathies, of course, became
changed, and her confidence was removed from the young and giddy
and given to the ancient and discreet. She was as a schoolboy, who,
having finished his schooling, and being fairly forced by necessity
into the stern bread-earning world, undertakes the new duties of
tutoring. Yesterday he was taught, and fought, of course, against the
schoolmaster; to-day he teaches, and fights as keenly for him. So
it was with Augusta Gresham, when, with careful brow, she whispered
to her mother that there was something wrong between Frank and Mary
Thorne.

"Stop it at once, Arabella: stop it at once," the countess had said;
"that, indeed, will be ruin. If he does not marry money, he is lost.
Good heavens! the doctor's niece! A girl that nobody knows where she
comes from!"

"He's going with you to-morrow, you know," said the anxious mother.

"Yes; and that is so far well: if he will be led by me, the evil
may be remedied before he returns; but it is very, very hard to
lead young men. Arabella, you must forbid that girl to come to
Greshamsbury again on any pretext whatever. The evil must be stopped
at once."

"But she is here so much as a matter of course."

"Then she must be here as a matter of course no more: there has been
folly, very great folly, in having her here. Of course she would turn
out to be a designing creature with such temptation before her; with
such a prize within her reach, how could she help it?"

"I must say, aunt, she answered him very properly," said Augusta.

"Nonsense," said the countess; "before you, of course she did.
Arabella, the matter must not be left to the girl's propriety. I
never knew the propriety of a girl of that sort to be fit to be
depended upon yet. If you wish to save the whole family from ruin,
you must take steps to keep her away from Greshamsbury now at once.
Now is the time; now that Frank is to be away. Where so much, so very
much depends on a young man's marrying money, not one day ought to be
lost."

Instigated in this manner, Lady Arabella resolved to open her mind
to the doctor, and to make it intelligible to him that, under
present circumstances, Mary's visits at Greshamsbury had better be
discontinued. She would have given much, however, to have escaped
this business. She had in her time tried one or two falls with the
doctor, and she was conscious that she had never yet got the better
of him: and then she was in a slight degree afraid of Mary herself.
She had a presentiment that it would not be so easy to banish Mary
from Greshamsbury: she was not sure that that young lady would not
boldly assert her right to her place in the school-room; appeal
loudly to the squire, and perhaps, declare her determination of
marrying the heir, out before them all. The squire would be sure to
uphold her in that, or in anything else.

And then, too, there would be the greatest difficulty in wording her
request to the doctor; and Lady Arabella was sufficiently conscious
of her own weakness to know that she was not always very good at
words. But the doctor, when hard pressed, was never at fault: he
could say the bitterest things in the quietest tone, and Lady
Arabella had a great dread of these bitter things. What, also, if he
should desert her himself; withdraw from her his skill and knowledge
of her bodily wants and ailments now that he was so necessary to her?
She had once before taken that measure of sending to Barchester for
Dr Fillgrave, but it had answered with her hardly better than with
Sir Roger and Lady Scatcherd.

When, therefore, Lady Arabella found herself alone with the doctor,
and called upon to say out her say in what best language she could
select for the occasion, she did not feel to be very much at her ease.
There was that about the man before her which cowed her, in spite of
her being the wife of the squire, the sister of an earl, a person
quite acknowledged to be of the great world, and the mother of the
very important young man whose affections were now about to be called
in question. Nevertheless, there was the task to be done, and with a
mother's courage she essayed it.

"Dr Thorne," said she, as soon as their medical conference was at
an end, "I am very glad you came over to-day, for I had something
special which I wanted to say to you:" so far she got, and then
stopped; but, as the doctor did not seem inclined to give her any
assistance, she was forced to flounder on as best she could.

"Something very particular indeed. You know what a respect and
esteem, and I may say affection, we all have for you,"--here the
doctor made a low bow--"and I may say for Mary also;" here the
doctor bowed himself again. "We have done what little we could to be
pleasant neighbours, and I think you'll believe me when I say that I
am a true friend to you and dear Mary--"

The doctor knew that something very unpleasant was coming, but he
could not at all guess what might be its nature. He felt, however,
that he must say something; so he expressed a hope that he was duly
sensible of all the acts of kindness he had ever received from the
squire and the family at large.

"I hope, therefore, my dear doctor, you won't take amiss what I am
going to say."

"Well, Lady Arabella, I'll endeavour not to do so."

"I am sure I would not give any pain if I could help it, much less
to you. But there are occasions, doctor, in which duty must be
paramount; paramount to all other considerations, you know, and,
certainly, this occasion is one of them."

"But what is the occasion, Lady Arabella?"

"I'll tell you, doctor. You know what Frank's position is?"

"Frank's position! as regards what?"

"Why, his position in life; an only son, you know."

"Oh, yes; I know his position in that respect; an only son, and his
father's heir; and a very fine fellow, he is. You have but one son,
Lady Arabella, and you may well be proud of him."

Lady Arabella sighed. She did not wish at the present moment to
express herself as being in any way proud of Frank. She was desirous
rather, on the other hand, of showing that she was a good deal
ashamed of him; only not quite so much ashamed of him as it behoved
the doctor to be of his niece.

"Well, perhaps so; yes," said Lady Arabella, "he is, I believe, a
very good young man, with an excellent disposition; but, doctor, his
position is very precarious; and he is just at that time of life when
every caution is necessary."

To the doctor's ears, Lady Arabella was now talking of her son as a
mother might of her infant when whooping-cough was abroad or croup
imminent. "There is nothing on earth the matter with him, I should
say," said the doctor. "He has every possible sign of perfect
health."

"Oh yes; his health! Yes, thank God, his health is good; that is a
great blessing." And Lady Arabella thought of her four flowerets that
had already faded. "I am sure I am most thankful to see him growing
up so strong. But it is not that I mean, doctor."

"Then what is it, Lady Arabella?"

"Why, doctor, you know the squire's position with regard to money
matters?"

Now the doctor undoubtedly did know the squire's position with regard
to money matters,--knew it much better than did Lady Arabella; but
he was by no means inclined to talk on that subject to her ladyship.
He remained quite silent, therefore, although Lady Arabella's last
speech had taken the form of a question. Lady Arabella was a little
offended at this want of freedom on his part, and become somewhat
sterner in her tone--a thought less condescending in her manner.

"The squire has unfortunately embarrassed the property, and Frank
must look forward to inherit it with very heavy encumbrances; I
fear very heavy indeed, though of what exact nature I am kept in
ignorance."

Looking at the doctor's face, she perceived that there was no
probability whatever that her ignorance would be enlightened by him.

"And, therefore, it is highly necessary that Frank should be very
careful."

"As to his private expenditure, you mean?" said the doctor.

"No; not exactly that: though of course he must be careful as to
that, too; that's of course. But that is not what I mean, doctor; his
only hope of retrieving his circumstances is by marrying money."

"With every other conjugal blessing that a man can have, I hope he
may have that also." So the doctor replied with imperturbable face;
but not the less did he begin to have a shade of suspicion of what
might be the coming subject of the conference. It would be untrue to
say that he had ever thought it probable that the young heir should
fall in love with his niece; that he had ever looked forward to such
a chance, either with complacency or with fear; nevertheless, the
idea had of late passed through his mind. Some word had fallen from
Mary, some closely watched expression of her eye, or some quiver
in her lip when Frank's name was mentioned, had of late made him
involuntarily think that such might not be impossible; and then, when
the chance of Mary becoming the heiress to so large a fortune had
been forced upon his consideration, he had been unable to prevent
himself from building happy castles in the air, as he rode slowly
home from Boxall Hill. But not a whit the more on that account was
he prepared to be untrue to the squire's interest or to encourage a
feeling which must be distasteful to all the squire's friends.

"Yes, doctor; he must marry money."

"And worth, Lady Arabella; and a pure feminine heart; and youth and
beauty. I hope he will marry them all."

Could it be possible, that in speaking of a pure feminine heart, and
youth and beauty, and such like gewgaws, the doctor was thinking of
his niece? Could it be that he had absolutely made up his mind to
foster and encourage this odious match?

The bare idea made Lady Arabella wrathful, and her wrath gave her
courage. "He must marry money, or he will be a ruined man. Now,
doctor, I am informed that things--words that is--have passed between
him and Mary which never ought to have been allowed."

And now also the doctor was wrathful. "What things? what words?" said
he, appearing to Lady Arabella as though he rose in his anger nearly
a foot in altitude before her eyes. "What has passed between them?
and who says so?"

"Doctor, there have been love-makings, you may take my word for it;
love-makings of a very, very, very advanced description."

This, the doctor could not stand. No, not for Greshamsbury and its
heir; not for the squire and all his misfortunes; not for Lady
Arabella and the blood of all the de Courcys could he stand quiet
and hear Mary thus accused. He sprang up another foot in height, and
expanded equally in width as he flung back the insinuation.

"Who says so? Whoever says so, whoever speaks of Miss Thorne in such
language, says what is not true. I will pledge my word--"

"My dear doctor, my dear doctor, what took place was quite clearly
heard; there was no mistake about it, indeed."

"What took place? What was heard?"

"Well, then, I don't want, you know, to make more of it than can be
helped. The thing must be stopped, that is all."

"What thing? Speak out, Lady Arabella. I will not have Mary's conduct
impugned by innuendoes. What is it that eavesdroppers have heard?"

"Dr Thorne, there have been no eavesdroppers."

"And no talebearers either? Will your ladyship oblige me by letting me
know what is the accusation which you bring against my niece?"

"There has been most positively an offer made, Dr Thorne."

"And who made it?"

"Oh, of course I am not going to say but what Frank must have been
very imprudent. Of course he has been to blame. There has been fault
on both sides, no doubt."

"I utterly deny it. I positively deny it. I know nothing of the
circumstances; have heard nothing about it--"

"Then of course you can't say," said Lady Arabella.

"I know nothing of the circumstance; have heard nothing about it,"
continued Dr Thorne; "but I do know my niece, and am ready to assert
that there has not been fault on both sides. Whether there has been
any fault on any side, that I do not yet know."

"I can assure you, Dr Thorne, that an offer was made by Frank;
such an offer cannot be without its allurements to a young lady
circumstanced like your niece."

"Allurements!" almost shouted the doctor, and, as he did so, Lady
Arabella stepped back a pace or two, retreating from the fire which
shot out of his eyes. "But the truth is, Lady Arabella, you do not
know my niece. If you will have the goodness to let me understand
what it is that you desire I will tell you whether I can comply with
your wishes."

"Of course it will be very inexpedient that the young people should
be thrown together again;--for the present, I mean."

"Well!"

"Frank has now gone to Courcy Castle; and he talks of going from
thence to Cambridge. But he will doubtless be here, backwards and
forwards; and perhaps it will be better for all parties--safer,
that is, doctor--if Miss Thorne were to discontinue her visits to
Greshamsbury for a while."

"Very well!" thundered out the doctor. "Her visits to Greshamsbury
shall be discontinued."

"Of course, doctor, this won't change the intercourse between us;
between you and the family."

"Not change it!" said he. "Do you think that I will break bread in a
house from whence she has been ignominiously banished? Do you think
that I can sit down in friendship with those who have spoken of her
as you have now spoken? You have many daughters; what would you say
if I accused one of them as you have accused her?"

"Accused, doctor! No, I don't accuse her. But prudence, you know,
does sometimes require us--"

"Very well; prudence requires you to look after those who belong
to you; and prudence requires me to look after my one lamb. Good
morning, Lady Arabella."

"But, doctor, you are not going to quarrel with us? You will come
when we want you; eh! won't you?"

Quarrel! quarrel with Greshamsbury! Angry as he was, the doctor felt
that he could ill bear to quarrel with Greshamsbury. A man past fifty
cannot easily throw over the ties that have taken twenty years to
form, and wrench himself away from the various close ligatures with
which, in such a period, he has become bound. He could not quarrel
with the squire; he could ill bear to quarrel with Frank; though he
now began to conceive that Frank had used him badly, he could not do
so; he could not quarrel with the children, who had almost been born
into his arms; nor even with the very walls, and trees, and grassy
knolls with which he was so dearly intimate. He could not proclaim
himself an enemy to Greshamsbury; and yet he felt that fealty to Mary
required of him that, for the present, he should put on an enemy's
guise.

"If you want me, Lady Arabella, and send for me, I will come to you;
otherwise I will, if you please, share the sentence which has been
passed on Mary. I will now wish you good morning." And then bowing
low to her, he left the room and the house, and sauntered slowly away
to his own home.

What was he to say to Mary? He walked very slowly down the
Greshamsbury avenue, with his hands clasped behind his back, thinking
over the whole matter; thinking of it, or rather trying to think
of it. When a man's heart is warmly concerned in any matter, it
is almost useless for him to endeavour to think of it. Instead of
thinking, he gives play to his feelings, and feeds his passion by
indulging it. "Allurements!" he said to himself, repeating Lady
Arabella's words. "A girl circumstanced like my niece! How utterly
incapable is such a woman as that to understand the mind, and heart,
and soul of such a one as Mary Thorne!" And then his thoughts
recurred to Frank. "It has been ill done of him; ill done of him:
young as he is, he should have had feeling enough to have spared me
this. A thoughtless word has been spoken which will now make her
miserable!" And then, as he walked on, he could not divest his mind
of the remembrance of what had passed between him and Sir Roger.
What, if after all, Mary should become the heiress to all that money?
What, if she should become, in fact, the owner of Greshamsbury? for,
indeed it seemed too possible that Sir Roger's heir would be the
owner of Greshamsbury.

The idea was one which he disliked to entertain, but it would recur
to him again and again. It might be, that a marriage between his
niece and the nominal heir to the estate might be of all the matches
the best for young Gresham to make. How sweet would be the revenge,
how glorious the retaliation on Lady Arabella, if, after what had
now been said, it should come to pass that all the difficulties of
Greshamsbury should be made smooth by Mary's love, and Mary's hand!
It was a dangerous subject on which to ponder; and, as he sauntered
down the road, the doctor did his best to banish it from his
mind,--not altogether successfully.

But as he went he again encountered Beatrice. "Tell Mary I went to
her to-day," said she, "and that I expect her up here to-morrow. If
she does not come, I shall be savage."

"Do not be savage," said he, putting out his hand, "even though she
should not come."

Beatrice immediately saw that his manner with her was not playful,
and that his face was serious. "I was only in joke," said she; "of
course I was only joking. But is anything the matter? Is Mary ill?"

"Oh, no; not ill at all; but she will not be here to-morrow, nor
probably for some time. But, Miss Gresham, you must not be savage
with her."

Beatrice tried to interrogate him, but he would not wait to answer
her questions. While she was speaking he bowed to her in his usual
old-fashioned courteous way, and passed on out of hearing. "She will
not come up for some time," said Beatrice to herself. "Then mamma
must have quarrelled with her." And at once in her heart she
acquitted her friend of all blame in the matter, whatever it might
be, and condemned her mother unheard.

The doctor, when he arrived at his own house, had in nowise made
up his mind as to the manner in which he would break the matter to
Mary; but by the time that he had reached the drawing-room, he had
made up his mind to this, that he would put off the evil hour till
the morrow. He would sleep on the matter--lie awake on it, more
probably--and then at breakfast, as best he could, tell her what had
been said of her.

Mary that evening was more than usually inclined to be playful.
She had not been quite certain till the morning, whether Frank had
absolutely left Greshamsbury, and had, therefore, preferred the
company of Miss Oriel to going up to the house. There was a peculiar
cheerfulness about her friend Patience, a feeling of satisfaction
with the world and those in it, which Mary always shared with her;
and now she had brought home to the doctor's fireside, in spite of
her young troubles, a smiling face, if not a heart altogether happy.

"Uncle," she said at last, "what makes you so sombre? Shall I read to
you?"

"No; not to-night, dearest."

"Why, uncle; what is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"Ah, but it is something, and you shall tell me;" getting up, she
came over to his arm-chair, and leant over his shoulder.

He looked at her for a minute in silence, and then, getting up from
his chair, passed his arm round her waist, and pressed her closely to
his heart.

"My darling!" he said, almost convulsively. "My best own, truest
darling!" and Mary, looking up into his face, saw that big tears were
running down his cheeks.

But still he told her nothing that night.




CHAPTER XV

Courcy


When Frank Gresham expressed to his father an opinion that Courcy
Castle was dull, the squire, as may be remembered, did not pretend to
differ from him. To men such as the squire, and such as the squire's
son, Courcy Castle was dull. To what class of men it would not be
dull the author is not prepared to say; but it may be presumed that
the de Courcys found it to their liking, or they would have made it
other than it was.

The castle itself was a huge brick pile, built in the days of William
III, which, though they were grand for days of the construction of
the Constitution, were not very grand for architecture of a more
material description. It had, no doubt, a perfect right to be called
a castle, as it was entered by a castle-gate which led into a court,
the porter's lodge for which was built as it were into the wall;
there were attached to it also two round, stumpy adjuncts, which
were, perhaps properly, called towers, though they did not do much in
the way of towering; and, moreover, along one side of the house, over
what would otherwise have been the cornice, there ran a castellated
parapet, through the assistance of which, the imagination no doubt
was intended to supply the muzzles of defiant artillery. But any
artillery which would have so presented its muzzle must have been
very small, and it may be doubted whether even a bowman could have
obtained shelter there.

The grounds about the castle were not very inviting, nor, as grounds,
very extensive; though, no doubt, the entire domain was such as
suited the importance of so puissant a nobleman as Earl de Courcy.
What, indeed, should have been the park was divided out into various
large paddocks. The surface was flat and unbroken; and though
there were magnificent elm-trees standing in straight lines, like
hedgerows, the timber had not that beautiful, wild, scattered look
which generally gives the great charm to English scenery.

The town of Courcy--for the place claimed to rank as a town--was
in many particulars like the castle. It was built of dingy-red
brick--almost more brown than red--and was solid, dull-looking, ugly
and comfortable. It consisted of four streets, which were formed by
two roads crossing each other, making at the point of junction a
centre for the town. Here stood the Red Lion; had it been called the
brown lion, the nomenclature would have been more strictly correct;
and here, in the old days of coaching, some life had been wont to
stir itself at those hours in the day and night when the Freetraders,
Tallyhoes, and Royal Mails changed their horses. But now there was a
railway station a mile and a half distant, and the moving life of the
town of Courcy was confined to the Red Lion omnibus, which seemed to
pass its entire time in going up and down between the town and the
station, quite unembarrassed by any great weight of passengers.

There were, so said the Courcyites when away from Courcy, excellent
shops in the place; but they were not the less accustomed, when
at home among themselves, to complain to each other of the vile
extortion with which they were treated by their neighbours. The
ironmonger, therefore, though he loudly asserted that he could beat
Bristol in the quality of his wares in one direction, and undersell
Gloucester in another, bought his tea and sugar on the sly in one
of those larger towns; and the grocer, on the other hand, equally
distrusted the pots and pans of home production. Trade, therefore, at
Courcy, had not thriven since the railway had opened: and, indeed,
had any patient inquirer stood at the cross through one entire day,
counting customers who entered the neighbouring shops, he might well
have wondered that any shops in Courcy could be kept open.

And how changed has been the bustle of that once noisy inn to the
present death-like silence of its green courtyard! There, a lame
ostler crawls about with his hands thrust into the capacious pockets
of his jacket, feeding on memory. That weary pair of omnibus jades,
and three sorry posters, are all that now grace those stables where
horses used to be stalled in close contiguity by the dozen; where
twenty grains apiece, abstracted from every feed of oats consumed
during the day, would have afforded a daily quart to the lucky
pilferer.

Come, my friend, and discourse with me. Let us know what are thy
ideas of the inestimable benefits which science has conferred on us
in these, our latter days. How dost thou, among others, appreciate
railways and the power of steam, telegraphs, telegrams, and our new
expresses? But indifferently, you say. "Time was I've zeed vifteen
pair o' 'osses go out of this 'ere yard in vour-and-twenty hour;
and now there be'ant vifteen, no, not ten, in vour-and-twenty days!
There was the duik--not this 'un; he be'ant no gude; but this 'un's
vather--why, when he'd come down the road, the cattle did be a-going,
vour days an eend. Here'd be the tooter and the young gen'lmen, and
the governess and the young leddies, and then the servants--they'd
be al'ays the grandest folk of all--and then the duik and the
doochess--Lord love 'ee, zur; the money did fly in them days! But
now--" and the feeling of scorn and contempt which the lame ostler
was enabled by his native talent to throw into the word "now," was
quite as eloquent against the power of steam as anything that has
been spoken at dinners, or written in pamphlets by the keenest
admirers of latter-day lights.

"Why, luke at this 'ere town," continued he of the sieve, "the grass
be a-growing in the very streets;--that can't be no gude. Why, luke
'ee here, zur; I do be a-standing at this 'ere gateway, just this
way, hour arter hour, and my heyes is hopen mostly;--I zees who's
a-coming and who's a-going. Nobody's a-coming and nobody's a-going;
that can't be no gude. Luke at that there homnibus; why, darn me--"
and now, in his eloquence at this peculiar point, my friend became
more loud and powerful than ever--"why, darn me, if maister harns
enough with that there bus to put hiron on them 'osses' feet,
I'll--be--blowed!" And as he uttered this hypothetical denunciation
on himself he spoke very slowly, bringing out every word as it were
separately, and lowering himself at his knees at every sound, moving
at the same time his right hand up and down. When he had finished,
he fixed his eyes upon the ground, pointing downwards, as if there
was to be the site of his doom if the curse that he had called down
upon himself should ever come to pass; and then, waiting no further
converse, he hobbled away, melancholy, to his deserted stables.

Oh, my friend! my poor lame friend! it will avail nothing to tell
thee of Liverpool and Manchester; of the glories of Glasgow, with her
flourishing banks; of London, with its third millions of inhabitants;
of the great things which commerce is doing for this nation of thine!
What is commerce to thee, unless it be commerce in posting on that
worn-out, all but useless great western turnpike-road? There is
nothing left for thee but to be carted away as rubbish--for thee
and for many of us in these now prosperous days; oh, my melancholy,
care-ridden friend!

Courcy Castle was certainly a dull place to look at, and Frank, in
his former visits, had found that the appearance did not belie the
reality. He had been but little there when the earl had been at
Courcy; and as he had always felt from his childhood a peculiar
distaste to the governance of his aunt the countess, this perhaps may
have added to his feeling of dislike. Now, however, the castle was
to be fuller than he had ever before known it; the earl was to be at
home; there was some talk of the Duke of Omnium coming for a day or
two, though that seemed doubtful; there was some faint doubt of Lord
Porlock; Mr Moffat, intent on the coming election--and also, let us
hope, on his coming bliss--was to be one of the guests; and there was
also to be the great Miss Dunstable.

Frank, however, found that those grandees were not expected quite
immediately. "I might go back to Greshamsbury for three or four days
as she is not to be here," he said naïvely to his aunt, expressing,
with tolerable perspicuity, his feeling, that he regarded his visit
to Courcy Castle quite as a matter of business. But the countess
would hear of no such arrangement. Now that she had got him, she
was not going to let him fall back into the perils of Miss Thorne's
intrigues, or even of Miss Thorne's propriety. "It is quite
essential," she said, "that you should be here a few days before her,
so that she may see that you are at home." Frank did not understand
the reasoning; but he felt himself unable to rebel, and he therefore,
remained there, comforting himself, as best he might, with the
eloquence of the Honourable George, and the sporting humours of the
Honourable John.

Mr Moffat's was the earliest arrival of any importance. Frank had
not hitherto made the acquaintance of his future brother-in-law, and
there was, therefore, some little interest in the first interview. Mr
Moffat was shown into the drawing-room before the ladies had gone up
to dress, and it so happened that Frank was there also. As no one
else was in the room but his sister and two of his cousins, he had
expected to see the lovers rush into each other's arms. But Mr Moffat
restrained his ardour, and Miss Gresham seemed contented that he
should do so.

He was a nice, dapper man, rather above the middle height, and
good-looking enough had he had a little more expression in his face.
He had dark hair, very nicely brushed, small black whiskers, and a
small black moustache. His boots were excellently well made, and
his hands were very white. He simpered gently as he took hold of
Augusta's fingers, and expressed a hope that she had been quite well
since last he had the pleasure of seeing her. Then he touched the
hands of the Lady Rosina and the Lady Margaretta.

"Mr Moffat, allow me to introduce you to my brother?"

"Most happy, I'm sure," said Mr Moffat, again putting out his hand,
and allowing it to slip through Frank's grasp, as he spoke in a
pretty, mincing voice: "Lady Arabella quite well?--and your father,
and sisters? Very warm isn't it?--quite hot in town, I do assure
you."

"I hope Augusta likes him," said Frank to himself, arguing on the
subject exactly as his father had done; "but for an engaged lover he
seems to me to have a very queer way with him." Frank, poor fellow!
who was of a coarser mould, would, under such circumstances, have
been all for kissing--sometimes, indeed, even under other
circumstances.

Mr Moffat did not do much towards improving the conviviality of
the castle. He was, of course, a good deal intent upon his coming
election, and spent much of his time with Mr Nearthewinde, the
celebrated parliamentary agent. It behoved him to be a good deal
at Barchester, canvassing the electors and undermining, by Mr
Nearthewinde's aid, the mines for blowing him out of his seat, which
were daily being contrived by Mr Closerstil, on behalf of Sir Roger.
The battle was to be fought on the internecine principle, no quarter
being given or taken on either side; and of course this gave Mr
Moffat as much as he knew how to do.

Mr Closerstil was well known to be the sharpest man at his business
in all England, unless the palm should be given to his great rival
Mr Nearthewinde; and in this instance he was to be assisted in the
battle by a very clever young barrister, Mr Romer, who was an admirer
of Sir Roger's career in life. Some people in Barchester, when they
saw Sir Roger, Closerstil and Mr Romer saunter down the High Street,
arm in arm, declared that it was all up with poor Moffat; but others,
in whose head the bump of veneration was strongly pronounced,
whispered to each other that great shibboleth--the name of the Duke
of Omnium--and mildly asserted it to be impossible that the duke's
nominee should be thrown out.

Our poor friend the squire did not take much interest in the matter,
except in so far that he liked his son-in-law to be in Parliament.
Both the candidates were in his eye equally wrong in their opinions.
He had long since recanted those errors of his early youth, which
had cost him his seat for the county, and had abjured the de Courcy
politics. He was staunch enough as a Tory now that his being so would
no longer be of the slightest use to him; but the Duke of Omnium,
and Lord de Courcy, and Mr Moffat were all Whigs; Whigs, however,
differing altogether in politics from Sir Roger, who belonged to
the Manchester school, and whose pretensions, through some of those
inscrutable twists in modern politics which are quite unintelligible
to the minds of ordinary men outside the circle, were on this
occasion secretly favoured by the high Conservative party.

How Mr Moffat, who had been brought into the political world by Lord
de Courcy, obtained all the weight of the duke's interest I never
could exactly learn. For the duke and the earl did not generally act
as twin-brothers on such occasions.

There is a great difference in Whigs. Lord de Courcy was a Court
Whig, following the fortunes, and enjoying, when he could get it, the
sunshine of the throne. He was a sojourner at Windsor, and a visitor
at Balmoral. He delighted in gold sticks, and was never so happy as
when holding some cap of maintenance or spur of precedence with due
dignity and acknowledged grace in the presence of all the Court.
His means had been somewhat embarrassed by early extravagance; and,
therefore, as it was to his taste to shine, it suited him to shine at
the cost of the Court rather than at his own.

The Duke of Omnium was a Whig of a very different calibre. He rarely
went near the presence of majesty, and when he did do so, he did it
merely as a disagreeable duty incident to his position. He was very
willing that the Queen should be queen so long as he was allowed to
be Duke of Omnium. Nor had he begrudged Prince Albert any of his
honours till he was called Prince Consort. Then, indeed, he had,
to his own intimate friends, made some remark in three words, not
flattering to the discretion of the Prime Minister. The Queen might
be queen so long as he was Duke of Omnium. Their revenues were
about the same, with the exception, that the duke's were his own,
and he could do what he liked with them. This remembrance did not
unfrequently present itself to the duke's mind. In person, he was a
plain, thin man, tall, but undistinguished in appearance, except that
there was a gleam of pride in his eye which seemed every moment to be
saying, "I am the Duke of Omnium." He was unmarried, and, if report
said true, a great debauchee; but if so he had always kept his
debaucheries decently away from the eyes of the world, and was not,
therefore, open to that loud condemnation which should fall like a
hailstorm round the ears of some more open sinners.

Why these two mighty nobles put their heads together in order that
the tailor's son should represent Barchester in Parliament, I cannot
explain. Mr Moffat, was, as has been said, Lord de Courcy's friend;
and it may be that Lord de Courcy was able to repay the duke for his
kindness, as touching Barchester, with some little assistance in the
county representation.

The next arrival was that of the Bishop of Barchester; a meek, good,
worthy man, much attached to his wife, and somewhat addicted to his
ease. She, apparently, was made in a different mould, and by her
energy and diligence atoned for any want in those qualities which
might be observed in the bishop himself. When asked his opinion, his
lordship would generally reply by saying--"Mrs Proudie and I think so
and so." But before that opinion was given, Mrs Proudie would take
up the tale, and she, in her more concise manner, was not wont to
quote the bishop as having at all assisted in the consideration of
the subject. It was well known in Barsetshire that no married pair
consorted more closely or more tenderly together; and the example of
such conjugal affection among persons in the upper classes is worth
mentioning, as it is believed by those below them, and too often with
truth, that the sweet bliss of connubial reciprocity is not so common
as it should be among the magnates of the earth.

But the arrival even of the bishop and his wife did not make the
place cheerful to Frank Gresham, and he began to long for Miss
Dunstable, in order that he might have something to do. He could not
get on at all with Mr Moffat. He had expected that the man would at
once have called him Frank, and that he would have called the man
Gustavus; but they did not even get beyond Mr Moffat and Mr Gresham.
"Very hot in Barchester to-day, very," was the nearest approach to
conversation which Frank could attain with him; and as far as he,
Frank, could see, Augusta never got much beyond it. There might be
_tête-à-tête_ meetings between them, but, if so, Frank could not
detect when they took place; and so, opening his heart at last to the
Honourable George, for the want of a better confidant, he expressed
his opinion that his future brother-in-law was a muff.

"A muff--I believe you too. What do you think now? I have been with
him and Nearthewinde in Barchester these three days past, looking up
the electors' wives and daughters, and that kind of thing."

"I say, if there is any fun in it you might as well take me with
you."

"Oh, there is not much fun; they are mostly so slobbered and dirty. A
sharp fellow in Nearthewinde, and knows what he is about well."

"Does he look up the wives and daughters too?"

"Oh, he goes on every tack, just as it's wanted. But there was
Moffat, yesterday, in a room behind the milliner's shop near
Cuthbert's Gate; I was with him. The woman's husband is one of the
choristers and an elector, you know, and Moffat went to look for his
vote. Now, there was no one there when we got there but the three
young women, the wife, that is, and her two girls--very pretty women
they are too."

"I say, George, I'll go and get the chorister's vote for Moffat; I
ought to do it as he's to be my brother-in-law."

"But what do you think Moffat said to the women?"

"Can't guess--he didn't kiss any of them, did he?"

"Kiss any of them? No; but he begged to give them his positive
assurance as a gentleman, that if he was returned to Parliament he
would vote for an extension of the franchise, and the admission of
the Jews into Parliament."

"Well, he is a muff!" said Frank.




CHAPTER XVI

Miss Dunstable


At last the great Miss Dunstable came. Frank, when he heard that
the heiress had arrived, felt some slight palpitation at his heart.
He had not the remotest idea in the world of marrying her; indeed,
during the last week past, absence had so heightened his love for
Mary Thorne that he was more than ever resolved that he would never
marry any one but her. He knew that he had made her a formal offer
for her hand, and that it behoved him to keep to it, let the charms
of Miss Dunstable be what they might; but, nevertheless, he was
prepared to go through a certain amount of courtship, in obedience
to his aunt's behests, and he felt a little nervous at being brought
up in that way, face to face, to do battle with two hundred thousand
pounds.

"Miss Dunstable has arrived," said his aunt to him, with great
complacency, on his return from an electioneering visit to the
beauties of Barchester which he made with his cousin George on the
day after the conversation which was repeated at the end of the last
chapter. "She has arrived, and is looking remarkably well; she has
quite a _distingué_ air, and will grace any circle to which she may
be introduced. I will introduce you before dinner, and you can take
her out."

"I couldn't propose to her to-night, I suppose?" said Frank,
maliciously.

"Don't talk nonsense, Frank," said the countess, angrily. "I am doing
what I can for you, and taking on an infinity of trouble to endeavour
to place you in an independent position; and now you talk nonsense to
me."

Frank muttered some sort of apology, and then went to prepare himself
for the encounter.

Miss Dunstable, though she had come by train, had brought with her
her own carriage, her own horses, her own coachman and footman, and
her own maid, of course. She had also brought with her half a score
of trunks, full of wearing apparel; some of them nearly as rich as
that wonderful box which was stolen a short time since from the top
of a cab. But she brought all these things, not in the least because
she wanted them herself, but because she had been instructed to do
so.

Frank was a little more than ordinarily careful in dressing. He
spoilt a couple of white neckties before he was satisfied, and was
rather fastidious as the set of his hair. There was not much of the
dandy about him in the ordinary meaning of the word; but he felt that
it was incumbent on him to look his best, seeing what it was expected
that he should now do. He certainly did not mean to marry Miss
Dunstable; but as he was to have a flirtation with her, it was well
that he should do so under the best possible auspices.

When he entered the drawing-room he perceived at once that the lady
was there. She was seated between the countess and Mrs Proudie; and
mammon, in her person, was receiving worship from the temporalities
and spiritualities of the land. He tried to look unconcerned, and
remained in the farther part of the room, talking with some of his
cousins; but he could not keep his eye off the future possible Mrs
Frank Gresham; and it seemed as though she was as much constrained to
scrutinise him as he felt to scrutinise her.

Lady de Courcy had declared that she was looking extremely well, and
had particularly alluded to her _distingué_ appearance. Frank at once
felt that he could not altogether go along with his aunt in this
opinion. Miss Dunstable might be very well; but her style of beauty
was one which did not quite meet with his warmest admiration.

In age she was about thirty; but Frank, who was no great judge in
these matters, and who was accustomed to have very young girls round
him, at once put her down as being ten years older. She had a very
high colour, very red cheeks, a large mouth, big white teeth, a broad
nose, and bright, small, black eyes. Her hair also was black and
bright, but very crisp, and strong, and was combed close round her
face in small crisp black ringlets. Since she had been brought out
into the fashionable world some one of her instructors in fashion
had given her to understand that curls were not the thing. "They'll
always pass muster," Miss Dunstable had replied, "when they are done
up with bank-notes." It may therefore be presumed that Miss Dunstable
had a will of her own.

"Frank," said the countess, in the most natural and unpremeditated
way, as soon as she caught her nephew's eye, "come here. I want to
introduce you to Miss Dunstable." The introduction was then made.
"Mrs Proudie, would you excuse me? I must positively go and say a few
words to Mrs Barlow, or the poor woman will feel herself huffed;"
and, so saying, she moved off, leaving the coast clear for Master
Frank.

He of course slipped into his aunt's place, and expressed a hope that
Miss Dunstable was not fatigued by her journey.

"Fatigued!" said she, in a voice rather loud, but very good-humoured,
and not altogether unpleasing; "I am not to be fatigued by such a
thing as that. Why, in May we came through all the way from Rome to
Paris without sleeping--that is, without sleeping in a bed--and we
were upset three times out of the sledges coming over the Simplon. It
was such fun! Why, I wasn't to say tired even then."

"All the way from Rome to Paris!" said Mrs Proudie--in a tone of
astonishment, meant to flatter the heiress--"and what made you in
such a hurry?"

"Something about money matters," said Miss Dunstable, speaking rather
louder than usual. "Something to do with the ointment. I was selling
the business just then."

Mrs Proudie bowed, and immediately changed the conversation.
"Idolatry is, I believe, more rampant than ever in Rome," said she;
"and I fear there is no such thing at all as Sabbath observance."

"Oh, not in the least," said Miss Dunstable, with rather a joyous
air; "Sundays and week-days are all the same there."

"How very frightful!" said Mrs Proudie.

"But it's a delicious place. I do like Rome, I must say. And as for
the Pope, if he wasn't quite so fat he would be the nicest old fellow
in the world. Have you been in Rome, Mrs Proudie?"

Mrs Proudie sighed as she replied in the negative, and declared her
belief that danger was to be apprehended from such visits.

"Oh!--ah!--the malaria--of course--yes; if you go at the wrong time;
but nobody is such a fool as that now."

"I was thinking of the soul, Miss Dunstable," said the lady-bishop,
in her peculiar, grave tone. "A place where there are no Sabbath
observances--"

"And have you been in Rome, Mr Gresham?" said the young lady, turning
almost abruptly round to Frank, and giving a somewhat uncivilly cold
shoulder to Mrs Proudie's exhortation. She, poor lady, was forced to
finish her speech to the Honourable George, who was standing near to
her. He having an idea that bishops and all their belongings, like
other things appertaining to religion, should, if possible, be
avoided; but if that were not possible, should be treated with
much assumed gravity, immediately put on a long face, and remarked
that--"it was a deuced shame: for his part he always liked to see
people go quiet on Sundays. The parsons had only one day out of
seven, and he thought they were fully entitled to that." Satisfied
with which, or not satisfied, Mrs Proudie had to remain silent till
dinner-time.

"No," said Frank; "I never was in Rome. I was in Paris once, and
that's all." And then, feeling a not unnatural anxiety as to the
present state of Miss Dunstable's worldly concerns, he took an
opportunity of falling back on that part of the conversation which
Mrs Proudie had exercised so much tact in avoiding.

"And was it sold?" said he.

"Sold! what sold?"

"You were saying about the business--that you came back without going
to bed because of selling the business."

"Oh!--the ointment. No; it was not sold. After all, the affair did
not come off, and I might have remained and had another roll in the
snow. Wasn't it a pity?"

"So," said Frank to himself, "if I should do it, I should be owner of
the ointment of Lebanon: how odd!" And then he gave her his arm and
handed her down to dinner.

He certainly found that the dinner was less dull than any other he
had sat down to at Courcy Castle. He did not fancy that he should
ever fall in love with Miss Dunstable; but she certainly was an
agreeable companion. She told him of her tour, and the fun she had in
her journeys; how she took a physician with her for the benefit of
her health, whom she generally was forced to nurse; of the trouble it
was to her to look after and wait upon her numerous servants; of the
tricks she played to bamboozle people who came to stare at her; and,
lastly, she told him of a lover who followed her from country to
country, and was now in hot pursuit of her, having arrived in London
the evening before she left.

"A lover?" said Frank, somewhat startled by the suddenness of the
confidence.

"A lover--yes--Mr Gresham; why should I not have a lover?"

"Oh!--no--of course not. I dare say you have a good many."

"Only three or four, upon my word; that is, only three or four that I
favour. One is not bound to reckon the others, you know."

"No, they'd be too numerous. And so you have three whom you favour,
Miss Dunstable;" and Frank sighed, as though he intended to say that
the number was too many for his peace of mind.

"Is not that quite enough? But of course I change them sometimes;"
and she smiled on him very good-naturedly. "It would be very dull if
I were always to keep the same."

"Very dull indeed," said Frank, who did not quite know what to say.

"Do you think the countess would mind my having one or two of them
here if I were to ask her?"

"I am quite sure she would," said Frank, very briskly. "She would not
approve of it at all; nor should I."

"You--why, what have you to do with it?"

"A great deal--so much so that I positively forbid it; but, Miss
Dunstable--"

"Well, Mr Gresham?"

"We will contrive to make up for the deficiency as well as possible,
if you will permit us to do so. Now for myself--"

"Well, for yourself?"

At this moment the countess gleamed her accomplished eye round the
table, and Miss Dunstable rose from her chair as Frank was preparing
his attack, and accompanied the other ladies into the drawing-room.

His aunt, as she passed him, touched his arm lightly with her fan, so
lightly that the action was perceived by no one else. But Frank well
understood the meaning of the touch, and appreciated the approbation
which it conveyed. He merely blushed, however, at his own
dissimulation; for he felt more certain that ever that he would never
marry Miss Dunstable, and he felt nearly equally sure that Miss
Dunstable would never marry him.

Lord de Courcy was now at home; but his presence did not add much
hilarity to the claret-cup. The young men, however, were very keen
about the election, and Mr Nearthewinde, who was one of the party,
was full of the most sanguine hopes.

"I have done one good at any rate," said Frank; "I have secured the
chorister's vote."

"What! Bagley?" said Nearthewinde. "The fellow kept out of my way,
and I couldn't see him."

"I haven't exactly seen him," said Frank; "but I've got his vote all
the same."

"What! by a letter?" said Mr Moffat.

"No, not by letter," said Frank, speaking rather low as he looked at
the bishop and the earl; "I got a promise from his wife: I think he's
a little in the henpecked line."

"Ha--ha--ha!" laughed the good bishop, who, in spite of Frank's
modulation of voice, had overheard what had passed. "Is that the way
you manage electioneering matters in our cathedral city? Ha--ha--ha!"
The idea of one of his choristers being in the henpecked line was
very amusing to the bishop.

"Oh, I got a distinct promise," said Frank, in his pride; and then
added incautiously, "but I had to order bonnets for the whole
family."

"Hush-h-h-h-h!" said Mr Nearthewinde, absolutely flabbergasted by
such imprudence on the part of one of his client's friends. "I am
quite sure that your order had no effect, and was intended to have no
effect on Mr Bagley's vote."

"Is that wrong?" said Frank; "upon my word I thought that it was
quite legitimate."

"One should never admit anything in electioneering matters, should
one?" said George, turning to Mr Nearthewinde.

"Very little, Mr de Courcy; very little indeed--the less the better.
It's hard to say in these days what is wrong and what is not. Now,
there's Reddypalm, the publican, the man who has the Brown Bear.
Well, I was there, of course: he's a voter, and if any man in
Barchester ought to feel himself bound to vote for a friend of the
duke's, he ought. Now, I was so thirsty when I was in that man's
house that I was dying for a glass of beer; but for the life of me I
didn't dare order one."

"Why not?" said Frank, whose mind was only just beginning to be
enlightened by the great doctrine of purity of election as practised
in English provincial towns.

"Oh, Closerstil had some fellow looking at me; why, I can't walk down
that town without having my very steps counted. I like sharp fighting
myself, but I never go so sharp as that."

"Nevertheless I got Bagley's vote," said Frank, persisting in praise
of his own electioneering prowess; "and you may be sure of this, Mr
Nearthewinde, none of Closerstil's men were looking at me when I got
it."

"Who'll pay for the bonnets, Frank?" said George.

"Oh, I'll pay for them if Moffat won't. I think I shall keep an
account there; they seem to have good gloves and those sort of
things."

"Very good, I have no doubt," said George.

"I suppose your lordship will be in town soon after the meeting of
Parliament?" said the bishop, questioning the earl.

"Oh! yes; I suppose I must be there. I am never allowed to remain
very long in quiet. It is a great nuisance; but it is too late to
think of that now."

"Men in high places, my lord, never were, and never will be, allowed
to consider themselves. They burn their torches not in their own
behalf," said the bishop, thinking, perhaps, as much of himself as he
did of his noble friend. "Rest and quiet are the comforts of those
who have been content to remain in obscurity."

"Perhaps so," said the earl, finishing his glass of claret with
an air of virtuous resignation. "Perhaps so." His own martyrdom,
however, had not been severe, for the rest and quiet of home had
never been peculiarly satisfactory to his tastes. Soon after this
they all went to the ladies.

It was some little time before Frank could find an opportunity of
recommencing his allotted task with Miss Dunstable. She got into
conversation with the bishop and some other people, and, except that
he took her teacup and nearly managed to squeeze one of her fingers
as he did so, he made very little further progress till towards the
close of the evening.

At last he found her so nearly alone as to admit of his speaking to
her in his low confidential voice.

"Have you managed that matter with my aunt?"

"What matter?" said Miss Dunstable; and her voice was not low, nor
particularly confidential.

"About those three or four gentlemen whom you wish to invite here?"

"Oh! my attendant knights! no, indeed; you gave me such very slight
hope of success; besides, you said something about my not wanting
them."

"Yes I did; I really think they'd be quite unnecessary. If you should
want any one to defend you--"

"At these coming elections, for instance."

"Then, or at any other time, there are plenty here who will be ready
to stand up for you."

"Plenty! I don't want plenty: one good lance in the olden days was
always worth more than a score of ordinary men-at-arms."

"But you talked about three or four."

"Yes; but then you see, Mr Gresham, I have never yet found the one
good lance--at least, not good enough to suit my ideas of true
prowess."

What could Frank do but declare that he was ready to lay his own in
rest, now and always in her behalf? His aunt had been quite angry
with him, and had thought that he turned her into ridicule, when he
spoke of making an offer to her guest that very evening; and yet here
he was so placed that he had hardly an alternative. Let his inward
resolution to abjure the heiress be ever so strong, he was now in a
position which allowed him no choice in the matter. Even Mary Thorne
could hardly have blamed him for saying, that so far as his own
prowess went, it was quite at Miss Dunstable's service. Had Mary been
looking on, she, perhaps, might have thought that he could have done
so with less of that look of devotion which he threw into his eyes.

"Well, Mr Gresham, that's very civil--very civil indeed," said Miss
Dunstable. "Upon my word, if a lady wanted a true knight she might
do worse than trust to you. Only I fear that your courage is of so
exalted a nature that you would be ever ready to do battle for any
beauty who might be in distress--or, indeed, who might not. You could
never confine your valour to the protection of one maiden."

"Oh, yes! but I would though if I liked her," said Frank. "There
isn't a more constant fellow in the world than I am in that way--you
try me, Miss Dunstable."

"When young ladies make such trials as that, they sometimes find it
too late to go back if the trial doesn't succeed, Mr Gresham."

"Oh, of course there's always some risk. It's like hunting; there
would be no fun if there was no danger."

"But if you get a tumble one day you can retrieve your honour the
next; but a poor girl, if she once trusts a man who says that he
loves her, has no such chance. For myself, I would never listen to a
man unless I'd known him for seven years at least."

"Seven years!" said Frank, who could not help thinking that in seven
years' time Miss Dunstable would be almost an old woman. "Seven days
is enough to know any person."

"Or perhaps seven hours; eh, Mr Gresham?"

"Seven hours--well, perhaps seven hours, if they happen to be a good
deal together during the time."

"There's nothing after all like love at first sight, is there, Mr
Gresham?"

Frank knew well enough that she was quizzing him, and could not
resist the temptation he felt to be revenged on her. "I am sure it's
very pleasant," said he; "but as for myself, I have never experienced
it."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Miss Dunstable. "Upon my word, Mr Gresham, I
like you amazingly. I didn't expect to meet anybody down here that
I should like half so much. You must come and see me in London, and
I'll introduce you to my three knights," and so saying, she moved
away and fell into conversation with some of the higher powers.

Frank felt himself to be rather snubbed, in spite of the strong
expression which Miss Dunstable had made in his favour. It was not
quite clear to him that she did not take him for a boy. He was, to be
sure, avenged on her for that by taking her for a middle-aged woman;
but, nevertheless, he was hardly satisfied with himself; "I might
give her a heartache yet," said he to himself, "and she might find
afterwards that she was left in the lurch with all her money." And
so he retired, solitary, into a far part of the room, and began to
think of Mary Thorne. As he did so, and as his eyes fell upon Miss
Dunstable's stiff curls, he almost shuddered.

And then the ladies retired. His aunt, with a good-natured smile on
her face, come to him as she was leaving the room, the last of the
bevy, and putting her hand on his arm, led him out into a small
unoccupied chamber which opened from the grand saloon.

"Upon my word, Master Frank," said she, "you seem to be losing no
time with the heiress. You have quite made an impression already."

"I don't know much about that, aunt," said he, looking rather
sheepish.

"Oh, I declare you have; but, Frank, my dear boy, you should not
precipitate these sort of things too much. It is well to take a
little more time: it is more valued; and perhaps, you know, on the
whole--"

Perhaps Frank might know; but it was clear that Lady de Courcy did
not: at any rate, she did not know how to express herself. Had she
said out her mind plainly, she would probably have spoken thus: "I
want you to make love to Miss Dunstable, certainly; or at any rate to
make an offer to her; but you need not make a show of yourself and of
her, too, by doing it so openly as all that." The countess, however,
did not want to reprimand her obedient nephew, and therefore did not
speak out her thoughts.

"Well?" said Frank, looking up into her face.

"Take a _leetle_ more time--that is all, my dear boy; slow and sure,
you know;" so the countess again patted his arm and went away to bed.

"Old fool!" muttered Frank to himself, as he returned to the room
where the men were still standing. He was right in this: she was an
old fool, or she would have seen that there was no chance whatever
that her nephew and Miss Dunstable should become man and wife.

"Well Frank," said the Honourable John; "so you're after the heiress
already."

"He won't give any of us a chance," said the Honourable George.
"If he goes on in that way she'll be Mrs Gresham before a month is
over. But, Frank, what will she say of your manner of looking for
Barchester votes?"

"Mr Gresham is certainly an excellent hand at canvassing," said Mr
Nearthewinde; "only a little too open in his manner of proceeding."

"I got that chorister for you at any rate," said Frank. "And you
would never have had him without me."

"I don't think half so much of the chorister's vote as that of Miss
Dunstable," said the Honourable George: "that's the interest that is
really worth looking after."

"But, surely," said Mr Moffat, "Miss Dunstable has no property in
Barchester?" Poor man! his heart was so intent on his election that
he had not a moment to devote to the claims of love.




CHAPTER XVII

The Election


And now the important day of the election had arrived, and some men's
hearts beat quickly enough. To be or not to be a member of the British
Parliament is a question of very considerable moment in a man's mind.
Much is often said of the great penalties which the ambitious pay for
enjoying this honour; of the tremendous expenses of elections; of the
long, tedious hours of unpaid labour: of the weary days passed in the
House; but, nevertheless, the prize is one very well worth the price
paid for it--well worth any price that can be paid for it short of
wading through dirt and dishonour.

No other great European nation has anything like it to offer to the
ambition of its citizens; for in no other great country of Europe,
not even in those which are free, has the popular constitution
obtained, as with us, true sovereignty and power of rule. Here it is
so; and when a man lays himself out to be a member of Parliament, he
plays the highest game and for the highest stakes which the country
affords.

To some men, born silver-spooned, a seat in Parliament comes as
a matter of course. From the time of their early manhood they
hardly know what it is not to sit there; and the honour is hardly
appreciated, being too much a matter of course. As a rule, they
never know how great a thing it is to be in Parliament; though, when
reverse comes, as reverses occasionally will come, they fully feel
how dreadful it is to be left out.

But to men aspiring to be members, or to those who having been
once fortunate have again to fight the battle without assurance of
success, the coming election must be matter of dread concern. Oh, how
delightful to hear that the long-talked-of rival has declined the
contest, and that the course is clear! or to find by a short canvass
that one's majority is safe, and the pleasures of crowing over an
unlucky, friendless foe quite secured!

No such gratification as this filled the bosom of Mr Moffat on
the morning of the Barchester election. To him had been brought
no positive assurance of success by his indefatigable agent, Mr
Nearthewinde. It was admitted on all sides that the contest would be
a very close one; and Mr Nearthewinde would not do more than assert
that they ought to win unless things went very wrong with them.

Mr Nearthewinde had other elections to attend to, and had not been
remaining at Courcy Castle ever since the coming of Miss Dunstable:
but he had been there, and at Barchester, as often as possible, and
Mr Moffat was made greatly uneasy by reflecting how very high the
bill would be.

The two parties had outdone each other in the loudness of their
assertions, that each would on his side conduct the election in
strict conformity to law. There was to be no bribery. Bribery! who,
indeed, in these days would dare to bribe; to give absolute money for
an absolute vote, and pay for such an article in downright palpable
sovereigns? No. Purity was much too rampant for that, and the means
of detection too well understood. But purity was to be carried much
further than this. There should be no treating; no hiring of two
hundred voters to act as messengers at twenty shillings a day in
looking up some four hundred other voters; no bands were to be paid
for; no carriages furnished; no ribbons supplied. British voters were
to vote, if vote they would, for the love and respect they bore to
their chosen candidate. If so actuated, they would not vote, they
might stay away; no other inducement would be offered.

So much was said loudly--very loudly--by each party; but,
nevertheless, Mr Moffat, early in these election days, began to have
some misgivings about the bill. The proclaimed arrangement had been
one exactly suitable to his taste; for Mr Moffat loved his money. He
was a man in whose breast the ambition of being great in the world,
and of joining himself to aristocratic people was continually at war
with the great cost which such tastes occasioned. His last election
had not been a cheap triumph. In one way or another money had
been dragged from him for purposes which had been to his mind
unintelligible; and when, about the middle of his first session, he
had, with much grumbling, settled all demands, he had questioned with
himself whether his whistle was worth its cost.

He was therefore a great stickler for purity of election; although,
had he considered the matter, he should have known that with him
money was his only passport into that Elysium in which he had now
lived for two years. He probably did not consider it; for when, in
those canvassing days immediately preceding the election, he had
seen that all the beer-houses were open, and half the population
was drunk, he had asked Mr Nearthewinde whether this violation of
the treaty was taking place only on the part of his opponent, and
whether, in such case, it would not be duly noticed with a view to a
possible future petition.

Mr Nearthewinde assured him triumphantly that half at least of the
wallowing swine were his own especial friends; and that somewhat
more than half of the publicans of the town were eagerly engaged in
fighting his, Mr Moffat's battle. Mr Moffat groaned, and would have
expostulated had Mr Nearthewinde been willing to hear him. But that
gentleman's services had been put into requisition by Lord de Courcy
rather than by the candidate. For the candidate he cared but little.
To pay the bill would be enough for him. He, Mr Nearthewinde, was
doing his business as he well knew how to do it; and it was not
likely that he should submit to be lectured by such as Mr Moffat on a
trumpery score of expense.

It certainly did appear on the morning of the election as though some
great change had been made in that resolution of the candidates to be
very pure. From an early hour rough bands of music were to be heard
in every part of the usually quiet town; carts and gigs, omnibuses
and flys, all the old carriages from all the inn-yards, and every
vehicle of any description which could be pressed into the service
were in motion; if the horses and post-boys were not to be paid for
by the candidates, the voters themselves were certainly very liberal
in their mode of bringing themselves to the poll. The election
district of the city of Barchester extended for some miles on each
side of the city, so that the omnibuses and flys had enough to do.
Beer was to be had at the public-houses, almost without question, by
all who chose to ask for it; and rum and brandy were dispensed to
select circles within the bars with equal profusion. As for ribbons,
the mercers' shops must have been emptied of that article, as far as
scarlet and yellow were concerned. Scarlet was Sir Roger's colour,
while the friends of Mr Moffat were decked with yellow. Seeing what
he did see, Mr Moffat might well ask whether there had not been a
violation of the treaty of purity!

At the time of this election there was some question whether England
should go to war with all her energy; or whether it would not be
better for her to save her breath to cool her porridge, and not
meddle more than could be helped with foreign quarrels. The last view
of the matter was advocated by Sir Roger, and his motto of course
proclaimed the merits of domestic peace and quiet. "Peace abroad and
a big loaf at home," was consequently displayed on four or five huge
scarlet banners, and carried waving over the heads of the people. But
Mr Moffat was a staunch supporter of the Government, who were already
inclined to be belligerent, and "England's honour" was therefore the
legend under which he selected to do battle. It may, however, be
doubted whether there was in all Barchester one inhabitant--let alone
one elector--so fatuous as to suppose that England's honour was in
any special manner dear to Mr Moffat; or that he would be a whit more
sure of a big loaf than he was now, should Sir Roger happily become a
member of the legislature.

And then the fine arts were resorted to, seeing that language fell
short in telling all that was found necessary to be told. Poor Sir
Roger's failing as regards the bottle was too well known; and it was
also known that, in acquiring his title, he had not quite laid aside
the rough mode of speech which he had used in his early years. There
was, consequently, a great daub painted up on sundry walls, on which
a navvy, with a pimply, bloated face, was to be seen standing on a
railway bank, leaning on a spade holding a bottle in one hand, while
he invited a comrade to drink. "Come, Jack, shall us have a drop of
some'at short?" were the words coming out of the navvy's mouth; and
under this was painted in huge letters,


   "THE LAST NEW BARONET."


But Mr Moffat hardly escaped on easier terms. The trade by which his
father had made his money was as well known as that of the railway
contractor; and every possible symbol of tailordom was displayed in
graphic portraiture on the walls and hoardings of the city. He was
drawn with his goose, with his scissors, with his needle, with his
tapes; he might be seen measuring, cutting, stitching, pressing,
carrying home his bundle, and presenting his little bill; and under
each of these representations was repeated his own motto: "England's
honour."

Such were the pleasant little amenities with which the people of
Barchester greeted the two candidates who were desirous of the honour
of serving them in Parliament.

The polling went on briskly and merrily. There were somewhat above
nine hundred registered voters, of whom the greater portion recorded
their votes early in the day. At two o'clock, according to Sir
Roger's committee, the numbers were as follows:--


   Scatcherd    275
   Moffat       268


Whereas, by the light afforded by Mr Moffat's people, they stood in a
slightly different ratio to each other, being written thus:--


   Moffat       277
   Scatcherd    269


This naturally heightened the excitement, and gave additional delight
to the proceedings. At half-past two it was agreed by both sides that
Mr Moffat was ahead; the Moffatites claiming a majority of twelve,
and the Scatcherdites allowing a majority of one. But by three
o'clock sundry good men and true, belonging to the railway interest,
had made their way to the booth in spite of the efforts of a band
of roughs from Courcy, and Sir Roger was again leading, by ten or a
dozen, according to his own showing.

One little transaction which took place in the earlier part of the
day deserves to be recorded. There was in Barchester an honest
publican--honest as the world of publicans goes--who not only was
possessed of a vote, but possessed also of a son who was a voter.
He was one Reddypalm, and in former days, before he had learned to
appreciate the full value of an Englishman's franchise, he had been a
declared Liberal and an early friend of Roger Scatcherd's. In latter
days he had governed his political feelings with more decorum, and
had not allowed himself to be carried away by such foolish fervour as
he had evinced in his youth. On this special occasion, however, his
line of conduct was so mysterious as for a while to baffle even those
who knew him best.

His house was apparently open in Sir Roger's interest. Beer, at any
rate, was flowing there as elsewhere; and scarlet ribbons going
in--not, perhaps, in a state of perfect steadiness--came out more
unsteady than before. Still had Mr Reddypalm been deaf to the voice
of that charmer, Closerstil, though he had charmed with all his
wisdom. Mr Reddypalm had stated, first his unwillingness to vote at
all:--he had, he said, given over politics, and was not inclined to
trouble his mind again with the subject; then he had spoken of his
great devotion to the Duke of Omnium, under whose grandfathers his
grandfather had been bred: Mr Nearthewinde had, as he said, been
with him, and proved to him beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would
show the deepest ingratitude on his part to vote against the duke's
candidate.

Mr Closerstil thought he understood all this, and sent more, and
still more men to drink beer. He even caused--taking infinite trouble
to secure secrecy in the matter--three gallons of British brandy to
be ordered and paid for as the best French. But, nevertheless, Mr
Reddypalm made no sign to show that he considered that the right
thing had been done. On the evening before the election, he told
one of Mr Closerstil's confidential men, that he had thought a good
deal about it, and that he believed he should be constrained by his
conscience to vote for Mr Moffat.

We have said that Mr Closerstil was accompanied by a learned friend
of his, one Mr Romer, a barrister, who was greatly interested in Sir
Roger, and who, being a strong Liberal, was assisting in the canvass
with much energy. He, hearing how matters were likely to go with
this conscientious publican, and feeling himself peculiarly capable
of dealing with such delicate scruples, undertook to look into the
case in hand. Early, therefore, on the morning of the election, he
sauntered down the cross street in which hung out the sign of the
Brown Bear, and, as he expected, found Mr Reddypalm near his own
door.

Now it was quite an understood thing that there was to be no bribery.
This was understood by no one better than by Mr Romer, who had, in
truth, drawn up many of the published assurances to that effect. And,
to give him his due, he was fully minded to act in accordance with
these assurances. The object of all the parties was to make it worth
the voters' while to give their votes; but to do so without bribery.
Mr Romer had repeatedly declared that he would have nothing to do
with any illegal practising; but he had also declared that, as long
as all was done according to law, he was ready to lend his best
efforts to assist Sir Roger. How he assisted Sir Roger, and adhered
to the law, will now be seen.

Oh, Mr Romer! Mr Romer! is it not the case with thee that thou
"wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst wrongly win?" Not in
electioneering, Mr Romer, any more than in other pursuits, can a man
touch pitch and not be defiled; as thou, innocent as thou art, wilt
soon learn to thy terrible cost.

"Well, Reddypalm," said Mr Romer, shaking hands with him. Mr Romer
had not been equally cautious as Nearthewinde, and had already drunk
sundry glasses of ale at the Brown Bear, in the hope of softening the
stern Bear-warden. "How is it to be to-day? Which is to be the man?"

"If any one knows that, Mr Romer, you must be the man. A poor
numbskull like me knows nothing of them matters. How should I?
All I looks to, Mr Romer, is selling a trifle of drink now and
then--selling it, and getting paid for it, you know, Mr Romer."

"Yes, that's important, no doubt. But come, Reddypalm, such an old
friend of Sir Roger as you are, a man he speaks of as one of his
intimate friends, I wonder how you can hesitate about it? Now with
another man, I should think that he wanted to be paid for voting--"

"Oh, Mr Romer!--fie--fie--fie!"

"I know it's not the case with you. It would be an insult to offer
you money, even if money were going. I should not mention this, only
as money is not going, neither on our side nor on the other, no harm
can be done."

"Mr Romer, if you speak of such a thing, you'll hurt me. I know the
value of an Englishman's franchise too well to wish to sell it. I
would not demean myself so low; no, not though five-and-twenty pound
a vote was going, as there was in the good old times--and that's not
so long ago neither."

"I am sure you wouldn't, Reddypalm; I'm sure you wouldn't. But an
honest man like you should stick to old friends. Now, tell me," and
putting his arm through Reddypalm's, he walked with him into the
passage of his own house; "Now, tell me--is there anything wrong?
It's between friends, you know. Is there anything wrong?"

"I wouldn't sell my vote for untold gold," said Reddypalm, who was
perhaps aware that untold gold would hardly be offered to him for it.

"I am sure you would not," said Mr Romer.

"But," said Reddypalm, "a man likes to be paid his little bill."

"Surely, surely," said the barrister.

"And I did say two years since, when your friend Mr Closerstil
brought a friend of his down to stand here--it wasn't Sir Roger
then--but when he brought a friend of his down, and when I drew
two or three hogsheads of ale on their side, and when my bill was
questioned and only half-settled, I did say that I wouldn't interfere
with no election no more. And no more I will, Mr Romer--unless it be
to give a quiet vote for the nobleman under whom I and mine always
lived respectable."

"Oh!" said Mr Romer.

"A man do like to have his bill paid, you know, Mr Romer."

Mr Romer could not but acknowledge that this was a natural feeling on
the part of an ordinary mortal publican.

"It goes agin the grain with a man not to have his little bill paid,
and specially at election time," again urged Mr Reddypalm.

Mr Romer had not much time to think about it; but he knew well that
matters were so nearly balanced, that the votes of Mr Reddypalm and
his son were of inestimable value.

"If it's only about your bill," said Mr Romer, "I'll see to have that
settled. I'll speak to Closerstil about that."

"All right!" said Reddypalm, seizing the young barrister's hand, and
shaking it warmly; "all right!" And late in the afternoon when a vote
or two became matter of intense interest, Mr Reddypalm and his son
came up to the hustings and boldly tendered theirs for their old
friend, Sir Roger.

There was a great deal of eloquence heard in Barchester on that day.
Sir Roger had by this time so far recovered as to be able to go
through the dreadfully hard work of canvassing and addressing the
electors from eight in the morning till near sunset. A very perfect
recovery, most men will say. Yes; a perfect recovery as regarded the
temporary use of his faculties, both physical and mental; though
it may be doubted whether there can be any permanent recovery from
such disease as his. What amount of brandy he consumed to enable
him to perform this election work, and what lurking evil effect the
excitement might have on him--of these matters no record was kept in
the history of those proceedings.

Sir Roger's eloquence was of a rough kind; but not perhaps the less
operative on those for whom it was intended. The aristocracy of
Barchester consisted chiefly of clerical dignitaries, bishops, deans,
prebendaries, and such like: on them and theirs it was not probable
that anything said by Sir Roger would have much effect. Those men
would either abstain from voting, or vote for the railway hero,
with the view of keeping out the de Courcy candidate. Then came the
shopkeepers, who might also be regarded as a stiff-necked generation,
impervious to electioneering eloquence. They would, generally,
support Mr Moffat. But there was an inferior class of voters,
ten-pound freeholders, and such like, who, at this period, were
somewhat given to have an opinion of their own, and over them it was
supposed that Sir Roger did obtain some power by his gift of talking.

"Now, gentlemen, will you tell me this," said he, bawling at the top
of his voice from off the portico which graced the door of the Dragon
of Wantley, at which celebrated inn Sir Roger's committee sat:--"Who
is Mr Moffat, and what has he done for us? There have been some
picture-makers about the town this week past. The Lord knows who
they are; I don't. These clever fellows do tell you who I am, and
what I've done. I ain't very proud of the way they've painted me,
though there's something about it I ain't ashamed of either. See
here," and he held up on one side of him one of the great daubs of
himself--"just hold it there till I can explain it," and he handed
the paper to one of his friends. "That's me," said Sir Roger, putting
up his stick, and pointing to the pimply-nosed representation of
himself.

"Hurrah! Hur-r-rah! more power to you--we all know who you are,
Roger. You're the boy! When did you get drunk last?" Such-like
greetings, together with a dead cat which was flung at him from the
crowd, and which he dexterously parried with his stick, were the
answers which he received to this exordium.

"Yes," said he, quite undismayed by this little missile which had
so nearly reached him: "that's me. And look here; this brown,
dirty-looking broad streak here is intended for a railway; and that
thing in my hand--not the right hand; I'll come to that presently--"

"How about the brandy, Roger?"

"I'll come to that presently. I'll tell you about the brandy in good
time. But that thing in my left hand is a spade. Now, I never handled
a spade, and never could; but, boys, I handled a chisel and mallet;
and many a hundred block of stone has come out smooth from under that
hand;" and Sir Roger lifted up his great broad palm wide open.

"So you did, Roger, and well we minds it."

"The meaning, however, of that spade is to show that I made the
railway. Now I'm very much obliged to those gentlemen over at the
White Horse for putting up this picture of me. It's a true picture,
and it tells you who I am. I did make that railway. I have made
thousands of miles of railway; I am making thousands of miles of
railways--some in Europe, some in Asia, some in America. It's a
true picture," and he poked his stick through it and held it up to
the crowd. "A true picture: but for that spade and that railway, I
shouldn't be now here asking your votes; and, when next February
comes, I shouldn't be sitting in Westminster to represent you, as, by
God's grace, I certainly will do. That tells you who I am. But now,
will you tell me who Mr Moffat is?"

"How about the brandy, Roger?"

"Oh, yes, the brandy! I was forgetting that and the little speech
that is coming out of my mouth--a deal shorter speech, and a better
one than what I am making now. Here, in the right hand you see a
brandy bottle. Well, boys, I'm not a bit ashamed of that; as long
as a man does his work--and the spade shows that--it's only fair he
should have something to comfort him. I'm always able to work, and
few men work much harder. I'm always able to work, and no man has a
right to expect more of me. I never expect more than that from those
who work for me."

"No more you don't, Roger: a little drop's very good, ain't it,
Roger? Keeps the cold from the stomach, eh, Roger?"

"Then as to this speech, 'Come, Jack, let's have a drop of some'at
short.' Why, that's a good speech too. When I do drink I like to
share with a friend; and I don't care how humble that friend is."

"Hurrah! more power. That's true too, Roger; may you never be without
a drop to wet your whistle."

"They say I'm the last new baronet. Well, I ain't ashamed of that;
not a bit. When will Mr Moffat get himself made a baronet? No man
can truly say I'm too proud of it. I have never stuck myself up; no,
nor stuck my wife up either: but I don't see much to be ashamed of
because the bigwigs chose to make a baronet of me."

"Nor, no more thee h'ant, Roger. We'd all be barrownites if so be we
knew the way."

"But now, having polished off this bit of picture, let me ask you who
Mr Moffat is? There are pictures enough about him, too; though Heaven
knows where they all come from. I think Sir Edwin Landseer must have
done this one of the goose; it is so deadly natural. Look at it;
there he is. Upon my word, whoever did that ought to make his fortune
at some of these exhibitions. Here he is again, with a big pair
of scissors. He calls himself 'England's honour;' what the deuce
England's honour has to do with tailoring, I can't tell you: perhaps
Mr Moffat can. But mind you, my friends, I don't say anything against
tailoring: some of you are tailors, I dare say."

"Yes, we be," said a little squeaking voice from out of the crowd.

"And a good trade it is. When I first knew Barchester there were
tailors here could lick any stone-mason in the trade; I say nothing
against tailors. But it isn't enough for a man to be a tailor unless
he's something else along with it. You're not so fond of tailors that
you'll send one up to Parliament merely because he is a tailor."

"We won't have no tailors. No; nor yet no cabbaging. Take a go of
brandy, Roger; you're blown."

"No, I'm not blown yet. I've a deal more to say about Mr Moffat
before I shall be blown. What has he done to entitle him to come here
before you and ask you to send him to Parliament? Why; he isn't even
a tailor. I wish he were. There's always some good in a fellow who
knows how to earn his own bread. But he isn't a tailor; he can't even
put a stitch in towards mending England's honour. His father was a
tailor; not a Barchester tailor, mind you, so as to give him any
claim on your affections; but a London tailor. Now the question is,
do you want to send the son of a London tailor up to Parliament to
represent you?"

"No, we don't; nor yet we won't either."

"I rather think not. You've had him once, and what has he done for
you? Has he said much for you in the House of Commons? Why, he's so
dumb a dog that he can't bark even for a bone. I'm told it's quite
painful to hear him fumbling and mumbling and trying to get up a
speech there over at the White Horse. He doesn't belong to the city;
he hasn't done anything for the city; and he hasn't the power to do
anything for the city. Then, why on earth does he come here? I'll
tell you. The Earl de Courcy brings him. He's going to marry the
Earl de Courcy's niece; for they say he's very rich--this tailor's
son--only they do say also that he doesn't much like to spend his
money. He's going to marry Lord de Courcy's niece, and Lord de Courcy
wishes that his nephew should be in Parliament. There, that's the
claim which Mr Moffat has here on the people of Barchester. He's Lord
de Courcy's nominee, and those who feel themselves bound hand and
foot, heart and soul, to Lord de Courcy, had better vote for him.
Such men have my leave. If there are enough of such at Barchester to
send him to Parliament, the city in which I was born must be very
much altered since I was a young man."

And so finishing his speech, Sir Roger retired within, and recruited
himself in the usual manner.

Such was the flood of eloquence at the Dragon of Wantly. At the White
Horse, meanwhile, the friends of the de Courcy interest were treated
perhaps to sounder political views; though not expressed in periods
so intelligibly fluent as those of Sir Roger.

Mr Moffat was a young man, and there was no knowing to what
proficiency in the Parliamentary gift of public talking he might yet
attain; but hitherto his proficiency was not great. He had, however,
endeavoured to make up by study for any want of readiness of speech,
and had come to Barchester daily, for the last four days, fortified
with a very pretty harangue, which he had prepared for himself in
the solitude of his chamber. On the three previous days matters
had been allowed to progress with tolerable smoothness, and he had
been permitted to deliver himself of his elaborate eloquence with
few other interruptions than those occasioned by his own want of
practice. But on this, the day of days, the Barchesterian roughs were
not so complaisant. It appeared to Mr Moffat, when he essayed to
speak, that he was surrounded by enemies rather than friends; and in
his heart he gave great blame to Mr Nearthewinde for not managing
matters better for him.

"Men of Barchester," he began, in a voice which was every now and
then preternaturally loud, but which, at each fourth or fifth word,
gave way from want of power, and descended to its natural weak tone.
"Men of Barchester--electors and non-electors--"

"We is hall electors; hall on us, my young kiddy."

"Electors and non-electors, I now ask your suffrages, not for the
first time--"

"Oh! we've tried you. We know what you're made on. Go on, Snip; don't
you let 'em put you down."

"I've had the honour of representing you in Parliament for the last
two years and--"

"And a deuced deal you did for us, didn't you?"

"What could you expect from the ninth part of a man? Never mind,
Snip--go on; don't you be put out by any of them. Stick to your wax
and thread like a man--like the ninth part of a man--go on a little
faster, Snip."

"For the last two years--and--and--" Here Mr Moffat looked round to
his friends for some little support, and the Honourable George, who
stood close behind him, suggested that he had gone through it like a
brick.

"And--and I went through it like a brick," said Mr Moffat, with the
gravest possible face, taking up in his utter confusion the words
that were put into his mouth.

"Hurray!--so you did--you're the real brick. Well done, Snip; go it
again with the wax and thread!"

"I am a thorough-paced reformer," continued Mr Moffat, somewhat
reassured by the effect of the opportune words which his friend had
whispered into his ear. "A thorough-paced reformer--a thorough-paced
reformer--"

"Go on, Snip. We all know what that means."

"A thorough-paced reformer--"

"Never mind your paces, man; but get on. Tell us something new. We're
all reformers, we are."

Poor Mr Moffat was a little thrown back. It wasn't so easy to tell
these gentlemen anything new, harnessed as he was at this moment; so
he looked back at his honourable supporter for some further hint.
"Say something about their daughters," whispered George, whose own
flights of oratory were always on that subject. Had he counselled Mr
Moffat to say a word or two about the tides, his advice would not
have been less to the purpose.

"Gentlemen," he began again--"you all know that I am a thorough-paced
reformer--"

"Oh, drat your reform. He's a dumb dog. Go back to your goose,
Snippy; you never were made for this work. Go to Courcy Castle and
reform that."

Mr Moffat, grieved in his soul, was becoming inextricably bewildered
by such facetiæ as these, when an egg,--and it may be feared not a
fresh egg,--flung with unerring precision, struck him on the open
part of his well-plaited shirt, and reduced him to speechless
despair.

An egg is a means of delightful support when properly administered;
but it is not calculated to add much spirit to a man's eloquence, or
to ensure his powers of endurance, when supplied in the manner above
described. Men there are, doubtless, whose tongues would not be
stopped even by such an argument as this; but Mr Moffat was not one
of them. As the insidious fluid trickled down beneath his waistcoat,
he felt that all further powers of coaxing the electors out of their
votes, by words flowing from his tongue sweeter than honey, was
for that occasion denied to him. He could not be self-confident,
energetic, witty, and good-humoured with a rotten egg drying through
his clothes. He was forced, therefore, to give way, and with sadly
disconcerted air retired from the open window at which he had been
standing.

It was in vain that the Honourable George, Mr Nearthewinde, and Frank
endeavoured again to bring him to the charge. He was like a beaten
prize-fighter, whose pluck has been cowed out of him, and who, if he
stands up, only stands up to fall. Mr Moffat got sulky also, and when
he was pressed, said that Barchester and the people in it might be
d----. "With all my heart," said Mr Nearthewinde. "That wouldn't have
any effect on their votes."

But, in truth, it mattered very little whether Mr Moffat spoke,
or whether he didn't speak. Four o'clock was the hour for closing
the poll, and that was now fast coming. Tremendous exertions had
been made about half-past three, by a safe emissary sent from
Nearthewinde, to prove to Mr Reddypalm that all manner of contingent
advantages would accrue to the Brown Bear if it should turn out that
Mr Moffat should take his seat for Barchester. No bribe was, of
course, offered or even hinted at. The purity of Barchester was not
contaminated during the day by one such curse as this. But a man, and
a publican, would be required to do some great deed in the public
line; to open some colossal tap; to draw beer for the million; and no
one would be so fit as Mr Reddypalm--if only it might turn out that
Mr Moffat should, in the coming February, take his seat as member for
Barchester.

But Mr Reddypalm was a man of humble desires, whose ambitions soared
no higher than this--that his little bills should be duly settled. It
is wonderful what love an innkeeper has for his bill in its entirety.
An account, with a respectable total of five or six pounds, is
brought to you, and you complain but of one article; that fire in the
bedroom was never lighted; or that second glass of brandy and water
was never called for. You desire to have the shilling expunged, and
all your host's pleasure in the whole transaction is destroyed. Oh!
my friends, pay for the brandy and water, though you never drank it;
suffer the fire to pass, though it never warmed you. Why make a good
man miserable for such a trifle?

It became notified to Reddypalm with sufficient clearness that his
bill for the past election should be paid without further question;
and, therefore, at five o'clock the Mayor of Barchester proclaimed
the results of the contest in the following figures:--


   Scatcherd    378
   Moffat       376


Mr Reddypalm's two votes had decided the question. Mr Nearthewinde
immediately went up to town; and the dinner party at Courcy Castle
that evening was not a particularly pleasant meal.

This much, however, had been absolutely decided before the yellow
committee concluded their labour at the White Horse: there should be
a petition. Mr Nearthewinde had not been asleep, and already knew
something of the manner in which Mr Reddypalm's mind had been
quieted.




CHAPTER XVIII

The Rivals


The intimacy between Frank and Miss Dunstable grew and prospered.
That is to say, it prospered as an intimacy, though perhaps hardly
as a love affair. There was a continued succession of jokes between
them, which no one else in the castle understood; but the very fact
of there being such a good understanding between them rather stood
in the way of, than assisted, that consummation which the countess
desired. People, when they are in love with each other, or even when
they pretend to be, do not generally show it by loud laughter. Nor is
it frequently the case that a wife with two hundred thousand pounds
can be won without some little preliminary despair. Now there was no
despair at all about Frank Gresham.

Lady de Courcy, who thoroughly understood that portion of the world
in which she herself lived, saw that things were not going quite as
they should do, and gave much and repeated advice to Frank on the
subject. She was the more eager in doing this, because she imagined
Frank had done what he could to obey her first precepts. He had not
turned up his nose at Miss Dunstable's curls, nor found fault with
her loud voice: he had not objected to her as ugly, nor even shown
any dislike to her age. A young man who had been so amenable to
reason was worthy of further assistance; and so Lady de Courcy did
what she could to assist him.

"Frank, my dear boy," she would say, "you are a little too noisy, I
think. I don't mean for myself, you know; I don't mind it. But Miss
Dunstable would like it better if you were a little more quiet with
her."

"Would she, aunt?" said Frank, looking demurely up into the
countess's face. "I rather think she likes fun and noise, and that
sort of thing. You know she's not very quiet herself."

"Ah!--but Frank, there are times, you know, when that sort of thing
should be laid aside. Fun, as you call it, is all very well in its
place. Indeed, no one likes it better than I do. But that's not the
way to show admiration. Young ladies like to be admired; and if
you'll be a little more soft-mannered with Miss Dunstable, I'm sure
you'll find it will answer better."

And so the old bird taught the young bird how to fly--very
needlessly--for in this matter of flying, Nature gives her own
lessons thoroughly; and the ducklings will take the water, even
though the maternal hen warn them against the perfidious element
never so loudly.

Soon after this, Lady de Courcy began to be not very well pleased
in the matter. She took it into her head that Miss Dunstable was
sometimes almost inclined to laugh at her; and on one or two
occasions it almost seemed as though Frank was joining Miss Dunstable
in doing so. The fact indeed was, that Miss Dunstable was fond of
fun; and, endowed as she was with all the privileges which two
hundred thousand pounds may be supposed to give to a young lady,
did not very much care at whom she laughed. She was able to make a
tolerably correct guess at Lady de Courcy's plan towards herself;
but she did not for a moment think that Frank had any intention
of furthering his aunt's views. She was, therefore, not at all
ill-inclined to have her revenge on the countess.

"How very fond your aunt is of you!" she said to him one wet morning,
as he was sauntering through the house; now laughing, and almost
romping with her--then teasing his sister about Mr Moffat--and then
bothering his lady-cousins out of all their propriety.

"Oh, very!" said Frank: "she is a dear, good woman, is my Aunt de
Courcy."

"I declare she takes more notice of you and your doings than of any
of your cousins. I wonder they ain't jealous."

"Oh! they're such good people. Bless me, they'd never be jealous."

"You are so much younger than they are, that I suppose she thinks you
want more of her care."

"Yes; that's it. You see she's fond of having a baby to nurse."

"Tell me, Mr Gresham, what was it she was saying to you last night? I
know we had been misbehaving ourselves dreadfully. It was all your
fault; you would make me laugh so."

"That's just what I said to her."

"She was talking about me, then?"

"How on earth should she talk of any one else as long as you are
here? Don't you know that all the world is talking about you?"

"Is it?--dear me, how kind! But I don't care a straw about any world
just at present but Lady de Courcy's world. What did she say?"

"She said you were very beautiful--"

"Did she?--how good of her!"

"No; I forgot. It--it was I that said that; and she said--what was
it she said? She said, that after all, beauty was but skin deep--and
that she valued you for your virtues and prudence rather than your
good looks."

"Virtues and prudence! She said I was prudent and virtuous?"

"Yes."

"And you talked of my beauty? That was so kind of you. You didn't
either of you say anything about other matters?"

"What other matters?"

"Oh! I don't know. Only some people are sometimes valued rather for
what they've got than for any good qualities belonging to themselves
intrinsically."

"That can never be the case with Miss Dunstable; especially not at
Courcy Castle," said Frank, bowing easily from the corner of the sofa
over which he was leaning.

"Of course not," said Miss Dunstable; and Frank at once perceived
that she spoke in a tone of voice differing much from that
half-bantering, half-good-humoured manner that was customary with
her. "Of course not: any such idea would be quite out of the question
with Lady de Courcy." She paused for a moment, and then added
in a tone different again, and unlike any that he had yet heard
from her:--"It is, at any rate, out of the question with Mr Frank
Gresham--of that I am quite sure."

Frank ought to have understood her, and have appreciated the good
opinion which she intended to convey; but he did not entirely do so.
He was hardly honest himself towards her; and he could not at first
perceive that she intended to say that she thought him so. He knew
very well that she was alluding to her own huge fortune, and was
alluding also to the fact that people of fashion sought her because
of it; but he did not know that she intended to express a true
acquittal as regarded him of any such baseness.

And did he deserve to be acquitted? Yes, upon the whole he did;--to
be acquitted of that special sin. His desire to make Miss Dunstable
temporarily subject to his sway arose, not from a hankering after her
fortune, but from an ambition to get the better of a contest in which
other men around him seemed to be failing.

For it must not be imagined that, with such a prize to be struggled
for, all others stood aloof and allowed him to have his own way
with the heiress, undisputed. The chance of a wife with two hundred
thousand pounds is a godsend which comes in a man's life too seldom
to be neglected, let that chance be never so remote.

Frank was the heir to a large embarrassed property; and, therefore,
the heads of families, putting their wisdoms together, had thought it
most meet that this daughter of Plutus should, if possible, fall to
his lot. But not so thought the Honourable George; and not so thought
another gentleman who was at that time an inmate of Courcy Castle.

These suitors perhaps somewhat despised their young rival's efforts.
It may be that they had sufficient worldly wisdom to know that so
important a crisis of life is not settled among quips and jokes, and
that Frank was too much in jest to be in earnest. But be that as it
may, his love-making did not stand in the way of their love-making;
nor his hopes, if he had any, in the way of their hopes.

The Honourable George had discussed the matter with the Honourable
John in a properly fraternal manner. It may be that John had also
an eye to the heiress; but, if so, he had ceded his views to his
brother's superior claims; for it came about that they understood
each other very well, and John favoured George with salutary advice
on the occasion.

"If it is to be done at all, it should be done very sharp," said
John.

"As sharp as you like," said George. "I'm not the fellow to be
studying three months in what attitude I'll fall at a girl's feet."

"No: and when you are there you mustn't take three months more to
study how you'll get up again. If you do it at all, you must do it
sharp," repeated John, putting great stress on his advice.

"I have said a few soft words to her already, and she didn't seem to
take them badly," said George.

"She's no chicken, you know," remarked John; "and with a woman like
that, beating about the bush never does any good. The chances are she
won't have you--that's of course; plums like that don't fall into a
man's mouth merely for shaking the tree. But it's possible she may;
and if she will, she's as likely to take you to-day as this day six
months. If I were you I'd write her a letter."

"Write her a letter--eh?" said George, who did not altogether dislike
the advice, for it seemed to take from his shoulders the burden of
preparing a spoken address. Though he was so glib in speaking about
the farmers' daughters, he felt that he should have some little
difficulty in making known his passion to Miss Dunstable by word of
mouth.

"Yes; write a letter. If she'll take you at all, she'll take you that
way; half the matches going are made up by writing letters. Write her
a letter and get it put on her dressing-table." George said that he
would, and so he did.

George spoke quite truly when he hinted that he had said a few soft
things to Miss Dunstable. Miss Dunstable, however, was accustomed to
hear soft things. She had been carried much about in society among
fashionable people since, on the settlement of her father's will, she
had been pronounced heiress to all the ointment of Lebanon; and many
men had made calculations respecting her similar to those which were
now animating the brain of the Honourable George de Courcy. She was
already quite accustomed to being the target at which spendthrifts
and the needy rich might shoot their arrows: accustomed to being shot
at, and tolerably accustomed to protect herself without making scenes
in the world, or rejecting the advantageous establishments offered
to her with any loud expressions of disdain. The Honourable George,
therefore, had been permitted to say soft things very much as a
matter of course.

And very little more outward fracas arose from the correspondence
which followed than had arisen from the soft things so said. George
wrote the letter, and had it duly conveyed to Miss Dunstable's
bed-chamber. Miss Dunstable duly received it, and had her answer
conveyed back discreetly to George's hands. The correspondence ran as
follows:--


   Courcy Castle, Aug. --, 185--.

   MY DEAREST MISS DUNSTABLE,

   I cannot but flatter myself that you must have perceived
   from my manner that you are not indifferent to me. Indeed,
   indeed, you are not. I may truly say, and swear [these
   last strong words had been put in by the special counsel
   of the Honourable John], that if ever a man loved a woman
   truly, I truly love you. You may think it very odd that
   I should say this in a letter instead of speaking it out
   before your face; but your powers of raillery are so great
   ["touch her up about her wit" had been the advice of the
   Honourable John] that I am all but afraid to encounter
   them. Dearest, dearest Martha--oh do not blame me for so
   addressing you!--if you will trust your happiness to me
   you shall never find that you have been deceived. My
   ambition shall be to make you shine in that circle which
   you are so well qualified to adorn, and to see you firmly
   fixed in that sphere of fashion for which all your tastes
   adapt you.

   I may safely assert--and I do assert it with my hand on
   my heart--that I am actuated by no mercenary motives. Far
   be it from me to marry any woman--no, not a princess--on
   account of her money. No marriage can be happy without
   mutual affection; and I do fully trust--no, not trust, but
   hope--that there may be such between you and me, dearest
   Miss Dunstable. Whatever settlements you might propose,
   I should accede to. It is you, your sweet person, that I
   love, not your money.

   For myself, I need not remind you that I am the second son
   of my father; and that, as such, I hold no inconsiderable
   station in the world. My intention is to get into
   Parliament, and to make a name for myself, if I can, among
   those who shine in the House of Commons. My elder brother,
   Lord Porlock, is, you are aware, unmarried; and we
   all fear that the family honours are not likely to be
   perpetuated by him, as he has all manner of troublesome
   liaisons which will probably prevent his settling in life.
   There is nothing at all of that kind in my way. It will
   indeed be a delight to place a coronet on the head of my
   lovely Martha: a coronet which can give no fresh grace to
   her, but which will be so much adorned by her wearing it.

   Dearest Miss Dunstable, I shall wait with the utmost
   impatience for your answer; and now, burning with hope
   that it may not be altogether unfavourable to my love, I
   beg permission to sign myself--

   Your own most devoted,

   GEORGE DE COURCY.


The ardent lover had not to wait long for an answer from his
mistress. She found this letter on her toilet-table one night as she
went to bed. The next morning she came down to breakfast and met her
swain with the most unconcerned air in the world; so much so that
he began to think, as he munched his toast with rather a shamefaced
look, that the letter on which so much was to depend had not yet come
safely to hand. But his suspense was not of a prolonged duration.
After breakfast, as was his wont, he went out to the stables with his
brother and Frank Gresham; and while there, Miss Dunstable's man,
coming up to him, touched his hat, and put a letter into his hand.

Frank, who knew the man, glanced at the letter and looked at his
cousin; but he said nothing. He was, however, a little jealous, and
felt that an injury was done to him by any correspondence between
Miss Dunstable and his cousin George.

Miss Dunstable's reply was as follows; and it may be remarked that
it was written in a very clear and well-penned hand, and one which
certainly did not betray much emotion of the heart:--


   MY DEAR MR DE COURCY,

   I am sorry to say that I had not perceived from your
   manner that you entertained any peculiar feelings towards
   me; as, had I done so, I should at once have endeavoured
   to put an end to them. I am much flattered by the way in
   which you speak of me; but I am in too humble a position
   to return your affection; and can, therefore, only express
   a hope that you may be soon able to eradicate it from your
   bosom. A letter is a very good way of making an offer, and
   as such I do not think it at all odd; but I certainly did
   not expect such an honour last night. As to my raillery, I
   trust it has never yet hurt you. I can assure you it never
   shall. I hope you will soon have a worthier ambition than
   that to which you allude; for I am well aware that no
   attempt will ever make me shine anywhere.

   I am quite sure you have had no mercenary motives: such
   motives in marriage are very base, and quite below your
   name and lineage. Any little fortune that I may have must
   be a matter of indifference to one who looks forward, as
   you do, to put a coronet on his wife's brow. Nevertheless,
   for the sake of the family, I trust that Lord Porlock, in
   spite of his obstacles, may live to do the same for a wife
   of his own some of these days. I am glad to hear that
   there is nothing to interfere with your own prospects of
   domestic felicity.

   Sincerely hoping that you may be perfectly successful in
   your proud ambition to shine in Parliament, and regretting
   extremely that I cannot share that ambition with you, I
   beg to subscribe myself, with very great respect,--

   Your sincere well-wisher,

   MARTHA DUNSTABLE.


The Honourable George, with that modesty which so well became him,
accepted Miss Dunstable's reply as a final answer to his little
proposition, and troubled her with no further courtship. As he said
to his brother John, no harm had been done, and he might have better
luck next time. But there was an inmate of Courcy Castle who was
somewhat more pertinacious in his search after love and wealth. This
was no other than Mr Moffat: a gentleman whose ambition was not
satisfied by the cares of his Barchester contest, or the possession
of one affianced bride.

Mr Moffat was, as we have said, a man of wealth; but we all know,
from the lessons of early youth, how the love of money increases and
gains strength by its own success. Nor was he a man of so mean a
spirit as to be satisfied with mere wealth. He desired also place and
station, and gracious countenance among the great ones of the earth.
Hence had come his adherence to the de Courcys; hence his seat in
Parliament; and hence, also, his perhaps ill-considered match with
Miss Gresham.

There is no doubt but that the privilege of matrimony offers
opportunities to money-loving young men which ought not to be lightly
abused. Too many young men marry without giving any consideration to
the matter whatever. It is not that they are indifferent to money,
but that they recklessly miscalculate their own value, and omit to
look around and see how much is done by those who are more careful.
A man can be young but once, and, except in cases of a special
interposition of Providence, can marry but once. The chance once
thrown away may be said to be irrevocable! How, in after-life, do
men toil and turmoil through long years to attain some prospect of
doubtful advancement! Half that trouble, half that care, a tithe of
that circumspection would, in early youth, have probably secured to
them the enduring comfort of a wife's wealth.

You will see men labouring night and day to become bank directors;
and even a bank direction may only be the road to ruin. Others will
spend years in degrading subserviency to obtain a niche in a will;
and the niche, when at last obtained and enjoyed, is but a sorry
payment for all that has been endured. Others, again, struggle
harder still, and go through even deeper waters: they make wills for
themselves, forge stock-shares, and fight with unremitting, painful
labour to appear to be the thing that they are not. Now, in many
of these cases, all this might have been spared had the men made
adequate use of those opportunities which youth and youthful charms
afford once--and once only. There is no road to wealth so easy and
respectable as that of matrimony; that, is of course, provided that
the aspirant declines the slow course of honest work. But then, we
can so seldom put old heads on young shoulders!

In the case of Mr Moffat, we may perhaps say that a specimen was
produced of this bird, so rare in the land. His shoulders were
certainly young, seeing that he was not yet six-and-twenty; but
his head had ever been old. From the moment when he was first put
forth to go alone--at the age of twenty-one--his life had been one
calculation how he could make the most of himself. He had allowed
himself to be betrayed into no folly by an unguarded heart; no
youthful indiscretion had marred his prospects. He had made the
most of himself. Without wit, or depth, or any mental gift--without
honesty of purpose or industry for good work--he had been for two
years sitting member for Barchester; was the guest of Lord de Courcy;
was engaged to the eldest daughter of one of the best commoners'
families in England; and was, when he first began to think of Miss
Dunstable, sanguine that his re-election to Parliament was secure.

When, however, at this period he began to calculate what his position
in the world really was, it occurred to him that he was doing an
ill-judged thing in marrying Miss Gresham. Why marry a penniless
girl--for Augusta's trifle of a fortune was not a penny in his
estimation--while there was Miss Dunstable in the world to be won?
His own six or seven thousand a year, quite unembarrassed as it was,
was certainly a great thing; but what might he not do if to that
he could add the almost fabulous wealth of the great heiress? Was
she not here, put absolutely in his path? Would it not be a wilful
throwing away of a chance not to avail himself of it? He must, to
be sure, lose the de Courcy friendship; but if he should then have
secured his Barchester seat for the usual term of parliamentary
session, he might be able to spare that. He would also, perhaps,
encounter some Gresham enmity: this was a point on which he did think
more than once: but what will not a man encounter for the sake of two
hundred thousand pounds?

It was thus that Mr Moffat argued with himself, with much prudence,
and brought himself to resolve that he would at any rate become a
candidate for the great prize. He also, therefore, began to say
soft things; and it must be admitted that he said them with more
considerate propriety than had the Honourable George. Mr Moffat had
an idea that Miss Dunstable was not a fool, and that in order to
catch her he must do more than endeavour to lay salt on her tail,
in the guise of flattery. It was evident to him that she was a bird
of some cunning, not to be caught by an ordinary gin, such as those
commonly in use with the Honourable Georges of Society.

It seemed to Mr Moffat, that though Miss Dunstable was so sprightly,
so full of fun, and so ready to chatter on all subjects, she well
knew the value of her own money, and of her position as dependent on
it: he perceived that she never flattered the countess, and seemed
to be no whit absorbed by the titled grandeur of her host's family.
He gave her credit, therefore, for an independent spirit: and an
independent spirit in his estimation was one that placed its sole
dependence on a respectable balance at its banker's.

Working on these ideas, Mr Moffat commenced operations in such manner
that his overtures to the heiress should not, if unsuccessful,
interfere with the Greshamsbury engagement. He began by making common
cause with Miss Dunstable: their positions in the world, he said to
her, were closely similar. They had both risen from the lower class
by the strength of honest industry: they were both now wealthy, and
had both hitherto made such use of their wealth as to induce the
highest aristocracy of England to admit them into their circles.

"Yes, Mr Moffat," had Miss Dunstable remarked; "and if all that I
hear be true, to admit you into their very families."

At this Mr Moffat slightly demurred. He would not affect, he said,
to misunderstand what Miss Dunstable meant. There had been something
said on the probability of such an event; but he begged Miss
Dunstable not to believe all that she heard on such subjects.

"I do not believe much," said she; "but I certainly did think that
that might be credited."

Mr Moffat then went on to show how it behoved them both, in holding
out their hands half-way to meet the aristocratic overtures that
were made to them, not to allow themselves to be made use of. The
aristocracy, according to Mr Moffat, were people of a very nice
sort; the best acquaintance in the world; a portion of mankind to be
noticed by whom should be one of the first objects in the life of the
Dunstables and the Moffats. But the Dunstables and Moffats should be
very careful to give little or nothing in return. Much, very much in
return, would be looked for. The aristocracy, said Mr Moffat, were
not a people to allow the light of their countenance to shine forth
without looking for a _quid pro quo_, for some compensating value.
In all their intercourse with the Dunstables and Moffats, they would
expect a payment. It was for the Dunstables and Moffats to see that,
at any rate, they did not pay more for the article they got than its
market value.

The way in which she, Miss Dunstable, and he, Mr Moffat, would be
required to pay would be by taking each of them some poor scion of
the aristocracy in marriage; and thus expending their hard-earned
wealth in procuring high-priced pleasures for some well-born pauper.
Against this, peculiar caution was to be used. Of course, the further
induction to be shown was this: that people so circumstanced should
marry among themselves; the Dunstables and the Moffats each with the
other, and not tumble into the pitfalls prepared for them.

Whether these great lessons had any lasting effect on Miss
Dunstable's mind may be doubted. Perhaps she had already made up her
mind on the subject which Mr Moffat so well discussed. She was older
than Mr Moffat, and, in spite of his two years of parliamentary
experience, had perhaps more knowledge of the world with which she
had to deal. But she listened to what he said with complacency;
understood his object as well as she had that of his aristocratic
rival; was no whit offended; but groaned in her spirit as she thought
of the wrongs of Augusta Gresham.

But all this good advice, however, would not win the money for Mr
Moffat without some more decided step; and that step he soon decided
on taking, feeling assured that what he had said would have its due
weight with the heiress.

The party at Courcy Castle was now soon about to be broken up. The
male de Courcys were going down to a Scotch mountain. The female de
Courcys were to be shipped off to an Irish castle. Mr Moffat was to
go up to town to prepare his petition. Miss Dunstable was again about
to start on a foreign tour in behalf of her physician and attendants;
and Frank Gresham was at last to be allowed to go to Cambridge; that
is to say, unless his success with Miss Dunstable should render such
a step on his part quite preposterous.

"I think you may speak now, Frank," said the countess. "I really
think you may: you have known her now for a considerable time; and,
as far as I can judge, she is very fond of you."

"Nonsense, aunt," said Frank; "she doesn't care a button for me."

"I think differently; and lookers-on, you know, always understand the
game best. I suppose you are not afraid to ask her."

"Afraid!" said Frank, in a tone of considerable scorn. He almost made
up his mind that he would ask her to show that he was not afraid.
His only obstacle to doing so was, that he had not the slightest
intention of marrying her.

There was to be but one other great event before the party broke up,
and that was a dinner at the Duke of Omnium's. The duke had already
declined to come to Courcy; but he had in a measure atoned for this
by asking some of the guests to join a great dinner which he was
about to give to his neighbours.

Mr Moffat was to leave Courcy Castle the day after the dinner-party,
and he therefore determined to make his great attempt on the morning
of that day. It was with some difficulty that he brought about an
opportunity; but at last he did so, and found himself alone with Miss
Dunstable in the walks of Courcy Park.

"It is a strange thing, is it not," said he, recurring to his old
view of the same subject, "that I should be going to dine with the
Duke of Omnium--the richest man, they say, among the whole English
aristocracy?"

"Men of that kind entertain everybody, I believe, now and then," said
Miss Dunstable, not very civilly.

"I believe they do; but I am not going as one of the everybodies.
I am going from Lord de Courcy's house with some of his own family.
I have no pride in that--not the least; I have more pride in my
father's honest industry. But it shows what money does in this
country of ours."

"Yes, indeed; money does a great deal many queer things." In saying
this Miss Dunstable could not but think that money had done a very
queer thing in inducing Miss Gresham to fall in love with Mr Moffat.

"Yes; wealth is very powerful: here we are, Miss Dunstable, the most
honoured guests in the house."

"Oh! I don't know about that; you may be, for you are a member of
Parliament, and all that--"

"No; not a member now, Miss Dunstable."

"Well, you will be, and that's all the same; but I have no such title
to honour, thank God."

They walked on in silence for a little while, for Mr Moffat hardly
knew how to manage the business he had in hand. "It is quite
delightful to watch these people," he said at last; "now they accuse
us of being tuft-hunters."

"Do they?" said Miss Dunstable. "Upon my word I didn't know that
anybody ever so accused me."

"I didn't mean you and me personally."

"Oh! I'm glad of that."

"But that is what the world says of persons of our class. Now it
seems to me that the toadying is all on the other side. The countess
here does toady you, and so do the young ladies."

"Do they? if so, upon my word I didn't know it. But, to tell the
truth, I don't think much of such things. I live mostly to myself, Mr
Moffat."

"I see that you do, and I admire you for it; but, Miss Dunstable, you
cannot always live so," and Mr Moffat looked at her in a manner which
gave her the first intimation of his coming burst of tenderness.

"That's as may be, Mr Moffat," said she.

He went on beating about the bush for some time--giving her to
understand how necessary it was that persons situated as they were
should live either for themselves or for each other, and that,
above all things, they should beware of falling into the mouths of
voracious aristocratic lions who go about looking for prey--till they
came to a turn in the grounds; at which Miss Dunstable declared her
determination of going in. She had walked enough, she said. As by
this time Mr Moffat's immediate intentions were becoming visible she
thought it prudent to retire. "Don't let me take you in, Mr Moffat;
but my boots are a little damp, and Dr Easyman will never forgive me
if I do not hurry in as fast as I can."

"Your feet damp?--I hope not: I do hope not," said he, with a look of
the greatest solicitude.

"Oh! it's nothing to signify; but it's well to be prudent, you know.
Good morning, Mr Moffat."

"Miss Dunstable!"

"Eh--yes!" and Miss Dunstable stopped in the grand path. "I won't let
you return with me, Mr Moffat, because I know you were not coming in
so soon."

"Miss Dunstable; I shall be leaving this to-morrow."

"Yes; and I go myself the day after."

"I know it. I am going to town and you are going abroad. It may be
long--very long--before we meet again."

"About Easter," said Miss Dunstable; "that is, if the doctor doesn't
knock up on the road."

"And I had, had wished to say something before we part for so long a
time. Miss Dunstable--"

"Stop!--Mr Moffat. Let me ask you one question. I'll hear anything
that you have got to say, but on one condition: that is, that Miss
Augusta Gresham shall be by while you say it. Will you consent to
that?"

"Miss Augusta Gresham," said he, "has no right to listen to my
private conversation."

"Has she not, Mr Moffat? then I think she should have. I, at any
rate, will not so far interfere with what I look on as her undoubted
privileges as to be a party to any secret in which she may not
participate."

"But, Miss Dunstable--"

"And to tell you fairly, Mr Moffat, any secret that you do tell me, I
shall most undoubtedly repeat to her before dinner. Good morning, Mr
Moffat; my feet are certainly a little damp, and if I stay a moment
longer, Dr Easyman will put off my foreign trip for at least a week."
And so she left him standing alone in the middle of the gravel-walk.

For a moment or two, Mr Moffat consoled himself in his misfortune by
thinking how he might best avenge himself on Miss Dunstable. Soon,
however, such futile ideas left his brain. Why should he give over
the chase because the rich galleon had escaped him on this, his
first cruise in pursuit of her? Such prizes were not to be won so
easily. Her present objection clearly consisted in his engagement to
Miss Gresham, and in that only. Let that engagement be at an end,
notoriously and publicly broken off, and this objection would fall to
the ground. Yes; ships so richly freighted were not to be run down
in one summer morning's plain sailing. Instead of looking for his
revenge on Miss Dunstable, it would be more prudent in him--more in
keeping with his character--to pursue his object, and overcome such
difficulties as he might find in his way.




CHAPTER XIX

The Duke of Omnium


The Duke of Omnium was, as we have said, a bachelor. Not the less on
that account did he on certain rare gala days entertain the beauty
of the county at his magnificent rural seat, or the female fashion
of London in Belgrave Square; but on this occasion the dinner at
Gatherum Castle--for such was the name of his mansion--was to be
confined to the lords of the creation. It was to be one of those days
on which he collected round his board all the notables of the county,
in order that his popularity might not wane, or the established glory
of his hospitable house become dim.

On such an occasion it was not probable that Lord de Courcy would be
one of the guests. The party, indeed, who went from Courcy Castle was
not large, and consisted of the Honourable George, Mr Moffat, and
Frank Gresham. They went in a tax-cart, with a tandem horse, driven
very knowingly by George de Courcy; and the fourth seat on the back
of the vehicle was occupied by a servant, who was to look after the
horses at Gatherum.

The Honourable George drove either well or luckily, for he reached
the duke's house in safety; but he drove very fast. Poor Miss
Dunstable! what would have been her lot had anything but good
happened to that vehicle, so richly freighted with her three lovers!
They did not quarrel as to the prize, and all reached Gatherum Castle
in good humour with each other.

The castle was a new building of white stone, lately erected at an
enormous cost by one of the first architects of the day. It was an
immense pile, and seemed to cover ground enough for a moderate-sized
town. But, nevertheless, report said that when it was completed,
the noble owner found that he had no rooms to live in; and that, on
this account, when disposed to study his own comfort, he resided in
a house of perhaps one-tenth the size, built by his grandfather in
another county.

Gatherum Castle would probably be called Italian in its style of
architecture; though it may, I think, be doubted whether any such
edifice, or anything like it, was ever seen in any part of Italy.
It was a vast edifice; irregular in height--or it appeared to be
so--having long wings on each side too high to be passed over by the
eye as mere adjuncts to the mansion, and a portico so large as to
make the house behind it look like another building of a greater
altitude. This portico was supported by Ionic columns, and was in
itself doubtless a beautiful structure. It was approached by a
flight of steps, very broad and very grand; but, as an approach by a
flight of steps hardly suits an Englishman's house, to the immediate
entrance of which it is necessary that his carriage should drive,
there was another front door in one of the wings which was commonly
used. A carriage, however, could on very stupendously grand
occasions--the visits, for instance, of queens and kings, and royal
dukes--be brought up under the portico; as the steps had been so
constructed as to admit of a road, with a rather stiff ascent, being
made close in front of the wing up into the very porch.

Opening from the porch was the grand hall, which extended up to the
top of the house. It was magnificent, indeed; being decorated with
many-coloured marbles, and hung round with various trophies of the
house of Omnium; banners were there, and armour; the sculptured busts
of many noble progenitors; full-length figures in marble of those
who had been especially prominent; and every monument of glory that
wealth, long years, and great achievements could bring together. If
only a man could but live in his hall and be for ever happy there!
But the Duke of Omnium could not live happily in his hall; and the
fact was, that the architect, in contriving this magnificent entrance
for his own honour and fame, had destroyed the duke's house as
regards most of the ordinary purposes of residence.

Nevertheless, Gatherum Castle is a very noble pile; and, standing as
it does on an eminence, has a very fine effect when seen from many a
distant knoll and verdant-wooded hill.

At seven o'clock Mr de Courcy and his friends got down from their
drag at the smaller door--for this was no day on which to mount up
under the portico; nor was that any suitable vehicle to have been
entitled to such honour. Frank felt some excitement a little stronger
than that usual to him at such moments, for he had never yet been in
company with the Duke of Omnium; and he rather puzzled himself to
think on what points he would talk to the man who was the largest
landowner in that county in which he himself had so great an
interest. He, however, made up his mind that he would allow the duke
to choose his own subjects; merely reserving to himself the right of
pointing out how deficient in gorse covers was West Barsetshire--that
being the duke's division.

They were soon divested of their coats and hats, and,
without entering on the magnificence of the great hall, were
conducted through rather a narrow passage into rather a small
drawing-room--small, that is, in proportion to the number of
gentlemen there assembled. There might be about thirty, and Frank was
inclined to think that they were almost crowded. A man came forward
to greet them when their names were announced; but our hero at once
knew that he was not the duke; for this man was fat and short,
whereas the duke was thin and tall.

There was a great hubbub going on; for everybody seemed to be talking
to his neighbour; or, in default of a neighbour, to himself. It
was clear that the exalted rank of their host had put very little
constraint on his guests' tongues, for they chatted away with as much
freedom as farmers at an ordinary.

"Which is the duke?" at last Frank contrived to whisper to his
cousin.

"Oh;--he's not here," said George; "I suppose he'll be in presently.
I believe he never shows till just before dinner."

Frank, of course, had nothing further to say; but he already began to
feel himself a little snubbed: he thought that the duke, duke though
he was, when he asked people to dinner should be there to tell them
that he was glad to see them.

More people flashed into the room, and Frank found himself rather
closely wedged in with a stout clergyman of his acquaintance. He was
not badly off, for Mr Athill was a friend of his own, who had held a
living near Greshamsbury. Lately, however, at the lamented decease
of Dr Stanhope--who had died of apoplexy at his villa in Italy--Mr
Athill had been presented with the better preferment of Eiderdown,
and had, therefore, removed to another part of the county. He was
somewhat of a bon-vivant, and a man who thoroughly understood
dinner-parties; and with much good nature he took Frank under his
special protection.

"You stick to me, Mr Gresham," he said, "when we go into the
dining-room. I'm an old hand at the duke's dinners, and know how to
make a friend comfortable as well as myself."

"But why doesn't the duke come in?" demanded Frank.

"He'll be here as soon as dinner is ready," said Mr Athill. "Or,
rather, the dinner will be ready as soon as he is here. I don't care,
therefore, how soon he comes."

Frank did not understand this, but he had nothing to do but to wait
and see how things went.

He was beginning to be impatient, for the room was now nearly full,
and it seemed evident that no other guests were coming; when suddenly
a bell rang, and a gong was sounded, and at the same instant a door
that had not yet been used flew open, and a very plainly dressed,
plain, tall man entered the room. Frank at once knew that he was at
last in the presence of the Duke of Omnium.

But his grace, late as he was in commencing the duties as host,
seemed in no hurry to make up for lost time. He quietly stood on the
rug, with his back to the empty grate, and spoke one or two words in
a very low voice to one or two gentlemen who stood nearest to him.
The crowd, in the meanwhile, became suddenly silent. Frank, when he
found that the duke did not come and speak to him, felt that he ought
to go and speak to the duke; but no one else did so, and when he
whispered his surprise to Mr Athill, that gentleman told him that
this was the duke's practice on all such occasions.

"Fothergill," said the duke--and it was the only word he had yet
spoken out loud--"I believe we are ready for dinner." Now Mr
Fothergill was the duke's land-agent, and he it was who had greeted
Frank and his friends at their entrance.

Immediately the gong was again sounded, and another door leading out
of the drawing-room into the dining-room was opened. The duke led the
way, and then the guests followed. "Stick close to me, Mr Gresham,"
said Athill, "we'll get about the middle of the table, where we shall
be cosy--and on the other side of the room, out of this dreadful
draught--I know the place well, Mr Gresham; stick to me."

Mr Athill, who was a pleasant, chatty companion, had hardly seated
himself, and was talking to Frank as quickly as he could, when Mr
Fothergill, who sat at the bottom of the table, asked him to say
grace. It seemed to be quite out of the question that the duke should
take any trouble with his guests whatever. Mr Athill consequently
dropped the word he was speaking, and uttered a prayer--if it was a
prayer--that they might all have grateful hearts for that which God
was about to give them.

If it was a prayer! As far as my own experience goes, such utterances
are seldom prayers, seldom can be prayers. And if not prayers, what
then? To me it is unintelligible that the full tide of glibbest
chatter can be stopped at a moment in the midst of profuse good
living, and the Giver thanked becomingly in words of heartfelt
praise. Setting aside for the moment what one daily hears and sees,
may not one declare that a change so sudden is not within the compass
of the human mind? But then, to such reasoning one cannot but add
what one does hear and see; one cannot but judge of the ceremony by
the manner in which one sees it performed--uttered, that is--and
listened to. Clergymen there are--one meets them now and then--who
endeavour to give to the dinner-table grace some of the solemnity of
a church ritual, and what is the effect? Much the same as though one
were to be interrupted for a minute in the midst of one of our church
liturgies to hear a drinking-song.

And it will be argued, that a man need be less thankful because, at
the moment of receiving, he utters no thanksgiving? or will it be
thought that a man is made thankful because what is called a grace is
uttered after dinner? It can hardly be imagined that any one will so
argue, or so think.

Dinner-graces are, probably, the last remaining relic of certain
daily services [1] which the Church in olden days enjoined: nones,
complines, and vespers were others. Of the nones and complines we
have happily got quit; and it might be well if we could get rid of
the dinner-graces also. Let any man ask himself whether, on his own
part, they are acts of prayer and thanksgiving--and if not that, what
then?


   [Footnote 1: It is, I know, alleged that graces are said
   before dinner, because our Saviour uttered a blessing before
   his last supper. I cannot say that the idea of such analogy
   is pleasing to me.]


When the large party entered the dining-room one or two gentlemen
might be seen to come in from some other door and set themselves at
the table near to the duke's chair. These were guests of his own, who
were staying in the house, his particular friends, the men with whom
he lived: the others were strangers whom he fed, perhaps once a year,
in order that his name might be known in the land as that of one who
distributed food and wine hospitably through the county. The food
and wine, the attendance also, and the view of the vast repository
of plate he vouchsafed willingly to his county neighbours;--but it
was beyond his good nature to talk to them. To judge by the present
appearance of most of them, they were quite as well satisfied to be
left alone.

Frank was altogether a stranger there, but Mr Athill knew every one
at the table.

"That's Apjohn," said he: "don't you know, Mr Apjohn, the attorney
from Barchester? he's always here; he does some of Fothergill's law
business, and makes himself useful. If any fellow knows the value of
a good dinner, he does. You'll see that the duke's hospitality will
not be thrown away on him."

"It's very much thrown away upon me, I know," said Frank, who could
not at all put up with the idea of sitting down to dinner without
having been spoken to by his host.

"Oh, nonsense!" said his clerical friend; "you'll enjoy yourself
amazingly by and by. There is not such champagne in any other house
in Barsetshire; and then the claret--" And Mr Athill pressed his lips
together, and gently shook his head, meaning to signify by the motion
that the claret of Gatherum Castle was sufficient atonement for any
penance which a man might have to go through in his mode of obtaining
it.

"Who's that funny little man sitting there, next but one to Mr de
Courcy? I never saw such a queer fellow in my life."

"Don't you know old Bolus? Well, I thought every one in Barsetshire
knew Bolus; you especially should do so, as he is such a dear friend
of Dr Thorne."

"A dear friend of Dr Thorne?"

"Yes; he was apothecary at Scarington in the old days, before Dr
Fillgrave came into vogue. I remember when Bolus was thought to be a
very good sort of doctor."

"Is he--is he--" whispered Frank, "is he by way of a gentleman?"

"Ha! ha! ha! Well, I suppose we must be charitable, and say that he
is quite as good, at any rate, as many others there are here--" and
Mr Athill, as he spoke, whispered into Frank's ear, "You see there's
Finnie here, another Barchester attorney. Now, I really think where
Finnie goes Bolus may go too."

"The more the merrier, I suppose," said Frank.

"Well, something a little like that. I wonder why Thorne is not here?
I'm sure he was asked."

"Perhaps he did not particularly wish to meet Finnie and Bolus. Do
you know, Mr Athill, I think he was quite right not to come. As for
myself, I wish I was anywhere else."

"Ha! ha! ha! You don't know the duke's ways yet; and what's more,
you're young, you happy fellow! But Thorne should have more sense; he
ought to show himself here."

The gormandizing was now going on at a tremendous rate. Though the
volubility of their tongues had been for a while stopped by the first
shock of the duke's presence, the guests seemed to feel no such
constraint upon their teeth. They fed, one may almost say, rabidly,
and gave their orders to the servants in an eager manner; much more
impressive than that usual at smaller parties. Mr Apjohn, who sat
immediately opposite to Frank, had, by some well-planned manoeuvre,
contrived to get before him the jowl of a salmon; but, unfortunately,
he was not for a while equally successful in the article of sauce. A
very limited portion--so at least thought Mr Apjohn--had been put on
his plate; and a servant, with a huge sauce tureen, absolutely passed
behind his back inattentive to his audible requests. Poor Mr Apjohn
in his despair turned round to arrest the man by his coat-tails; but
he was a moment too late, and all but fell backwards on the floor. As
he righted himself he muttered an anathema, and looked with a face of
anguish at his plate.

"Anything the matter, Apjohn?" said Mr Fothergill, kindly, seeing
the utter despair written on the poor man's countenance; "can I get
anything for you?"

"The sauce!" said Mr Apjohn, in a voice that would have melted a
hermit; and as he looked at Mr Fothergill, he pointed at the now
distant sinner, who was dispensing his melted ambrosia at least ten
heads upwards, away from the unfortunate supplicant.

Mr Fothergill, however, knew where to look for balm for such wounds,
and in a minute or two, Mr Apjohn was employed quite to his heart's
content.

"Well," said Frank to his neighbour, "it may be very well once in a
way; but I think that on the whole Dr Thorne is right."

"My dear Mr Gresham, see the world on all sides," said Mr Athill,
who had also been somewhat intent on the gratification of his own
appetite, though with an energy less evident than that of the
gentleman opposite. "See the world on all sides if you have an
opportunity; and, believe me, a good dinner now and then is a very
good thing."

"Yes; but I don't like eating it with hogs."

"Whish-h! softly, softly, Mr Gresham, or you'll disturb Mr Apjohn's
digestion. Upon my word, he'll want it all before he has done. Now, I
like this kind of thing once in a way."

"Do you?" said Frank, in a tone that was almost savage.

"Yes; indeed I do. One sees so much character. And after all, what
harm does it do?"

"My idea is that people should live with those whose society is
pleasant to them."

"Live--yes, Mr Gresham--I agree with you there. It wouldn't do for me
to live with the Duke of Omnium; I shouldn't understand, or probably
approve, his ways. Nor should I, perhaps, much like the constant
presence of Mr Apjohn. But now and then--once in a year or so--I do
own I like to see them both. Here's the cup; now, whatever you do, Mr
Gresham, don't pass the cup without tasting it."

And so the dinner passed on, slowly enough as Frank thought, but
all too quickly for Mr Apjohn. It passed away, and the wine came
circulating freely. The tongues again were loosed, the teeth being
released from their labours, and under the influence of the claret
the duke's presence was forgotten.

But very speedily the coffee was brought. "This will soon be over
now," said Frank, to himself, thankfully; for, though he be no means
despised good claret, he had lost his temper too completely to enjoy
it at the present moment. But he was much mistaken; the farce as yet
was only at its commencement. The duke took his cup of coffee, and so
did the few friends who sat close to him; but the beverage did not
seem to be in great request with the majority of the guests. When the
duke had taken his modicum, he rose up and silently retired, saying
no word and making no sign. And then the farce commenced.

"Now, gentlemen," said Mr Fothergill, cheerily, "we are all right.
Apjohn, is there claret there? Mr Bolus, I know you stick to the
Madeira; you are quite right, for there isn't much of it left, and my
belief is there'll never be more like it."

And so the duke's hospitality went on, and the duke's guests drank
merrily for the next two hours.

"Shan't we see any more of him?" asked Frank.

"Any more of whom?" said Mr Athill.

"Of the duke?"

"Oh, no; you'll see no more of him. He always goes when the coffee
comes. It's brought in as an excuse. We've had enough of the light of
his countenance to last till next year. The duke and I are excellent
friends; and have been so these fifteen years; but I never see more
of him than that."

"I shall go away," said Frank.

"Nonsense. Mr de Courcy and your other friend won't stir for this
hour yet."

"I don't care. I shall walk on, and they may catch me. I may be
wrong; but it seems to me that a man insults me when he asks me to
dine with him and never speaks to me. I don't care if he be ten times
Duke of Omnium; he can't be more than a gentleman, and as such I
am his equal." And then, having thus given vent to his feelings in
somewhat high-flown language, he walked forth and trudged away along
the road towards Courcy.

Frank Gresham had been born and bred a Conservative, whereas the
Duke of Omnium was well known as a consistent Whig. There is no one
so devoutly resolved to admit of no superior as your Conservative,
born and bred, no one so inclined to high domestic despotism as your
thoroughgoing consistent old Whig.

When he had proceeded about six miles, Frank was picked up by his
friends; but even then his anger had hardly cooled.

"Was the duke as civil as ever when you took your leave of him?" said
he to his cousin George, as he took his seat on the drag.

"The juke was jeuced jude wine--lem me tell you that, old fella,"
hiccupped out the Honourable George, as he touched up the leader
under the flank.




CHAPTER XX

The Proposal


And now the departures from Courcy Castle came rapidly one after
another, and there remained but one more evening before Miss
Dunstable's carriage was to be packed. The countess, in the early
moments of Frank's courtship, had controlled his ardour and checked
the rapidity of his amorous professions; but as days, and at last
weeks, wore away, she found that it was necessary to stir the fire
which she had before endeavoured to slacken.

"There will be nobody here to-night but our own circle," said she to
him, "and I really think you should tell Miss Dunstable what your
intentions are. She will have fair ground to complain of you if you
do not."

Frank began to feel that he was in a dilemma. He had commenced making
love to Miss Dunstable partly because he liked the amusement, and
partly from a satirical propensity to quiz his aunt by appearing to
fall into her scheme. But he had overshot the mark, and did not know
what answer to give when he was thus called upon to make a downright
proposal. And then, although he did not care two rushes about Miss
Dunstable in the way of love, he nevertheless experienced a sort of
jealousy when he found that she appeared to be indifferent to him,
and that she corresponded the meanwhile with his cousin George.
Though all their flirtations had been carried on on both sides
palpably by way of fun, though Frank had told himself ten times a
day that his heart was true to Mary Thorne, yet he had an undefined
feeling that it behoved Miss Dunstable to be a little in love with
him. He was not quite at ease in that she was not a little melancholy
now that his departure was so nigh; and, above all, he was anxious to
know what were the real facts about that letter. He had in his own
breast threatened Miss Dunstable with a heartache; and now, when the
time for their separation came, he found that his own heart was the
more likely to ache of the two.

"I suppose I must say something to her, or my aunt will never be
satisfied," said he to himself as he sauntered into the little
drawing-room on that last evening. But at the very time he was
ashamed of himself, for he knew he was going to ask badly.

His sister and one of his cousins were in the room, but his aunt, who
was quite on the alert, soon got them out of it, and Frank and Miss
Dunstable were alone.

"So all our fun and all our laughter is come to an end," said she,
beginning the conversation. "I don't know how you feel, but for
myself I really am a little melancholy at the idea of parting;" and
she looked up at him with her laughing black eyes, as though she
never had, and never could have a care in the world.

"Melancholy! oh, yes; you look so," said Frank, who really did feel
somewhat lackadaisically sentimental.

"But how thoroughly glad the countess must be that we are both
going," continued she. "I declare we have treated her most
infamously. Ever since we've been here we've had all the amusement
to ourselves. I've sometimes thought she would turn me out of the
house."

"I wish with all my heart she had."

"Oh, you cruel barbarian! why on earth should you wish that?"

"That I might have joined you in your exile. I hate Courcy Castle,
and should have rejoiced to leave--and--and--"

"And what?"

"And I love Miss Dunstable, and should have doubly, trebly rejoiced
to leave it with her."

Frank's voice quivered a little as he made this gallant profession;
but still Miss Dunstable only laughed the louder. "Upon my word, of
all my knights you are by far the best behaved," said she, "and say
much the prettiest things." Frank became rather red in the face, and
felt that he did so. Miss Dunstable was treating him like a boy.
While she pretended to be so fond of him she was only laughing at
him, and corresponding the while with his cousin George. Now Frank
Gresham already entertained a sort of contempt for his cousin, which
increased the bitterness of his feelings. Could it really be possible
that George had succeeded while he had utterly failed; that his
stupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress while she was
playing with him as with a boy?

"Of all your knights! Is that the way you talk to me when we are
going to part? When was it, Miss Dunstable, that George de Courcy
became one of them?"

Miss Dunstable for a while looked serious enough. "What makes you ask
that?" said she. "What makes you inquire about Mr de Courcy?"

"Oh, I have eyes, you know, and can't help seeing. Not that I see, or
have seen anything that I could possibly help."

"And what have you seen, Mr Gresham?"

"Why, I know you have been writing to him."

"Did he tell you so?"

"No; he did not tell me; but I know it."

For a moment she sat silent, and then her face again resumed its
usual happy smile. "Come, Mr Gresham, you are not going to quarrel
with me, I hope, even if I did write a letter to your cousin. Why
should I not write to him? I correspond with all manner of people.
I'll write to you some of these days if you'll let me, and will
promise to answer my letters."

Frank threw himself back on the sofa on which he was sitting, and, in
doing so, brought himself somewhat nearer to his companion than he
had been; he then drew his hand slowly across his forehead, pushing
back his thick hair, and as he did so he sighed somewhat plaintively.

"I do not care," said he, "for the privilege of correspondence on
such terms. If my cousin George is to be a correspondent of yours
also, I will give up my claim."

And then he sighed again, so that it was piteous to hear him. He was
certainly an arrant puppy, and an egregious ass into the bargain;
but then, it must be remembered in his favour that he was only
twenty-one, and that much had been done to spoil him. Miss Dunstable
did remember this, and therefore abstained from laughing at him.

"Why, Mr Gresham, what on earth do you mean? In all human probability
I shall never write another line to Mr de Courcy; but, if I did, what
possible harm could it do you?"

"Oh, Miss Dunstable! you do not in the least understand what my
feelings are."

"Don't I? Then I hope I never shall. I thought I did. I thought they
were the feelings of a good, true-hearted friend; feelings that I
could sometimes look back upon with pleasure as being honest when
so much that one meets is false. I have become very fond of you, Mr
Gresham, and I should be sorry to think that I did not understand
your feelings."

This was almost worse and worse. Young ladies like Miss
Dunstable--for she was still to be numbered in the category of young
ladies--do not usually tell young gentlemen that they are very fond
of them. To boys and girls they may make such a declaration. Now
Frank Gresham regarded himself as one who had already fought his
battles, and fought them not without glory; he could not therefore
endure to be thus openly told by Miss Dunstable that she was very
fond of him.

"Fond of me, Miss Dunstable! I wish you were."

"So I am--very."

"You little know how fond I am of you, Miss Dunstable," and he put
out his hand to take hold of hers. She then lifted up her own, and
slapped him lightly on the knuckles.

"And what can you have to say to Miss Dunstable that can make it
necessary that you should pinch her hand? I tell you fairly, Mr
Gresham, if you make a fool of yourself, I shall come to a conclusion
that you are all fools, and that it is hopeless to look out for any
one worth caring for."

Such advice as this, so kindly given, so wisely meant, so clearly
intelligible, he should have taken and understood, young as he was.
But even yet he did not do so.

"A fool of myself! Yes; I suppose I must be a fool if I have so much
regard for Miss Dunstable as to make it painful for me to know that I
am to see her no more: a fool: yes, of course I am a fool--a man is
always a fool when he loves."

Miss Dunstable could not pretend to doubt his meaning any longer; and
was determined to stop him, let it cost what it would. She now put
out her hand, not over white, and, as Frank soon perceived, gifted
with a very fair allowance of strength.

"Now, Mr Gresham," said she, "before you go any further you shall
listen to me. Will you listen to me for a moment without interrupting
me?"

Frank was of course obliged to promise that he would do so.

"You are going--or rather you were going, for I shall stop you--to
make a profession of love."

"A profession!" said Frank making a slight unsuccessful effort to get
his hand free.

"Yes; a profession--a false profession, Mr Gresham,--a false
profession--a false profession. Look into your heart--into your heart
of hearts. I know you at any rate have a heart; look into it closely.
Mr Gresham, you know you do not love me; not as a man should love the
woman whom he swears to love."

Frank was taken aback. So appealed to he found that he could not any
longer say that he did love her. He could only look into her face
with all his eyes, and sit there listening to her.

"How is it possible that you should love me? I am Heaven knows how
many years your senior. I am neither young nor beautiful, nor have I
been brought up as she should be whom you in time will really love
and make your wife. I have nothing that should make you love me;
but--but I am rich."

"It is not that," said Frank, stoutly, feeling himself imperatively
called upon to utter something in his own defence.

"Ah, Mr Gresham, I fear it is that. For what other reason can you
have laid your plans to talk in this way to such a woman as I am?"

"I have laid no plans," said Frank, now getting his hand to himself.
"At any rate, you wrong me there, Miss Dunstable."

"I like you so well--nay, love you, if a woman may talk of love in
the way of friendship--that if money, money alone would make you
happy, you should have it heaped on you. If you want it, Mr Gresham,
you shall have it."

"I have never thought of your money," said Frank, surlily.

"But it grieves me," continued she, "it does grieve me, to think that
you, you, you--so young, so gay, so bright--that you should have
looked for it in this way. From others I have taken it just as the
wind that whistles;" and now two big slow tears escaped from her
eyes, and would have rolled down her rosy cheeks were it not that she
brushed them off with the back of her hand.

"You have utterly mistaken me, Miss Dunstable," said Frank.

"If I have, I will humbly beg your pardon," said she.
"But--but--but--"

"You have; indeed you have."

"How can I have mistaken you? Were you not about to say that you
loved me; to talk absolute nonsense; to make me an offer? If you were
not, if I have mistaken you indeed, I will beg your pardon."

Frank had nothing further to say in his own defence. He had not
wanted Miss Dunstable's money--that was true; but he could not deny
that he had been about to talk that absolute nonsense of which she
spoke with so much scorn.

"You would almost make me think that there are none honest in this
fashionable world of yours. I well know why Lady de Courcy has had
me here: how could I help knowing it? She has been so foolish in
her plans that ten times a day she has told her own secret. But I
have said to myself twenty times, that if she were crafty, you were
honest."

"And am I dishonest?"

"I have laughed in my sleeve to see how she played her game, and to
hear others around playing theirs; all of them thinking that they
could get the money of the poor fool who had come at their beck and
call; but I was able to laugh at them as long as I thought that I had
one true friend to laugh with me. But one cannot laugh with all the
world against one."

"I am not against you, Miss Dunstable."

"Sell yourself for money! why, if I were a man I would not sell one
jot of liberty for mountains of gold. What! tie myself in the heyday
of my youth to a person I could never love, for a price! perjure
myself, destroy myself--and not only myself, but her also, in order
that I might live idly! Oh, heavens! Mr Gresham! can it be that
the words of such a woman as your aunt have sunk so deeply in your
heart; have blackened you so foully as to make you think of such vile
folly as this? Have you forgotten your soul, your spirit, your man's
energy, the treasure of your heart? And you, so young! For shame, Mr
Gresham! for shame--for shame."

Frank found the task before him by no means an easy one. He had to
make Miss Dunstable understand that he had never had the slightest
idea of marrying her, and that he had made love to her merely with
the object of keeping his hand in for the work as it were; with that
object, and the other equally laudable one of interfering with his
cousin George.

And yet there was nothing for him but to get through this task as
best he might. He was goaded to it by the accusations which Miss
Dunstable brought against him; and he began to feel, that though her
invective against him might be bitter when he had told the truth,
they could not be so bitter as those she now kept hinting at under
her mistaken impression as to his views. He had never had any strong
propensity for money-hunting; but now that offence appeared in his
eyes abominable, unmanly, and disgusting. Any imputation would be
better than that.

"Miss Dunstable, I never for a moment thought of doing what
you accuse me of; on my honour, I never did. I have been very
foolish--very wrong--idiotic, I believe; but I have never intended
that."

"Then, Mr Gresham, what did you intend?"

This was rather a difficult question to answer; and Frank was not
very quick in attempting it. "I know you will not forgive me," he
said at last; "and, indeed, I do not see how you can. I don't know
how it came about; but this is certain, Miss Dunstable; I have never
for a moment thought about your fortune; that is, thought about it in
the way of coveting it."

"You never thought of making me your wife, then?"

"Never," said Frank, looking boldly into her face.

"You never intended really to propose to go with me to the altar, and
then make yourself rich by one great perjury?"

"Never for a moment," said he.

"You have never gloated over me as the bird of prey gloats over the
poor beast that is soon to become carrion beneath its claws? You have
not counted me out as equal to so much land, and calculated on me as
a balance at your banker's? Ah, Mr Gresham," she continued, seeing
that he stared as though struck almost with awe by her strong
language; "you little guess what a woman situated as I am has to
suffer."

"I have behaved badly to you, Miss Dunstable, and I beg your pardon;
but I have never thought of your money."

"Then we will be friends again, Mr Gresham, won't we? It is so nice
to have a friend like you. There, I think I understand it now; you
need not tell me."

"It was half by way of making a fool of my aunt," said Frank, in an
apologetic tone.

"There is merit in that, at any rate," said Miss Dunstable. "I
understand it all now; you thought to make a fool of me in real
earnest. Well, I can forgive that; at any rate it is not mean."

It may be, that Miss Dunstable did not feel much acute anger at
finding that this young man had addressed her with words of love in
the course of an ordinary flirtation, although that flirtation had
been unmeaning and silly. This was not the offence against which her
heart and breast had found peculiar cause to arm itself; this was not
the injury from which she had hitherto experienced suffering.

At any rate, she and Frank again became friends, and, before the
evening was over, they perfectly understood each other. Twice during
this long _tête-à-tête_ Lady de Courcy came into the room to see how
things were going on, and twice she went out almost unnoticed. It
was quite clear to her that something uncommon had taken place, was
taking place, or would take place; and that should this be for weal
or for woe, no good could now come from her interference. On each
occasion, therefore, she smiled sweetly on the pair of turtle-doves,
and glided out of the room as quietly as she had glided into it.

But at last it became necessary to remove them; for the world had
gone to bed. Frank, in the meantime, had told to Miss Dunstable all
his love for Mary Thorne, and Miss Dunstable had enjoined him to be
true to his vows. To her eyes there was something of heavenly beauty
in young, true love--of beauty that was heavenly because it had been
unknown to her.

"Mind you let me hear, Mr Gresham," said she. "Mind you do; and, Mr
Gresham, never, never forget her for one moment; not for one moment,
Mr Gresham."

Frank was about to swear that he never would--again, when the
countess, for the third time, sailed into the room.

"Young people," said she, "do you know what o'clock it is?"

"Dear me, Lady de Courcy, I declare it is past twelve; I really am
ashamed of myself. How glad you will be to get rid of me to-morrow!"

"No, no, indeed we shan't; shall we, Frank?" and so Miss Dunstable
passed out.

Then once again the aunt tapped her nephew with her fan. It was the
last time in her life that she did so. He looked up in her face, and
his look was enough to tell her that the acres of Greshamsbury were
not to be reclaimed by the ointment of Lebanon.

Nothing further on the subject was said. On the following morning
Miss Dunstable took her departure, not much heeding the rather cold
words of farewell which her hostess gave her; and on the following
day Frank started for Greshamsbury.




CHAPTER XXI

Mr Moffat Falls into Trouble


We will now, with the reader's kind permission, skip over some months
in our narrative. Frank returned from Courcy Castle to Greshamsbury,
and having communicated to his mother--much in the same manner as he
had to the countess--the fact that his mission had been unsuccessful,
he went up after a day or two to Cambridge. During his short stay at
Greshamsbury he did not even catch a glimpse of Mary. He asked for
her, of course, and was told that it was not likely that she would be
at the house just at present. He called at the doctor's, but she was
denied to him there; "she was out," Janet said,--"probably with Miss
Oriel." He went to the parsonage and found Miss Oriel at home; but
Mary had not been seen that morning. He then returned to the house;
and, having come to the conclusion that she had not thus vanished
into air, otherwise than by preconcerted arrangement, he boldly taxed
Beatrice on the subject.

Beatrice looked very demure; declared that no one in the house had
quarrelled with Mary; confessed that it had been thought prudent that
she should for a while stay away from Greshamsbury; and, of course,
ended by telling her brother everything, including all the scenes
that had passed between Mary and herself.

"It is out of the question your thinking of marrying her, Frank,"
said she. "You must know that nobody feels it more strongly than
poor Mary herself;" and Beatrice looked the very personification of
domestic prudence.

"I know nothing of the kind," said he, with the headlong imperative
air that was usual with him in discussing matters with his sisters.
"I know nothing of the kind. Of course I cannot say what Mary's
feelings may be: a pretty life she must have had of it among you. But
you may be sure of this, Beatrice, and so may my mother, that nothing
on earth shall make me give her up--nothing." And Frank, as he made
the protestation, strengthened his own resolution by thinking of all
the counsel that Miss Dunstable had given him.

The brother and sister could hardly agree, as Beatrice was dead
against the match. Not that she would not have liked Mary Thorne for
a sister-in-law, but that she shared to a certain degree the feeling
which was now common to all the Greshams--that Frank must marry
money. It seemed, at any rate, to be imperative that he should either
do that or not marry at all. Poor Beatrice was not very mercenary
in her views: she had no wish to sacrifice her brother to any
Miss Dunstable; but yet she felt, as they all felt--Mary Thorne
included--that such a match as that, of the young heir with the
doctor's niece, was not to be thought of;--not to be spoken of as
a thing that was in any way possible. Therefore, Beatrice, though
she was Mary's great friend, though she was her brother's favourite
sister, could give Frank no encouragement. Poor Frank! circumstances
had made but one bride possible to him: he must marry money.

His mother said nothing to him on the subject: when she learnt that
the affair with Miss Dunstable was not to come off, she merely
remarked that it would perhaps be best for him to return to Cambridge
as soon as possible. Had she spoken her mind out, she would probably
have also advised him to remain there as long as possible. The
countess had not omitted to write to her when Frank left Courcy
Castle; and the countess's letter certainly made the anxious mother
think that her son's education had hardly yet been completed. With
this secondary object, but with that of keeping him out of the way of
Mary Thorne in the first place, Lady Arabella was now quite satisfied
that her son should enjoy such advantages as an education completed
at the university might give him.

With his father Frank had a long conversation; but, alas! the gist of
his father's conversation was this, that it behoved him, Frank, to
marry money. The father, however, did not put it to him in the cold,
callous way in which his lady-aunt had done, and his lady-mother.
He did not bid him go and sell himself to the first female he could
find possessed of wealth. It was with inward self-reproaches, and
true grief of spirit, that the father told the son that it was not
possible for him to do as those may do who are born really rich, or
really poor.

"If you marry a girl without a fortune, Frank, how are you to live?"
the father asked, after having confessed how deep he himself had
injured his own heir.

"I don't care about money, sir," said Frank. "I shall be just as
happy as if Boxall Hill had never been sold. I don't care a straw
about that sort of thing."

"Ah! my boy; but you will care: you will soon find that you do care."

"Let me go into some profession. Let me go to the Bar. I am sure I
could earn my own living. Earn it! of course I could, why not I as
well as others? I should like of all things to be a barrister."

There was much more of the same kind, in which Frank said all that he
could think of to lessen his father's regrets. In their conversation
not a word was spoken about Mary Thorne. Frank was not aware whether
or no his father had been told of the great family danger which was
dreaded in that quarter. That he had been told, we may surmise, as
Lady Arabella was not wont to confine the family dangers to her own
bosom. Moreover, Mary's presence had, of course, been missed. The
truth was, that the squire had been told, with great bitterness, of
what had come to pass, and all the evil had been laid at his door.
He it had been who had encouraged Mary to be regarded almost as a
daughter of the house of Greshamsbury; he it was who taught that
odious doctor--odious in all but his aptitude for good doctoring--to
think himself a fit match for the aristocracy of the county. It had
been his fault, this great necessity that Frank should marry money;
and now it was his fault that Frank was absolutely talking of
marrying a pauper.

By no means in quiescence did the squire hear these charges brought
against him. The Lady Arabella, in each attack, got quite as much as
she gave, and, at last, was driven to retreat in a state of headache,
which she declared to be chronic; and which, so she assured her
daughter Augusta, must prevent her from having any more lengthened
conversations with her lord--at any rate for the next three months.
But though the squire may be said to have come off on the whole as
victor in these combats, they did not perhaps have, on that account,
the less effect upon him. He knew it was true that he had done much
towards ruining his son; and he also could think of no other remedy
than matrimony. It was Frank's doom, pronounced even by the voice of
his father, that he must marry money.

And so, Frank went off again to Cambridge, feeling himself, as he
went, to be a much lesser man in Greshamsbury estimation than he had
been some two months earlier, when his birthday had been celebrated.
Once during his short stay at Greshamsbury he had seen the doctor;
but the meeting had been anything but pleasant. He had been afraid
to ask after Mary; and the doctor had been too diffident of himself
to speak of her. They had met casually on the road, and, though each
in his heart loved the other, the meeting had been anything but
pleasant.

And so Frank went back to Cambridge; and, as he did so, he stoutly
resolved that nothing should make him untrue to Mary Thorne.
"Beatrice," said he, on the morning he went away, when she came into
his room to superintend his packing--"Beatrice, if she ever talks
about me--"

"Oh, Frank, my darling Frank, don't think of it--it is madness; she
knows it is madness."

"Never mind; if she ever talks about me, tell her that the last word
I said was, that I would never forget her. She can do as she likes."

Beatrice made no promise, never hinted that she would give the
message; but it may be taken for granted that she had not been long
in company with Mary Thorne before she did give it.

And then there were other troubles at Greshamsbury. It had been
decided that Augusta's marriage was to take place in September; but
Mr Moffat had, unfortunately, been obliged to postpone the happy day.
He himself had told Augusta--not, of course, without protestations
as to his regret--and had written to this effect to Mr Gresham,
"Electioneering matters, and other troubles had," he said, "made this
peculiarly painful postponement absolutely necessary."

Augusta seemed to bear her misfortune with more equanimity than is,
we believe, usual with young ladies under such circumstances. She
spoke of it to her mother in a very matter-of-fact way, and seemed
almost contented at the idea of remaining at Greshamsbury till
February; which was the time now named for the marriage. But Lady
Arabella was not equally well satisfied, nor was the squire.

"I half believe that fellow is not honest," he had once said out loud
before Frank, and this set Frank a-thinking of what dishonesty in the
matter it was probable that Mr Moffat might be guilty, and what would
be the fitting punishment for such a crime. Nor did he think on the
subject in vain; especially after a conference on the matter which he
had with his friend Harry Baker. This conference took place during
the Christmas vacation.

It should be mentioned, that the time spent by Frank at Courcy Castle
had not done much to assist him in his views as to an early degree,
and that it had at last been settled that he should stay up at
Cambridge another year. When he came home at Christmas he found that
the house was not peculiarly lively. Mary was absent on a visit with
Miss Oriel. Both these young ladies were staying with Miss Oriel's
aunt, in the neighbourhood of London; and Frank soon learnt that
there was no chance that either of them would be home before his
return. No message had been left for him by Mary--none at least had
been left with Beatrice; and he began in his heart to accuse her of
coldness and perfidy;--not, certainly, with much justice, seeing that
she had never given him the slightest encouragement.

The absence of Patience Oriel added to the dullness of the place. It
was certainly hard upon Frank that all the attraction of the village
should be removed to make way and prepare for his return--harder,
perhaps, on them; for, to tell the truth, Miss Oriel's visit had been
entirely planned to enable her to give Mary a comfortable way of
leaving Greshamsbury during the time that Frank should remain at
home. Frank thought himself cruelly used. But what did Mr Oriel think
when doomed to eat his Christmas pudding alone, because the young
squire would be unreasonable in his love? What did the doctor think,
as he sat solitary by his deserted hearth--the doctor, who no
longer permitted himself to enjoy the comforts of the Greshamsbury
dining-table? Frank hinted and grumbled; talked to Beatrice of the
determined constancy of his love, and occasionally consoled himself
by a stray smile from some of the neighbouring belles. The black
horse was made perfect; the old grey pony was by no means discarded;
and much that was satisfactory was done in the sporting line. But
still the house was dull, and Frank felt that he was the cause of
its being so. Of the doctor he saw but little: he never came to
Greshamsbury unless to see Lady Arabella as doctor, or to be closeted
with the squire. There were no social evenings with him; no animated
confabulations at the doctor's house; no discourses between them,
as there had wont to be, about the merits of the different covers,
and the capacities of the different hounds. These were dull days on
the whole for Frank; and sad enough, we may say, for our friend the
doctor.

In February, Frank again went back to college; having settled with
Harry Baker certain affairs which weighed on his mind. He went back
to Cambridge, promising to be home on the 20th of the month, so as to
be present at his sister's wedding. A cold and chilling time had been
named for these hymeneal joys, but one not altogether unsuited to the
feelings of the happy pair. February is certainly not a warm month;
but with the rich it is generally a cosy, comfortable time. Good
fires, winter cheer, groaning tables, and warm blankets, make a
fictitious summer, which, to some tastes, is more delightful than
the long days and the hot sun. And some marriages are especially
winter matches. They depend for their charm on the same substantial
attractions: instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison,
purse chinks to purse. The rich new furniture of the new abode is
looked to instead of the rapture of a pure embrace. The new carriage
is depended on rather than the new heart's companion; and the first
bright gloss, prepared by the upholsterer's hands, stands in lieu of
the rosy tints which young love lends to his true votaries.

Mr Moffat had not spent his Christmas at Greshamsbury. That eternal
election petition, those eternal lawyers, the eternal care of his
well-managed wealth, forbade him the enjoyment of any such pleasures.
He could not come to Greshamsbury for Christmas, nor yet for the
festivities of the new year; but now and then he wrote prettily
worded notes, sending occasionally a silver-gilt pencil-case, or a
small brooch, and informed Lady Arabella that he looked forward to
the 20th of February with great satisfaction. But, in the meanwhile,
the squire became anxious, and at last went up to London; and Frank,
who was at Cambridge, bought the heaviest cutting whip to be found in
that town, and wrote a confidential letter to Harry Baker.

Poor Mr Moffat! It is well known that none but the brave deserve the
fair; but thou, without much excuse for bravery, had secured for
thyself one who, at any rate, was fair enough for thee. Would it
not have been well hadst thou looked into thyself to see what real
bravery might be in thee, before thou hadst prepared to desert this
fair one thou hadst already won? That last achievement, one may say,
did require some special courage.

Poor Mr Moffat! It is wonderful that as he sat in that gig, going to
Gatherum Castle, planning how he would be off with Miss Gresham and
afterwards on with Miss Dunstable, it is wonderful that he should not
then have cast his eye behind him, and looked at that stalwart pair
of shoulders which were so close to his own back. As he afterwards
pondered on his scheme while sipping the duke's claret, it is odd
that he should not have observed the fiery pride of purpose and power
of wrath which was so plainly written on that young man's brow: or,
when he matured, and finished, and carried out his purpose, that he
did not think of that keen grasp which had already squeezed his own
hand with somewhat too warm a vigour, even in the way of friendship.

Poor Mr Moffat! it is probable that he forgot to think of Frank at
all as connected with his promised bride; it is probable that he
looked forward only to the squire's violence and the enmity of the
house of Courcy; and that he found from enquiry at his heart's
pulses, that he was man enough to meet these. Could he have guessed
what a whip Frank Gresham would have bought at Cambridge--could he
have divined what a letter would have been written to Harry Baker--it
is probable, nay, we think we may say certain, that Miss Gresham
would have become Mrs Moffat.

Miss Gresham, however, never did become Mrs Moffat. About two days
after Frank's departure for Cambridge--it is just possible that Mr
Moffat was so prudent as to make himself aware of the fact--but just
two days after Frank's departure, a very long, elaborate, and clearly
explanatory letter was received at Greshamsbury. Mr Moffat was quite
sure that Miss Gresham and her very excellent parents would do him
the justice to believe that he was not actuated, &c., &c., &c.
The long and the short of this was, that Mr Moffat signified his
intention of breaking off the match without offering any intelligible
reason.

Augusta again bore her disappointment well: not, indeed, without
sorrow and heartache, and inward, hidden tears; but still well. She
neither raved, nor fainted, nor walked about by moonlight alone. She
wrote no poetry, and never once thought of suicide. When, indeed, she
remembered the rosy-tinted lining, the unfathomable softness of that
Long-acre carriage, her spirit did for one moment give way; but, on
the whole, she bore it as a strong-minded woman and a de Courcy
should do.

But both Lady Arabella and the squire were greatly vexed. The former
had made the match, and the latter, having consented to it, had
incurred deeper responsibilities to enable him to bring it about.
The money which was to have been given to Mr Moffat was still to the
fore; but alas! how much, how much that he could ill spare, had been
thrown away on bridal preparations! It is, moreover, an unpleasant
thing for a gentleman to have his daughter jilted; perhaps peculiarly
so to have her jilted by a tailor's son.

Lady Arabella's woe was really piteous. It seemed to her as though
cruel fate were heaping misery after misery upon the wretched house
of Greshamsbury. A few weeks since things were going so well with
her! Frank then was all but the accepted husband of almost untold
wealth--so, at least, she was informed by her sister-in-law--whereas,
Augusta, was the accepted wife of wealth, not indeed untold, but of
dimensions quite sufficiently respectable to cause much joy in the
telling. Where now were her golden hopes? Where now the splendid
future of her poor duped children? Augusta was left to pine alone;
and Frank, in a still worse plight, insisted on maintaining his love
for a bastard and a pauper.

For Frank's affair she had received some poor consolation by laying
all the blame on the squire's shoulders. What she had then said
was now repaid to her with interest; for not only had she been the
maker of Augusta's match, but she had boasted of the deed with all a
mother's pride.

It was from Beatrice that Frank had obtained his tidings. This last
resolve on the part of Mr Moffat had not altogether been unsuspected
by some of the Greshams, though altogether unsuspected by the Lady
Arabella. Frank had spoken of it as a possibility to Beatrice,
and was not quite unprepared when the information reached him. He
consequently bought his big cutting whip, and wrote his confidential
letter to Harry Baker.

On the following day Frank and Harry might have been seen, with their
heads nearly close together, leaning over one of the tables in the
large breakfast-room at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden. The
ominous whip, to the handle of which Frank had already made his hand
well accustomed, was lying on the table between them; and ever and
anon Harry Baker would take it up and feel its weight approvingly.
Oh, Mr Moffat! poor Mr Moffat! go not out into the fashionable world
to-day; above all, go not to that club of thine in Pall Mall; but,
oh! especially go not there, as is thy wont to do, at three o'clock
in the afternoon!

With much care did those two young generals lay their plans of
attack. Let it not for a moment be thought that it was ever in the
minds of either of them that two men should attack one. But it
was thought that Mr Moffat might be rather coy in coming out from
his seclusion to meet the proffered hand of his once intended
brother-in-law when he should see that hand armed with a heavy whip.
Baker, therefore, was content to act as a decoy duck, and remarked
that he might no doubt make himself useful in restraining the public
mercy, and, probably, in controlling the interference of policemen.

"It will be deuced hard if I can't get five or six shies at him,"
said Frank, again clutching his weapon almost spasmodically. Oh, Mr
Moffat! five or six shies with such a whip, and such an arm! For
myself, I would sooner join in a second Balaclava gallop than
encounter it.

At ten minutes before four these two heroes might be seen walking up
Pall Mall, towards the ---- Club. Young Baker walked with an eager
disengaged air. Mr Moffat did not know his appearance; he had,
therefore, no anxiety to pass along unnoticed. But Frank had in some
mysterious way drawn his hat very far over his forehead, and had
buttoned his shooting-coat up round his chin. Harry had recommended
to him a great-coat, in order that he might the better conceal his
face; but Frank had found that the great-coat was an encumbrance to
his arm. He put it on, and when thus clothed he had tried the whip,
he found that he cut the air with much less potency than in the
lighter garment. He contented himself, therefore, with looking down
on the pavement as he walked along, letting the long point of the
whip stick up from his pocket, and flattering himself that even Mr
Moffat would not recognise him at the first glance. Poor Mr Moffat!
If he had but had the chance!

And now, having arrived at the front of the club, the two friends for
a moment separate: Frank remains standing on the pavement, under the
shade of the high stone area-railing, while Harry jauntily skips up
three steps at a time, and with a very civil word of inquiry of the
hall porter, sends in his card to Mr Moffat--


   MR HARRY BAKER


Mr Moffat, never having heard of such a gentleman in his life,
unwittingly comes out into the hall, and Harry, with the sweetest
smile, addresses him.

Now the plan of the campaign had been settled in this wise: Baker
was to send into the club for Mr Moffat, and invite that gentleman
down into the street. It was probable that the invitation might
be declined; and it had been calculated in such case that the two
gentlemen would retire for parley into the strangers' room, which was
known to be immediately opposite the hall door. Frank was to keep his
eye on the portals, and if he found that Mr Moffat did not appear
as readily as might be desired, he also was to ascend the steps and
hurry into the strangers' room. Then, whether he met Mr Moffat there
or elsewhere, or wherever he might meet him, he was to greet him with
all the friendly vigour in his power, while Harry disposed of the
club porters.

But fortune, who ever favours the brave, specially favoured Frank
Gresham on this occasion. Just as Harry Baker had put his card
into the servant's hand, Mr Moffat, with his hat on, prepared for
the street, appeared in the hall; Mr Baker addressed him with his
sweetest smile, and begged the pleasure of saying a word or two as
they descended into the street. Had not Mr Moffat been going thither
it would have been very improbable that he should have done so at
Harry's instance. But, as it was, he merely looked rather solemn
at his visitor--it was his wont to look solemn--and continued the
descent of the steps.

Frank, his heart leaping the while, saw his prey, and retreated two
steps behind the area-railing, the dread weapon already well poised
in his hand. Oh! Mr Moffat! Mr Moffat! if there be any goddess to
interfere in thy favour, let her come forward now without delay; let
her now bear thee off on a cloud if there be one to whom thou art
sufficiently dear! But there is no such goddess.

Harry smiled blandly till they were well on the pavement, saying some
nothing, and keeping the victim's face averted from the avenging
angel; and then, when the raised hand was sufficiently nigh, he
withdrew two steps towards the nearest lamp-post. Not for him was the
honour of the interview;--unless, indeed, succouring policemen might
give occasion for some gleam of glory.

But succouring policemen were no more to be come by than goddesses.
Where were ye, men, when that savage whip fell about the ears of the
poor ex-legislator? In Scotland Yard, sitting dozing on your benches,
or talking soft nothings to the housemaids round the corner; for ye
were not walking on your beats, nor standing at coign of vantage, to
watch the tumults of the day. But had ye been there what could ye
have done? Had Sir Richard himself been on the spot Frank Gresham
would still, we may say, have had his five shies at that unfortunate
one.

When Harry Baker quickly seceded from the way, Mr Moffat at once saw
the fate before him. His hair doubtless stood on end, and his voice
refused to give the loud screech with which he sought to invoke the
club. An ashy paleness suffused his cheeks, and his tottering steps
were unable to bear him away in flight. Once, and twice, the cutting
whip came well down across his back. Had he been wise enough to stand
still and take his thrashing in that attitude, it would have been
well for him. But men so circumstanced have never such prudence.
After two blows he made a dash at the steps, thinking to get back
into the club; but Harry, who had by no means reclined in idleness
against the lamp-post, here stopped him: "You had better go back into
the street," said Harry; "indeed you had," giving him a shove from
off the second step.

Then of course Frank could not do other than hit him anywhere. When a
gentleman is dancing about with much energy it is hardly possible to
strike him fairly on his back. The blows, therefore, came now on his
legs and now on his head; and Frank unfortunately got more than his
five or six shies before he was interrupted.

The interruption however came, all too soon for Frank's idea of
justice. Though there be no policeman to take part in a London row,
there are always others ready enough to do so; amateur policemen,
who generally sympathise with the wrong side, and, in nine cases
out of ten, expend their generous energy in protecting thieves and
pickpockets. When it was seen with what tremendous ardour that
dread weapon fell about the ears of the poor undefended gentleman,
interference there was at last, in spite of Harry Baker's best
endeavours, and loudest protestations.

"Do not interrupt them, sir," said he; "pray do not. It is a family
affair, and they will neither of them like it."

In the teeth, however, of these assurances, rude people did
interfere, and after some nine or ten shies Frank found himself
encompassed by the arms, and encumbered by the weight of a very stout
gentleman, who hung affectionately about his neck and shoulders;
whereas, Mr Moffat was already receiving consolation from two
motherly females, sitting in a state of syncope on the good-natured
knees of a fishmonger's apprentice.

Frank was thoroughly out of breath: nothing came from his lips but
half-muttered expletives and unintelligible denunciations of the
iniquity of his foe. But still he struggled to be at him again. We
all know how dangerous is the taste of blood; now cruelty will become
a custom even with the most tender-hearted. Frank felt that he had
hardly fleshed his virgin lash: he thought, almost with despair, that
he had not yet at all succeeded as became a man and a brother; his
memory told him of but one or two of the slightest touches that had
gone well home to the offender. He made a desperate effort to throw
off that incubus round his neck and rush again to the combat.

"Harry--Harry; don't let him go--don't let him go," he barely
articulated.

"Do you want to murder the man, sir; to murder him?" said the stout
gentleman over his shoulder, speaking solemnly into his very ear.

"I don't care," said Frank, struggling manfully but uselessly. "Let
me out, I say; I don't care--don't let him go, Harry, whatever you
do."

"He has got it prettily tidily," said Harry; "I think that will
perhaps do for the present."

By this time there was a considerable concourse. The club steps were
crowded with the members; among whom there were many of Mr Moffat's
acquaintance. Policemen also now flocked up, and the question arose
as to what should be done with the originators of the affray. Frank
and Harry found that they were to consider themselves under a gentle
arrest, and Mr Moffat, in a fainting state, was carried into the
interior of the club.

Frank, in his innocence, had intended to have celebrated this little
affair when it was over by a light repast and a bottle of claret
with his friend, and then to have gone back to Cambridge by the mail
train. He found, however, that his schemes in this respect were
frustrated. He had to get bail to attend at Marlborough Street
police-office should he be wanted within the next two or three days;
and was given to understand that he would be under the eye of the
police, at any rate until Mr Moffat should be out of danger.

"Out of danger!" said Frank to his friend with a startled look.
"Why I hardly got at him." Nevertheless, they did have their slight
repast, and also their bottle of claret.

On the second morning after this occurrence, Frank was again sitting
in that public room at the Tavistock, and Harry was again sitting
opposite to him. The whip was not now so conspicuously produced
between them, having been carefully packed up and put away among
Frank's other travelling properties. They were so sitting, rather
glum, when the door swung open, and a heavy, quick step was heard
advancing towards them. It was the squire; whose arrival there had
been momentarily expected.

"Frank," said he--"Frank, what on earth is all this?" and as he spoke
he stretched out both hands, the right to his son and the left to his
friend.

"He has given a blackguard a licking, that is all," said Harry.

Frank felt that his hand was held with a peculiarly warm grasp; and
he could not but think that his father's face, raised though his
eyebrows were--though there was on it an intended expression of
amazement and, perhaps, regret--nevertheless he could not but think
that his father's face looked kindly at him.

"God bless my soul, my dear boy! what have you done to the man?"

"He's not a ha'porth the worse, sir," said Frank, still holding his
father's hand.

"Oh, isn't he!" said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "He must be made
of some very tough article then."

"But my dear boys, I hope there's no danger. I hope there's no
danger."

"Danger!" said Frank, who could not yet induce himself to believe
that he had been allowed a fair chance with Mr Moffat.

"Oh, Frank! Frank! how could you be so rash? In the middle of Pall
Mall, too. Well! well! well! All the women down at Greshamsbury will
have it that you have killed him."

"I almost wish I had," said Frank.

"Oh, Frank! Frank! But now tell me--"

And then the father sat well pleased while he heard, chiefly from
Harry Baker, the full story of his son's prowess. And then they did
not separate without another slight repast and another bottle of
claret.

Mr Moffat retired to the country for a while, and then went abroad;
having doubtless learnt that the petition was not likely to give him
a seat for the city of Barchester. And this was the end of the wooing
with Miss Gresham.




CHAPTER XXII

Sir Roger Is Unseated


After this, little occurred at Greshamsbury, or among Greshamsbury
people, which it will be necessary for us to record. Some notice was,
of course, taken of Frank's prolonged absence from his college; and
tidings, perhaps exaggerated tidings, of what had happened in Pall
Mall were not slow to reach the High Street of Cambridge. But that
affair was gradually hushed up; and Frank went on with his studies.

He went back to his studies: it then being an understood arrangement
between him and his father that he should not return to Greshamsbury
till the summer vacation. On this occasion, the squire and Lady
Arabella had, strange to say, been of the same mind. They both wished
to keep their son away from Miss Thorne; and both calculated, that
at his age and with his disposition, it was not probable that any
passion would last out a six months' absence. "And when the summer
comes it will be an excellent opportunity for us to go abroad," said
Lady Arabella. "Poor Augusta will require some change to renovate her
spirits."

To this last proposition the squire did not assent. It was, however,
allowed to pass over; and this much was fixed, that Frank was not to
return home till midsummer.

It will be remembered that Sir Roger Scatcherd had been elected
as sitting member for the city of Barchester; but it will also be
remembered that a petition against his return was threatened. Had
that petition depended solely on Mr Moffat, Sir Roger's seat no doubt
would have been saved by Frank Gresham's cutting whip. But such
was not the case. Mr Moffat had been put forward by the de Courcy
interest; and that noble family with its dependants was not to go to
the wall because Mr Moffat had had a thrashing. No; the petition was
to go on; and Mr Nearthewinde declared, that no petition in his hands
had half so good a chance of success. "Chance, no, but certainty,"
said Mr Nearthewinde; for Mr Nearthewinde had learnt something with
reference to that honest publican and the payment of his little bill.

The petition was presented and duly backed; the recognisances were
signed, and all the proper formalities formally executed; and Sir
Roger found that his seat was in jeopardy. His return had been a
great triumph to him; and, unfortunately, he had celebrated that
triumph as he had been in the habit of celebrating most of the very
triumphant occasions of his life. Though he was than hardly yet
recovered from the effects of his last attack, he indulged in another
violent drinking bout; and, strange to say, did so without any
immediate visible bad effects.

In February he took his seat amidst the warm congratulations of
all men of his own class, and early in the month of April his case
came on for trial. Every kind of electioneering sin known to the
electioneering world was brought to his charge; he was accused of
falseness, dishonesty, and bribery of every sort: he had, it was said
in the paper of indictment, bought votes, obtained them by treating,
carried them off by violence, conquered them by strong drink, polled
them twice over, counted those of dead men, stolen them, forged them,
and created them by every possible, fictitious contrivance: there was
no description of wickedness appertaining to the task of procuring
votes of which Sir Roger had not been guilty, either by himself or
by his agents. He was quite horror-struck at the list of his own
enormities. But he was somewhat comforted when Mr Closerstil told him
that the meaning of it all was that Mr Romer, the barrister, had paid
a former bill due to Mr Reddypalm, the publican.

"I fear he was indiscreet, Sir Roger; I really fear he was. Those
young men always are. Being energetic, they work like horses; but
what's the use of energy without discretion, Sir Roger?"

"But, Mr Closerstil, I knew nothing about it from first to last."

"The agency can be proved, Sir Roger," said Mr Closerstil, shaking
his head. And then there was nothing further to be said on the
matter.

In these days of snow-white purity all political delinquency is
abominable in the eyes of British politicians; but no delinquency is
so abominable as that of venality at elections. The sin of bribery is
damnable. It is the one sin for which, in the House of Commons, there
can be no forgiveness. When discovered, it should render the culprit
liable to political death, without hope of pardon. It is treason
against a higher throne than that on which the Queen sits. It is a
heresy which requires an _auto-da-fé_. It is a pollution to the whole
House, which can only be cleansed by a great sacrifice. Anathema
maranatha! out with it from amongst us, even though the half of our
heart's blood be poured forth in the conflict! out with it, and for
ever!

Such is the language of patriotic members with regard to bribery;
and doubtless, if sincere, they are in the right. It is a bad thing,
certainly, that a rich man should buy votes; bad also that a poor man
should sell them. By all means let us repudiate such a system with
heartfelt disgust.

With heartfelt disgust, if we can do so, by all means; but not with
disgust pretended only and not felt in the heart at all. The laws
against bribery at elections are now so stringent that an unfortunate
candidate may easily become guilty, even though actuated by the
purest intentions. But not the less on that account does any
gentleman, ambitious of the honour of serving his country in
Parliament, think it necessary as a preliminary measure to provide
a round sum of money at his banker's. A candidate must pay for no
treating, no refreshments, no band of music; he must give neither
ribbons to the girls nor ale to the men. If a huzza be uttered in
his favour, it is at his peril; it may be necessary for him to prove
before a committee that it was the spontaneous result of British
feeling in his favour, and not the purchased result of British beer.
He cannot safely ask any one to share his hotel dinner. Bribery hides
itself now in the most impalpable shapes, and may be effected by the
offer of a glass of sherry. But not the less on this account does a
poor man find that he is quite unable to overcome the difficulties of
a contested election.

We strain at our gnats with a vengeance, but we swallow our camels
with ease. For what purpose is it that we employ those peculiarly
safe men of business--Messrs Nearthewinde and Closerstil--when we
wish to win our path through all obstacles into that sacred recess,
if all be so open, all so easy, all so much above board? Alas! the
money is still necessary, is still prepared, or at any rate expended.
The poor candidate of course knows nothing of the matter till the
attorney's bill is laid before him, when all danger of petitions has
passed away. He little dreamed till then, not he, that there had been
banquetings and junketings, secret doings and deep drinkings at his
expense. Poor candidate! Poor member! Who was so ignorant as he!
'Tis true he has paid such bills before; but 'tis equally true that
he specially begged his managing friend, Mr Nearthewinde, to be
very careful that all was done according to law! He pays the bill,
however, and on the next election will again employ Mr Nearthewinde.

Now and again, at rare intervals, some glimpse into the inner
sanctuary does reach the eyes of ordinary mortal men without;
some slight accidental peep into those mysteries from whence
all corruption has been so thoroughly expelled; and then, how
delightfully refreshing is the sight, when, perhaps, some ex-member,
hurled from his paradise like a fallen peri, reveals the secret of
that pure heaven, and, in the agony of his despair, tells us all
that it cost him to sit for ---- through those few halcyon years!

But Mr Nearthewinde is a safe man, and easy to be employed with but
little danger. All these stringent bribery laws only enhance the
value of such very safe men as Mr Nearthewinde. To him, stringent
laws against bribery are the strongest assurance of valuable
employment. Were these laws of a nature to be evaded with ease, any
indifferent attorney might manage a candidate's affairs and enable
him to take his seat with security.

It would have been well for Sir Roger if he had trusted solely to
Mr Closerstil; well also for Mr Romer had he never fished in those
troubled waters. In due process of time the hearing of the petition
came on, and then who so happy, sitting at his ease at his London
Inn, blowing his cloud from a long pipe, with measureless content, as
Mr Reddypalm? Mr Reddypalm was the one great man of the contest. All
depended on Mr Reddypalm; and well he did his duty.

The result of the petition was declared by the committee to be as
follows:--that Sir Roger's election was null and void--that the
election altogether was null and void--that Sir Roger had, by his
agent, been guilty of bribery in obtaining a vote, by the payment
of a bill alleged to have been previously refused payment--that Sir
Roger himself knew nothing about it;--this is always a matter of
course;--but that Sir Roger's agent, Mr Romer, had been wittingly
guilty of bribery with reference to the transaction above described.
Poor Sir Roger! Poor Mr Romer.

Poor Mr Romer indeed! His fate was perhaps as sad as well might be,
and as foul a blot to the purism of these very pure times in which
we live. Not long after those days, it so happening that some
considerable amount of youthful energy and quidnunc ability were
required to set litigation afloat at Hong-Kong, Mr Romer was sent
thither as the fittest man for such work, with rich assurance of
future guerdon. Who so happy then as Mr Romer! But even among the
pure there is room for envy and detraction. Mr Romer had not yet
ceased to wonder at new worlds, as he skimmed among the islands of
that southern ocean, before the edict had gone forth for his return.
There were men sitting in that huge court of Parliament on whose
breasts it lay as an intolerable burden, that England should be
represented among the antipodes by one who had tampered with the
purity of the franchise. For them there was no rest till this great
disgrace should be wiped out and atoned for. Men they were of that
calibre, that the slightest reflection on them of such a stigma
seemed to themselves to blacken their own character. They could not
break bread with satisfaction till Mr Romer was recalled. He was
recalled, and of course ruined--and the minds of those just men were
then at peace.

To any honourable gentleman who really felt his brow suffused with
a patriotic blush, as he thought of his country dishonoured by Mr
Romer's presence at Hong-Kong--to any such gentleman, if any such
there were, let all honour be given, even though the intensity of his
purity may create amazement to our less finely organised souls. But
if no such blush suffused the brow of any honourable gentleman; if Mr
Romer was recalled from quite other feelings--what then in lieu of
honour shall we allot to those honourable gentlemen who were most
concerned?

Sir Roger, however, lost his seat, and, after three months of the
joys of legislation, found himself reduced by a terrible blow to the
low level of private life.

And the blow to him was very heavy. Men but seldom tell the truth of
what is in them, even to their dearest friends; they are ashamed of
having feelings, or rather of showing that they are troubled by any
intensity of feeling. It is the practice of the time to treat all
pursuits as though they were only half important to us, as though
in what we desire we were only half in earnest. To be visibly eager
seems childish, and is always bad policy; and men, therefore,
nowadays, though they strive as hard as ever in the service of
ambition--harder than ever in that of mammon--usually do so with
a pleasant smile on, as though after all they were but amusing
themselves with the little matter in hand.

Perhaps it had been so with Sir Roger in those electioneering days
when he was looking for votes. At any rate, he had spoken of his seat
in Parliament as but a doubtful good. "He was willing, indeed, to
stand, having been asked; but the thing would interfere wonderfully
with his business; and then, what did he know about Parliament?
Nothing on earth: it was the maddest scheme, but nevertheless, he was
not going to hang back when called upon--he had always been rough and
ready when wanted,--and there he was now ready as ever, and rough
enough too, God knows."

'Twas thus that he had spoken of his coming parliamentary honours;
and men had generally taken him at his word. He had been returned,
and this success had been hailed as a great thing for the cause and
class to which he belonged. But men did not know that his inner heart
was swelling with triumph, and that his bosom could hardly contain
his pride as he reflected that the poor Barchester stone-mason was
now the representative in Parliament of his native city. And so, when
his seat was attacked, he still laughed and joked. "They were welcome
to it for him," he said; "he could keep it or want it; and of the
two, perhaps, the want of it would come most convenient to him. He
did not exactly think that he had bribed any one; but if the bigwigs
chose to say so, it was all one to him. He was rough and ready, now
as ever," &c., &c.

But when the struggle came, it was to him a fearful one; not the
less fearful because there was no one, no, not one friend in all the
world, to whom he could open his mind and speak out honestly what
was in his heart. To Dr Thorne he might perhaps have done so had his
intercourse with the doctor been sufficiently frequent; but it was
only now and again when he was ill, or when the squire wanted to
borrow money, that he saw Dr Thorne. He had plenty of friends, heaps
of friends in the parliamentary sense; friends who talked about
him, and lauded him at public meetings; who shook hands with him on
platforms, and drank his health at dinners; but he had no friend
who could sit with him over his own hearth, in true friendship, and
listen to, and sympathise with, and moderate the sighings of the
inner man. For him there was no sympathy; no tenderness of love; no
retreat, save into himself, from the loud brass band of the outer
world.

The blow hit him terribly hard. It did not come altogether
unexpectedly, and yet, when it did come, it was all but unendurable.
He had made so much of the power of walking into that august chamber,
and sitting shoulder to shoulder in legislative equality with the
sons of dukes and the curled darlings of the nation. Money had given
him nothing, nothing but the mere feeling of brute power: with his
three hundred thousand pounds he had felt himself to be no more
palpably near to the goal of his ambition than when he had chipped
stones for three shillings and sixpence a day. But when he was led up
and introduced at that table, when he shook the old premier's hand
on the floor of the House of Commons, when he heard the honourable
member for Barchester alluded to in grave debate as the greatest
living authority on railway matters, then, indeed, he felt that he
had achieved something.

And now this cup was ravished from his lips, almost before it was
tasted. When he was first told as a certainty that the decision of
the committee was against him, he bore up against the misfortune like
a man. He laughed heartily, and declared himself well rid of a very
profitless profession; cut some little joke about Mr Moffat and his
thrashing, and left on those around him an impression that he was
a man so constituted, so strong in his own resolves, so steadily
pursuant of his own work, that no little contentions of this kind
could affect him. Men admired his easy laughter, as, shuffling his
half-crowns with both his hands in his trouser-pockets, he declared
that Messrs Romer and Reddypalm were the best friends he had known
for this many a day.

But not the less did he walk out from the room in which he was
standing a broken-hearted man. Hope could not buoy him up as she may
do other ex-members in similarly disagreeable circumstances. He could
not afford to look forward to what further favours parliamentary
future might have in store for him after a lapse of five or six
years. Five or six years! Why, his life was not worth four years'
purchase; of that he was perfectly aware: he could not now live
without the stimulus of brandy; and yet, while he took it, he knew he
was killing himself. Death he did not fear; but he would fain have
wished, after his life of labour, to have lived, while yet he could
live, in the blaze of that high world to which for a moment he had
attained.

He laughed loud and cheerily as he left his parliamentary friends,
and, putting himself into the train, went down to Boxall Hill. He
laughed loud and cheerily; but he never laughed again. It had not
been his habit to laugh much at Boxall Hill. It was there he kept his
wife, and Mr Winterbones, and the brandy bottle behind his pillow. He
had not often there found it necessary to assume that loud and cheery
laugh.

On this occasion he was apparently well in health when he got home;
but both Lady Scatcherd and Mr Winterbones found him more than
ordinarily cross. He made an affectation at sitting very hard to
business, and even talked of going abroad to look at some of his
foreign contracts. But even Winterbones found that his patron did not
work as he had been wont to do; and at last, with some misgivings, he
told Lady Scatcherd that he feared that everything was not right.

"He's always at it, my lady, always," said Mr Winterbones.

"Is he?" said Lady Scatcherd, well understanding what Mr
Winterbones's allusion meant.

"Always, my lady. I never saw nothing like it. Now, there's me--I can
always go my half-hour when I've had my drop; but he, why, he don't
go ten minutes, not now."

This was not cheerful to Lady Scatcherd; but what was the poor woman
to do? When she spoke to him on any subject he only snarled at her;
and now that the heavy fit was on him, she did not dare even to
mention the subject of his drinking. She had never known him so
savage in his humour as he was now, so bearish in his habits, so
little inclined to humanity, so determined to rush headlong down,
with his head between his legs, into the bottomless abyss.

She thought of sending for Dr Thorne; but she did not know under what
guise to send for him,--whether as doctor or as friend: under neither
would he now be welcome; and she well knew that Sir Roger was not the
man to accept in good part either a doctor or a friend who might be
unwelcome. She knew that this husband of hers, this man who, with
all his faults, was the best of her friends, whom of all she loved
best--she knew that he was killing himself, and yet she could do
nothing. Sir Roger was his own master, and if kill himself he would,
kill himself he must.

And kill himself he did. Not indeed by one sudden blow. He did not
take one huge dose of his consuming poison and then fall dead upon
the floor. It would perhaps have been better for himself, and better
for those around him, had he done so. No; the doctors had time to
congregate around his bed; Lady Scatcherd was allowed a period of
nurse-tending; the sick man was able to say his last few words and
bid adieu to his portion of the lower world with dying decency. As
these last words will have some lasting effect upon the surviving
personages of our story, the reader must be content to stand for a
short while by the side of Sir Roger's sick-bed, and help us to bid
him God-speed on the journey which lies before him.




CHAPTER XXIII

Retrospective


It was declared in the early pages of this work that Dr Thorne was to
be our hero; but it would appear very much as though he had latterly
been forgotten. Since that evening when he retired to rest without
letting Mary share the grievous weight which was on his mind, we have
neither seen nor heard aught of him.

It was then full midsummer, and it is now early spring: and during the
intervening months the doctor had not had a happy time of it. On that
night, as we have before told, he took his niece to his heart; but
he could not then bring himself to tell her that which it was so
imperative that she should know. Like a coward, he would put off
the evil hour till the next morning, and thus robbed himself of his
night's sleep.

But when the morning came the duty could not be postponed. Lady
Arabella had given him to understand that his niece would no longer
be a guest at Greshamsbury; and it was quite out of the question that
Mary, after this, should be allowed to put her foot within the gate
of the domain without having learnt what Lady Arabella had said. So
he told it her before breakfast, walking round their little garden,
she with her hand in his.

He was perfectly thunderstruck by the collected--nay, cool way in
which she received his tidings. She turned pale, indeed; he felt also
that her hand somewhat trembled in his own, and he perceived that
for a moment her voice shook; but no angry word escaped her lip, nor
did she even deign to repudiate the charge, which was, as it were,
conveyed in Lady Arabella's request. The doctor knew, or thought he
knew--nay, he did know--that Mary was wholly blameless in the matter:
that she had at least given no encouragement to any love on the part
of the young heir; but, nevertheless, he had expected that she would
avouch her own innocence. This, however, she by no means did.

"Lady Arabella is quite right," she said, "quite right; if she has
any fear of that kind, she cannot be too careful."

"She is a selfish, proud woman," said the doctor; "quite indifferent
to the feelings of others; quite careless how deeply she may hurt her
neighbours, if, in doing so, she may possibly benefit herself."

"She will not hurt me, uncle, nor yet you. I can live without going
to Greshamsbury."

"But it is not to be endured that she should dare to cast an
imputation on my darling."

"On me, uncle? She casts no imputation on me. Frank has been foolish:
I have said nothing of it, for it was not worth while to trouble you.
But as Lady Arabella chooses to interfere, I have no right to blame
her. He has said what he should not have said; he has been foolish.
Uncle, you know I could not prevent it."

"Let her send him away then, not you; let her banish him."

"Uncle, he is her son. A mother can hardly send her son away so
easily: could you send me away, uncle?"

He merely answered her by twining his arm round her waist and
pressing her to his side. He was well sure that she was badly
treated; and yet now that she so unaccountably took Lady Arabella's
part, he hardly knew how to make this out plainly to be the case.

"Besides, uncle, Greshamsbury is in a manner his own; how can he be
banished from his father's house? No, uncle; there is an end of my
visits there. They shall find that I will not thrust myself in their
way."

And then Mary, with a calm brow and steady gait, went in and made the
tea.

And what might be the feelings of her heart when she so sententiously
told her uncle that Frank had been foolish? She was of the same age
with him; as impressionable, though more powerful in hiding such
impressions,--as all women should be; her heart was as warm, her
blood as full of life, her innate desire for the companionship of
some much-loved object as strong as his. Frank had been foolish in
avowing his passion. No such folly as that could be laid at her door.
But had she been proof against the other folly? Had she been able to
walk heart-whole by his side, while he chatted his commonplaces about
love? Yes, they are commonplaces when we read of them in novels;
common enough, too, to some of us when we write them; but they are by
no means commonplace when first heard by a young girl in the rich,
balmy fragrance of a July evening stroll.

Nor are they commonplaces when so uttered for the first or second
time at least, or perhaps the third. 'Tis a pity that so heavenly a
pleasure should pall upon the senses.

If it was so that Frank's folly had been listened to with a certain
amount of pleasure, Mary did not even admit so much to herself. But
why should it have been otherwise? Why should she have been less
prone to love than he was? Had he not everything which girls do love?
which girls should love? which God created noble, beautiful, all but
godlike, in order that women, all but goddesslike, might love? To
love thoroughly, truly, heartily, with her whole body, soul, heart,
and strength; should not that be counted for a merit in a woman? And
yet we are wont to make a disgrace of it. We do so most unnaturally,
most unreasonably; for we expect our daughters to get themselves
married off our hands. When the period of that step comes, then love
is proper enough; but up to that--before that--as regards all those
preliminary passages which must, we suppose, be necessary--in all
those it becomes a young lady to be icy-hearted as a river-god in
winter.


   O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad!
   O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad!
   Tho' father and mither and a' should go mad,
   O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad!


This is the kind of love which a girl should feel before she puts her
hand proudly in that of her lover, and consents that they two shall
be made one flesh.

Mary felt no such love as this. She, too, had some inner perception
of that dread destiny by which it behoved Frank Gresham to be
forewarned. She, too--though she had never heard so much said in
words--had an almost instinctive knowledge that his fate required him
to marry money. Thinking over this in her own way, she was not slow
to convince herself that it was out of the question that she should
allow herself to love Frank Gresham. However well her heart might
be inclined to such a feeling, it was her duty to repress it. She
resolved, therefore, to do so; and she sometimes flattered herself
that she had kept her resolution.

These were bad times for the doctor, and bad times for Mary too. She
had declared that she could live without going to Greshamsbury; but
she did not find it so easy. She had been going to Greshamsbury all
her life, and it was as customary with her to be there as at home.
Such old customs are not broken without pain. Had she left the place
it would have been far different; but, as it was, she daily passed
the gates, daily saw and spoke to some of the servants, who knew her
as well as they did the young ladies of the family--was in hourly
contact, as it were, with Greshamsbury. It was not only that she
did not go there, but that everyone knew that she had suddenly
discontinued doing so. Yes, she could live without going to
Greshamsbury; but for some time she had but a poor life of it. She
felt, nay, almost heard, that every man and woman, boy and girl, in
the village was telling his and her neighbour that Mary Thorne no
longer went to the house because of Lady Arabella and the young
squire.

But Beatrice, of course, came to her. What was she to say to
Beatrice? The truth! Nay, but it is not always so easy to say the
truth, even to one's dearest friends.

"But you'll come up now he has gone?" said Beatrice.

"No, indeed," said Mary; "that would hardly be pleasant to Lady
Arabella, nor to me either. No, Trichy, dearest; my visits to dear
old Greshamsbury are done, done, done: perhaps in some twenty years'
time I may be walking down the lawn with your brother, and discussing
our childish days--that is, always, if the then Mrs Gresham shall
have invited me."

"How can Frank have been so wrong, so unkind, so cruel?" said
Beatrice.

This, however, was a light in which Miss Thorne did not take any
pleasure in discussing the matter. Her ideas of Frank's fault, and
unkindness, and cruelty, were doubtless different from those of his
sister. Such cruelty was not unnaturally excused in her eyes by many
circumstances which Beatrice did not fully understand. Mary was quite
ready to go hand in hand with Lady Arabella and the rest of the
Greshamsbury fold in putting an end, if possible, to Frank's passion:
she would give no one a right to accuse her of assisting to ruin the
young heir; but she could hardly bring herself to admit that he was
so very wrong--no, nor yet even so very cruel.

And then the squire came to see her, and this was a yet harder trial
than the visit of Beatrice. It was so difficult for her to speak to
him that she could not but wish him away; and yet, had he not come,
had he altogether neglected her, she would have felt it to be unkind.
She had ever been his pet, had always received kindness from him.

"I am sorry for all this, Mary; very sorry," said he, standing up,
and holding both her hands in his.

"It can't be helped, sir," said she, smiling.

"I don't know," said he; "I don't know--it ought to be helped
somehow--I am quite sure you have not been to blame."

"No," said she, very quietly, as though the position was one quite
a matter of course. "I don't think I have been very much to blame.
There will be misfortunes sometimes when nobody is to blame."

"I do not quite understand it all," said the squire; "but if Frank--"

"Oh! we will not talk about him," said she, still laughing gently.

"You can understand, Mary, how dear he must be to me; but if--"

"Mr Gresham, I would not for worlds be the cause of any
unpleasantness between you and him."

"But I cannot bear to think that we have banished you, Mary."

"It cannot be helped. Things will all come right in time."

"But you will be so lonely here."

"Oh! I shall get over all that. Here, you know, Mr Gresham, 'I am
monarch of all I survey;' and there is a great deal in that."

The squire did not quite catch her meaning, but a glimmering of it
did reach him. It was competent to Lady Arabella to banish her from
Greshamsbury; it was within the sphere of the squire's duties to
prohibit his son from an imprudent match; it was for the Greshams to
guard their Greshamsbury treasure as best they could within their
own territories: but let them beware that they did not attack her on
hers. In obedience to the first expression of their wishes, she had
submitted herself to this public mark of their disapproval because
she had seen at once, with her clear intellect, that they were only
doing that which her conscience must approve. Without a murmur,
therefore, she consented to be pointed at as the young lady who had
been turned out of Greshamsbury because of the young squire. She had
no help for it. But let them take care that they did not go beyond
that. Outside those Greshamsbury gates she and Frank Gresham, she
and Lady Arabella met on equal terms; let them each fight their own
battle.

The squire kissed her forehead affectionately and took his leave,
feeling, somehow, that he had been excused and pitied, and made much
of; whereas he had called on his young neighbour with the intention
of excusing, and pitying, and making much of her. He was not
quite comfortable as he left the house; but, nevertheless, he was
sufficiently honest-hearted to own to himself that Mary Thorne was a
fine girl. Only that it was so absolutely necessary that Frank should
marry money--and only, also, that poor Mary was such a birthless
foundling in the world's esteem--only, but for these things, what a
wife she would have made for that son of his!

To one person only did she talk freely on the subject, and that one
was Patience Oriel; and even with her the freedom was rather of the
mind than of the heart. She never said a word of her feeling with
reference to Frank, but she said much of her position in the village,
and of the necessity she was under to keep out of the way.

"It is very hard," said Patience, "that the offence should be all
with him, and the punishment all with you."

"Oh! as for that," said Mary, laughing, "I will not confess to any
offence, nor yet to any punishment; certainly not to any punishment."

"It comes to the same thing in the end."

"No, not so, Patience; there is always some little sting of disgrace
in punishment: now I am not going to hold myself in the least
disgraced."

"But, Mary, you must meet the Greshams sometimes."

"Meet them! I have not the slightest objection on earth to meet all,
or any of them. They are not a whit dangerous to me, my dear. 'Tis
I that am the wild beast, and 'tis they that must avoid me," and
then she added, after a pause--slightly blushing--"I have not the
slightest objection even to meet him if chance brings him in my way.
Let them look to that. My undertaking goes no further than this, that
I will not be seen within their gates."

But the girls so far understood each other that Patience undertook,
rather than promised, to give Mary what assistance she could; and,
despite Mary's bravado, she was in such a position that she much
wanted the assistance of such a friend as Miss Oriel.

After an absence of some six weeks, Frank, as we have seen, returned
home. Nothing was said to him, except by Beatrice, as to these new
Greshamsbury arrangements; and he, when he found Mary was not at the
place, went boldly to the doctor's house to seek her. But it has been
seen, also, that she discreetly kept out of his way. This she had
thought fit to do when the time came, although she had been so ready
with her boast that she had no objection on earth to meet him.

After that there had been the Christmas vacation, and Mary had again
found discretion to be the better part of valour. This was doubtless
disagreeable enough. She had no particular wish to spend her
Christmas with Miss Oriel's aunt instead of at her uncle's fireside.
Indeed, her Christmas festivities had hitherto been kept at
Greshamsbury, the doctor and herself having made a part of the family
circle there assembled. This was out of the question now; and perhaps
the absolute change to old Miss Oriel's house was better for her than
the lesser change to her uncle's drawing-room. Besides, how could she
have demeaned herself when she met Frank in their parish church? All
this had been fully understood by Patience, and, therefore, had this
Christmas visit been planned.

And then this affair of Frank and Mary Thorne ceased for a while to
be talked of at Greshamsbury, for that other affair of Mr Moffat and
Augusta monopolised the rural attention. Augusta, as we have said,
bore it well, and sustained the public gaze without much flinching.
Her period of martyrdom, however, did not last long, for soon
the news arrived of Frank's exploit in Pall Mall; and then the
Greshamsburyites forgot to think much more of Augusta, being fully
occupied in thinking of what Frank had done.

The tale, as it was first told, declared that Frank had followed Mr
Moffat up into his club; had dragged him thence into the middle of
Pall Mall, and had then slaughtered him on the spot. This was by
degrees modified till a sobered fiction became generally prevalent,
that Mr Moffat was lying somewhere, still alive, but with all his
bones in a general state of compound fracture. This adventure again
brought Frank into the ascendant, and restored to Mary her former
position as the Greshamsbury heroine.

"One cannot wonder at his being very angry," said Beatrice,
discussing the matter with Mary--very imprudently.

"Wonder--no; the wonder would have been if he had not been angry. One
might have been quite sure that he would have been angry enough."

"I suppose it was not absolutely right for him to beat Mr Moffat,"
said Beatrice, apologetically.

"Not right, Trichy? I think he was very right."

"Not to beat him so very much, Mary!"

"Oh, I suppose a man can't exactly stand measuring how much he does
these things. I like your brother for what he has done, and I say
so frankly--though I suppose I ought to eat my tongue out before I
should say such a thing, eh, Trichy?"

"I don't know that there's any harm in that," said Beatrice,
demurely. "If you both liked each other there would be no harm in
that--if that were all."

"Wouldn't there?" said Mary, in a low tone of bantering satire; "that
is so kind, Trichy, coming from you--from one of the family, you
know."

"You are well aware, Mary, that if I could have my wishes--"

"Yes: I am well aware what a paragon of goodness you are. If you
could have your way I should be admitted into heaven again; shouldn't
I? Only with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisper
to me with bated breath, mistaking me, perchance, for one of his own
class, I should be bound to close my ears to his whispering, and
remind him humbly that I was only a poor mortal. You would trust me
so far, wouldn't you, Trichy?"

"I would trust you in any way, Mary. But I think you are unkind in
saying such things to me."

"Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on this
understanding: that I am to be as good an angel as any of those
around me."

"But, Mary dear, why do you say this to me?"

"Because--because--because--ah me! Why, indeed, but because I have no
one else to say it to. Certainly not because you have deserved it."

"It seems as though you were finding fault with me."

"And so I am; how can I do other than find fault? How can I help
being sore? Trichy, you hardly realise my position; you hardly see
how I am treated; how I am forced to allow myself to be treated
without a sign of complaint. You don't see it all. If you did, you
would not wonder that I should be sore."

Beatrice did not quite see it all; but she saw enough of it to know
that Mary was to be pitied; so, instead of scolding her friend
for being cross, she threw her arms round her and kissed her
affectionately.

But the doctor all this time suffered much more than his niece did.
He could not complain out loudly; he could not aver that his pet lamb
had been ill treated; he could not even have the pleasure of openly
quarrelling with Lady Arabella; but not the less did he feel it to
be most cruel that Mary should have to live before the world as an
outcast, because it had pleased Frank Gresham to fall in love with
her.

But his bitterness was not chiefly against Frank. That Frank had been
very foolish he could not but acknowledge; but it was a kind of folly
for which the doctor was able to find excuse. For Lady Arabella's
cold propriety he could find no excuse.

With the squire he had spoken no word on the subject up to this
period of which we are now writing. With her ladyship he had never
spoken on it since that day when she had told him that Mary was
to come no more to Greshamsbury. He never now dined or spent his
evenings at Greshamsbury, and seldom was to be seen at the house,
except when called in professionally. The squire, indeed, he
frequently met; but he either did so in the village, or out on
horseback, or at his own house.

When the doctor first heard that Sir Roger had lost his seat, and had
returned to Boxall Hill, he resolved to go over and see him. But the
visit was postponed from day to day, as visits are postponed which
may be made any day, and he did not in fact go till he was summoned
there somewhat peremptorily. A message was brought to him one evening
to say that Sir Roger had been struck by paralysis, and that not a
moment was to be lost.

"It always happens at night," said Mary, who had more sympathy for
the living uncle whom she did know, than for the other dying uncle
whom she did not know.

"What matters?--there--just give me my scarf. In all probability I
may not be home to-night--perhaps not till late to-morrow. God bless
you, Mary!" and away the doctor went on his cold bleak ride to Boxall
Hill.

"Who will be his heir?" As the doctor rode along, he could not quite
rid his mind of this question. The poor man now about to die had
wealth enough to make many heirs. What if his heart should have
softened towards his sister's child! What if Mary should be found in
a few days to be possessed of such wealth that the Greshams should be
again happy to welcome her at Greshamsbury!

The doctor was not a lover of money--and he did his best to get rid
of such pernicious thoughts. But his longings, perhaps, were not so
much that Mary should be rich, as that she should have the power of
heaping coals of fire upon the heads of those people who had so
injured her.




CHAPTER XXIV

Louis Scatcherd


When Dr Thorne reached Boxall Hill he found Mr Rerechild from
Barchester there before him. Poor Lady Scatcherd, when her husband
was stricken by the fit, hardly knew in her dismay what adequate
steps to take. She had, as a matter of course, sent for Dr Thorne;
but she had thought that in so grave a peril the medical skill of no
one man could suffice. It was, she knew, quite out of the question
for her to invoke the aid of Dr Fillgrave, whom no earthly persuasion
would have brought to Boxall Hill; and as Mr Rerechild was supposed
in the Barchester world to be second--though at a long interval--to
that great man, she had applied for his assistance.

Now Mr Rerechild was a follower and humble friend of Dr Fillgrave;
and was wont to regard anything that came from the Barchester doctor
as sure light from the lamp of Æsculapius. He could not therefore be
other than an enemy of Dr Thorne. But he was a prudent, discreet man,
with a long family, averse to professional hostilities, as knowing
that he could make more by medical friends than medical foes, and
not at all inclined to take up any man's cudgel to his own detriment.
He had, of course, heard of that dreadful affront which had been
put upon his friend, as had all the "medical world"--all the
medical world at least of Barsetshire; and he had often expressed
his sympathy with Dr Fillgrave and his abhorrence of Dr Thorne's
anti-professional practices. But now that he found himself about to
be brought in contact with Dr Thorne, he reflected that the Galen
of Greshamsbury was at any rate equal in reputation to him of
Barchester; that the one was probably on the rise, whereas the other
was already considered by some as rather antiquated; and he therefore
wisely resolved that the present would be an excellent opportunity
for him to make a friend of Dr Thorne.

Poor Lady Scatcherd had an inkling that Dr Fillgrave and Mr Rerechild
were accustomed to row in the same boat, and she was not altogether
free from fear that there might be an outbreak. She therefore took
an opportunity before Dr Thorne's arrival to deprecate any wrathful
tendency.

"Oh, Lady Scatcherd! I have the greatest respect for Dr Thorne,"
said he; "the greatest possible respect; a most skilful
practitioner--something brusque certainly, and perhaps a little
obstinate. But what then? we all have our faults, Lady Scatcherd."

"Oh--yes; we all have, Mr Rerechild; that's certain."

"There's my friend Fillgrave--Lady Scatcherd. He cannot bear anything
of that sort. Now I think he's wrong; and so I tell him." Mr
Rerechild was in error here; for he had never yet ventured to tell Dr
Fillgrave that he was wrong in anything. "We must bear and forbear,
you know. Dr Thorne is an excellent man--in his way very excellent,
Lady Scatcherd."

This little conversation took place after Mr Rerechild's first visit
to his patient: what steps were immediately taken for the relief of
the sufferer we need not describe. They were doubtless well intended,
and were, perhaps, as well adapted to stave off the coming evil day
as any that Dr Fillgrave, or even the great Sir Omicron Pie might
have used.

And then Dr Thorne arrived.

"Oh, doctor! doctor!" exclaimed Lady Scatcherd, almost hanging round
his neck in the hall. "What are we to do? What are we to do? He's
very bad."

"Has he spoken?"

"No; nothing like a word: he has made one or two muttered sounds;
but, poor soul, you could make nothing of it--oh, doctor! doctor! he
has never been like this before."

It was easy to see where Lady Scatcherd placed any such faith as she
might still have in the healing art. "Mr Rerechild is here and has
seen him," she continued. "I thought it best to send for two, for
fear of accidents. He has done something--I don't know what. But,
doctor, do tell the truth now; I look to you to tell me the truth."

Dr Thorne then went up and saw his patient; and had he literally
complied with Lady Scatcherd's request, he might have told her at
once that there was no hope. As, however, he had not the heart to do
this, he mystified the case as doctors so well know how to do, and
told her that "there was cause to fear, great cause for fear; he was
sorry to say, very great cause for much fear."

Dr Thorne promised to stay the night there, and, if possible, the
following night also; and then Lady Scatcherd became troubled in her
mind as to what she should do with Mr Rerechild. He also declared,
with much medical humanity, that, let the inconvenience be what it
might, he too would stay the night. "The loss," he said, "of such a
man as Sir Roger Scatcherd was of such paramount importance as to
make other matters trivial. He would certainly not allow the whole
weight to fall on the shoulders of his friend Dr Thorne: he also
would stay at any rate that night by the sick man's bedside. By the
following morning some change might be expected."

"I say, Dr Thorne," said her ladyship, calling the doctor into the
housekeeping-room, in which she and Hannah spent any time that they
were not required upstairs; "just come in, doctor: you couldn't tell
him we don't want him any more, could you?"

"Tell whom?" said the doctor.

"Why--Mr Rerechild: mightn't he go away, do you think?"

Dr Thorne explained that Mr Rerechild certainly might go away if he
pleased; but that it would by no means be proper for one doctor to
tell another to leave the house. And so Mr Rerechild was allowed to
share the glories of the night.

In the meantime the patient remained speechless; but it soon became
evident that Nature was using all her efforts to make one final
rally. From time to time he moaned and muttered as though he was
conscious, and it seemed as though he strove to speak. He gradually
became awake, at any rate to suffering, and Dr Thorne began to think
that the last scene would be postponed for yet a while longer.

"Wonderful strong constitution--eh, Dr Thorne? wonderful!" said Mr
Rerechild.

"Yes; he has been a strong man."

"Strong as a horse, Dr Thorne. Lord, what that man would have been if
he had given himself a chance! You know his constitution of course."

"Yes; pretty well. I've attended him for many years."

"Always drinking, I suppose; always at it--eh?"

"He has not been a temperate man, certainly."

"The brain, you see, clean gone--and not a particle of coating left
to the stomach; and yet what a struggle he makes--an interesting
case, isn't it?"

"It's very sad to see such an intellect so destroyed."

"Very sad, very sad indeed. How Fillgrave would have liked to have
seen this case. He is a clever man, is Fillgrave--in his way, you
know."

"I'm sure he is," said Dr Thorne.

"Not that he'd make anything of a case like this now--he's not, you
know, quite--quite--perhaps not quite up to the new time of day, if
one may say so."

"He has had a very extensive provincial practice," said Dr Thorne.

"Oh, very--very; and made a tidy lot of money too, has Fillgrave.
He's worth six thousand pounds, I suppose; now that's a good deal of
money to put by in a little town like Barchester."

"Yes, indeed."

"What I say to Fillgrave is this--keep your eyes open; one should
never be too old to learn--there's always something new worth picking
up. But, no--he won't believe that. He can't believe that any new
ideas can be worth anything. You know a man must go to the wall in
that way--eh, doctor?"

And then again they were called to their patient. "He's doing finely,
finely," said Mr Rerechild to Lady Scatcherd. "There's fair ground to
hope he'll rally; fair ground, is there not, doctor?"

"Yes; he'll rally; but how long that may last, that we can hardly
say."

"Oh, no, certainly not, certainly not--that is not with any
certainty; but still he's doing finely, Lady Scatcherd, considering
everything."

"How long will you give him, doctor?" said Mr Rerechild to his new
friend, when they were again alone. "Ten days? I dare say ten days,
or from that to a fortnight, not more; but I think he'll struggle on
ten days."

"Perhaps so," said the doctor. "I should not like to say exactly to
a day."

"No, certainly not. We cannot say exactly to a day; but I say ten
days; as for anything like a recovery, that you know--"

"Is out of the question," said Dr Thorne, gravely.

"Quite so; quite so; coating of the stomach clean gone, you know;
brain destroyed: did you observe the periporollida? I never saw
them so swelled before: now when the periporollida are swollen like
that--"

"Yes, very much; it's always the case when paralysis has been brought
about by intemperance."

"Always, always; I have remarked that always; the periporollida in
such cases are always extended; most interesting case, isn't it? I do
wish Fillgrave could have seen it. But, I believe you and Fillgrave
don't quite--eh?"

"No, not quite," said Dr Thorne; who, as he thought of his last
interview with Dr Fillgrave, and of that gentleman's exceeding anger
as he stood in the hall below, could not keep himself from smiling,
sad as the occasion was.

Nothing would induce Lady Scatcherd to go to bed; but the two doctors
agreed to lie down, each in a room on one side of the patient. How
was it possible that anything but good should come to him, being so
guarded? "He is going on finely, Lady Scatcherd, quite finely," were
the last words Mr Rerechild said as he left the room.

And then Dr Thorne, taking Lady Scatcherd's hand and leading her out
into another chamber, told her the truth.

"Lady Scatcherd," said he, in his tenderest voice--and his voice
could be very tender when occasion required it--"Lady Scatcherd, do
not hope; you must not hope; it would be cruel to bid you do so."

"Oh, doctor! oh, doctor!"

"My dear friend, there is no hope."

"Oh, Dr Thorne!" said the wife, looking wildly up into her
companion's face, though she hardly yet realised the meaning of what
he said, although her senses were half stunned by the blow.

"Dear Lady Scatcherd, is it not better that I should tell you the
truth?"

"Oh, I suppose so; oh yes, oh yes; ah me! ah me! ah me!" And then she
began rocking herself backwards and forwards on her chair, with her
apron up to her eyes. "What shall I do? what shall I do?"

"Look to Him, Lady Scatcherd, who only can make such grief
endurable."

"Yes, yes, yes; I suppose so. Ah me! ah me! But, Dr Thorne, there
must be some chance--isn't there any chance? That man says he's going
on so well."

"I fear there is no chance--as far as my knowledge goes there is no
chance."

"Then why does that chattering magpie tell such lies to a woman? Ah
me! ah me! ah me! oh, doctor! doctor! what shall I do? what shall I
do?" and poor Lady Scatcherd, fairly overcome by her sorrow, burst
out crying like a great school-girl.

And yet what had her husband done for her that she should thus weep
for him? Would not her life be much more blessed when this cause of
all her troubles should be removed from her? Would she not then be a
free woman instead of a slave? Might she not then expect to begin to
taste the comforts of life? What had that harsh tyrant of hers done
that was good or serviceable for her? Why should she thus weep for
him in paroxysms of truest grief?

We hear a good deal of jolly widows; and the slanderous raillery of
the world tells much of conjugal disturbances as a cure for which
women will look forward to a state of widowhood with not unwilling
eyes. The raillery of the world is very slanderous. In our daily
jests we attribute to each other vices of which neither we, nor our
neighbours, nor our friends, nor even our enemies are ever guilty.
It is our favourite parlance to talk of the family troubles of Mrs
Green on our right, and to tell how Mrs Young on our left is strongly
suspected of having raised her hand to her lord and master. What
right have we to make these charges? What have we seen in our own
personal walks through life to make us believe that women are devils?
There may possibly have been a Xantippe here and there, but Imogenes
are to be found under every bush. Lady Scatcherd, in spite of the
life she had led, was one of them.

"You should send a message up to London for Louis," said the doctor.

"We did that, doctor; we did that to-day--we sent up a telegraph. Oh
me! oh me! poor boy, what will he do? I shall never know what to do
with him, never! never!" And with such sorrowful wailings she sat
rocking herself through the long night, every now and then comforting
herself by the performance of some menial service in the sick man's
room.

Sir Roger passed the night much as he had passed the day, except
that he appeared gradually to be growing nearer to a state of
consciousness. On the following morning they succeeded at last in
making Mr Rerechild understand that they were not desirous of keeping
him longer from his Barchester practice; and at about twelve o'clock
Dr Thorne also went, promising that he would return in the evening,
and again pass the night at Boxall Hill.

In the course of the afternoon Sir Roger once more awoke to his
senses, and when he did so his son was standing at his bedside. Louis
Philippe Scatcherd--or as it may be more convenient to call him,
Louis--was a young man just of the age of Frank Gresham. But there
could hardly be two youths more different in their appearance. Louis,
though his father and mother were both robust persons, was short and
slight, and now of a sickly frame. Frank was a picture of health
and strength; but, though manly in disposition, was by no means
precocious either in appearance or manners. Louis Scatcherd looked
as though he was four years the other's senior. He had been sent to
Eton when he was fifteen, his father being under the impression that
this was the most ready and best-recognised method of making him a
gentleman. Here he did not altogether fail as regarded the coveted
object of his becoming the companion of gentlemen. He had more
pocket-money than any other lad in the school, and was possessed also
of a certain effrontery which carried him ahead among boys of his own
age. He gained, therefore, a degree of éclat, even among those who
knew, and very frequently said to each other, that young Scatcherd
was not fit to be their companion except on such open occasions as
those of cricket-matches and boat-races. Boys, in this respect, are
at least as exclusive as men, and understand as well the difference
between an inner and an outer circle. Scatcherd had many companions
at school who were glad enough to go up to Maidenhead with him in his
boat; but there was not one among them who would have talked to him
of his sister.

Sir Roger was vastly proud of his son's success, and did his best
to stimulate it by lavish expenditure at the Christopher, whenever
he could manage to run down to Eton. But this practice, though
sufficiently unexceptionable to the boys, was not held in equal
delight by the masters. To tell the truth, neither Sir Roger nor his
son were favourites with these stern custodians. At last it was felt
necessary to get rid of them both; and Louis was not long in giving
them an opportunity, by getting tipsy twice in one week. On the
second occasion he was sent away, and he and Sir Roger, though long
talked of, were seen no more at Eton.

But the universities were still open to Louis Philippe, and before he
was eighteen he was entered as a gentleman-commoner at Trinity. As he
was, moreover, the eldest son of a baronet, and had almost unlimited
command of money, here also he was enabled for a while to shine.

To shine! but very fitfully; and one may say almost with a ghastly
glare. The very lads who had eaten his father's dinners at Eton, and
shared his four-oar at Eton, knew much better than to associate with
him at Cambridge now that they had put on the _toga virilis_. They
were still as prone as ever to fun, frolic, and devilry--perhaps more
so than ever, seeing that more was in their power; but they acquired
an idea that it behoved them to be somewhat circumspect as to the men
with whom their pranks were perpetrated. So, in those days, Louis
Scatcherd was coldly looked on by his whilom Eton friends.

But young Scatcherd did not fail to find companions at Cambridge
also. There are few places indeed in which a rich man cannot buy
companionship. But the set with whom he lived at Cambridge were the
worst of the place. They were fast, slang men, who were fast and
slang, and nothing else--men who imitated grooms in more than their
dress, and who looked on the customary heroes of race-courses as the
highest lords of the ascendant upon earth. Among those at college
young Scatcherd did shine as long as such lustre was permitted him.
Here, indeed, his father, who had striven only to encourage him at
Eton, did strive somewhat to control him. But that was not now easy.
If he limited his son's allowance, he only drove him to do his
debauchery on credit. There were plenty to lend money to the son of
the great millionaire; and so, after eighteen months' trial of a
university education, Sir Roger had no alternative but to withdraw
his son from his _alma mater_.

What was he then to do with him? Unluckily it was considered quite
unnecessary to take any steps towards enabling him to earn his
bread. Now nothing on earth can be more difficult than bringing up
well a young man who has not to earn his own bread, and who has no
recognised station among other men similarly circumstanced. Juvenile
dukes, and sprouting earls, find their duties and their places as
easily as embryo clergymen and sucking barristers. Provision is
made for their peculiar positions: and, though they may possibly go
astray, they have a fair chance given to them of running within the
posts. The same may be said of such youths as Frank Gresham. There
are enough of them in the community to have made it necessary that
their well-being should be a matter of care and forethought. But
there are but few men turned out in the world in the position of
Louis Scatcherd; and, of those few, but very few enter the real
battle of life under good auspices.

Poor Sir Roger, though he had hardly time with all his multitudinous
railways to look into this thoroughly, had a glimmering of it. When
he saw his son's pale face, and paid his wine bills, and heard of his
doings in horse-flesh, he did know that things were not going well;
he did understand that the heir to a baronetcy and a fortune of some
ten thousand a year might be doing better. But what was he to do? He
could not watch over his boy himself; so he took a tutor for him and
sent him abroad.

Louis and the tutor got as far as Berlin, with what mutual
satisfaction to each other need not be specially described. But from
Berlin Sir Roger received a letter in which the tutor declined to go
any further in the task which he had undertaken. He found that he
had no influence over his pupil, and he could not reconcile it to
his conscience to be the spectator of such a life as that which Mr
Scatcherd led. He had no power in inducing Mr Scatcherd to leave
Berlin; but he would remain there himself till he should hear from
Sir Roger. So Sir Roger had to leave the huge Government works which
he was then erecting on the southern coast, and hurry off to Berlin
to see what could be done with young Hopeful.

The young Hopeful was by no means a fool; and in some matters was
more than a match for his father. Sir Roger, in his anger, threatened
to cast him off without a shilling. Louis, with mixed penitence and
effrontery, reminded him that he could not change the descent of the
title; promised amendment; declared that he had done only as do other
young men of fortune; and hinted that the tutor was a strait-laced
ass. The father and the son returned together to Boxall Hill, and
three months afterwards Mr Scatcherd set up for himself in London.

And now his life, if not more virtuous, was more crafty than it had
been. He had no tutor to watch his doings and complain of them, and
he had sufficient sense to keep himself from absolute pecuniary ruin.
He lived, it is true, where sharpers and blacklegs had too often
opportunities of plucking him; but, young as he was, he had been
sufficiently long about the world to take care he was not openly
robbed; and as he was not openly robbed, his father, in a certain
sense, was proud of him.

Tidings, however, came--came at least in those last days--which cut
Sir Roger to the quick; tidings of vice in the son which the father
could not but attribute to his own example. Twice the mother was
called up to the sick-bed of her only child, while he lay raving in
that horrid madness by which the outraged mind avenges itself on the
body! Twice he was found raging in delirium tremens, and twice the
father was told that a continuance of such life must end in an early
death.

It may easily be conceived that Sir Roger was not a happy man. Lying
there with that brandy bottle beneath his pillow, reflecting in his
moments of rest that that son of his had his brandy bottle beneath
his pillow, he could hardly have been happy. But he was not a man to
say much about his misery. Though he could restrain neither himself
nor his heir, he could endure in silence; and in silence he did
endure, till, opening his eyes to the consciousness of death, he at
last spoke a few words to the only friend he knew.

Louis Scatcherd was not a fool, nor was he naturally, perhaps, of a
depraved disposition; but he had to reap the fruits of the worst
education which England was able to give him. There were moments in
his life when he felt that a better, a higher, nay, a much happier
career was open to him than that which he had prepared himself to
lead. Now and then he would reflect what money and rank might have
done for him; he would look with wishful eyes to the proud doings of
others of his age; would dream of quiet joys, of a sweet wife, of a
house to which might be asked friends who were neither jockeys nor
drunkards; he would dream of such things in his short intervals of
constrained sobriety; but the dream would only serve to make him
moody.

This was the best side of his character; the worst, probably, was
that which was brought into play by the fact that he was not a fool.
He would have a better chance of redemption in this world--perhaps
also in another--had he been a fool. As it was, he was no fool: he
was not to be done, not he; he knew, no one better, the value of
a shilling; he knew, also, how to keep his shillings, and how to
spend them. He consorted much with blacklegs and such-like, because
blacklegs were to his taste. But he boasted daily, nay, hourly to
himself, and frequently to those around him, that the leeches who
were stuck round him could draw but little blood from him. He could
spend his money freely; but he would so spend it that he himself
might reap the gratification of the expenditure. He was acute,
crafty, knowing, and up to every damnable dodge practised by men of
the class with whom he lived. At one-and-twenty he was that most
odious of all odious characters--a close-fisted reprobate.

He was a small man, not ill-made by Nature, but reduced to unnatural
tenuity by dissipation--a corporeal attribute of which he was apt
to boast, as it enabled him, as he said, to put himself up at 7 st.
7 lb. without any "d---- nonsense of not eating and drinking." The
power, however, was one of which he did not often avail himself, as
his nerves were seldom in a fit state for riding. His hair was dark
red, and he wore red moustaches, and a great deal of red beard
beneath his chin, cut in a manner to make him look like an American.
His voice also had a Yankee twang, being a cross between that of an
American trader and an English groom; and his eyes were keen and
fixed, and cold and knowing.

Such was the son whom Sir Roger saw standing at his bedside when
first he awoke to consciousness. It must not be supposed that Sir
Roger looked at him with our eyes. To him he was an only child,
the heir of his wealth, the future bearer of his title; the most
heart-stirring remembrancer of those other days, when he had been
so much a poorer, and so much a happier man. Let that boy be bad
or good, he was all Sir Roger had; and the father was still able
to hope, when others thought that all ground for hope was gone.

The mother also loved her son with a mother's natural love; but Louis
had ever been ashamed of his mother, and had, as far as possible,
estranged himself from her. Her heart, perhaps, fixed itself
with almost a warmer love on Frank Gresham, her foster-son. Frank
she saw but seldom, but when she did see him he never refused her
embrace. There was, too, a joyous, genial lustre about Frank's face
which always endeared him to women, and made his former nurse regard
him as the pet creation of the age. Though she but seldom interfered
with any monetary arrangement of her husband's, yet once or twice she
had ventured to hint that a legacy left to the young squire would
make her a happy woman. Sir Roger, however, on these occasions had
not appeared very desirous of making his wife happy.

"Ah, Louis! is that you?" ejaculated Sir Roger, in tones hardly more
than half-formed: afterwards, in a day or two that is, he fully
recovered his voice; but just then he could hardly open his jaws, and
spoke almost through his teeth. He managed, however, to put out his
hand and lay it on the counterpane, so that his son could take it.

"Why, that's well, governor," said the son; "you'll be as right as a
trivet in a day or two--eh, governor?"

The "governor" smiled with a ghastly smile. He already pretty well
knew that he would never again be "right," as his son called it, on
that side of the grave. It did not, moreover, suit him to say much
just at that moment, so he contented himself with holding his son's
hand. He lay still in this position for a moment, and then, turning
round painfully on his side, endeavoured to put his hand to the place
where his dire enemy usually was concealed. Sir Roger, however, was
too weak now to be his own master; he was at length, though too late,
a captive in the hands of nurses and doctors, and the bottle had now
been removed.

Then Lady Scatcherd came in, and seeing that her husband was no
longer unconscious, she could not but believe that Dr Thorne had been
wrong; she could not but think that there must be some ground for
hope. She threw herself on her knees at the bedside, bursting into
tears as she did so, and taking Sir Roger's hand in hers covered it
with kisses.

"Bother!" said Sir Roger.

She did not, however, long occupy herself with the indulgence of her
feelings; but going speedily to work, produced such sustenance as
the doctors had ordered to be given when the patient might awake. A
breakfast-cup was brought to him, and a few drops were put into his
mouth; but he soon made it manifest that he would take nothing more
of a description so perfectly innocent.

"A drop of brandy--just a little drop," said he, half-ordering, and
half-entreating.

"Ah, Roger!" said Lady Scatcherd.

"Just a little drop, Louis," said the sick man, appealing to his son.

"A little will be good for him; bring the bottle, mother," said the
son.

After some altercation the brandy bottle was brought, and Louis, with
what he thought a very sparing hand, proceeded to pour about half a
wine-glassful into the cup. As he did so, Sir Roger, weak as he was,
contrived to shake his son's arm, so as greatly to increase the dose.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the sick man, and then greedily swallowed the
dose.




CHAPTER XXV

Sir Roger Dies


That night the doctor stayed at Boxall Hill, and the next night;
so that it became a customary thing for him to sleep there during
the latter part of Sir Roger's illness. He returned home daily to
Greshamsbury; for he had his patients there, to whom he was as
necessary as to Sir Roger, the foremost of whom was Lady Arabella. He
had, therefore, no slight work on his hands, seeing that his nights
were by no means wholly devoted to rest.

Mr Rerechild had not been much wrong as to the remaining space of
life which he had allotted to the dying man. Once or twice Dr Thorne
had thought that the great original strength of his patient would
have enabled him to fight against death for a somewhat longer period;
but Sir Roger would give himself no chance. Whenever he was strong
enough to have a will of his own, he insisted on having his very
medicine mixed with brandy; and in the hours of the doctor's absence,
he was too often successful in his attempts.

"It does not much matter," Dr Thorne had said to Lady Scatcherd. "Do
what you can to keep down the quantity, but do not irritate him by
refusing to obey. It does not much signify now." So Lady Scatcherd
still administered the alcohol, and he from day to day invented
little schemes for increasing the amount, over which he chuckled with
ghastly laughter.

Two or three times during these days Sir Roger essayed to speak
seriously to his son; but Louis always frustrated him. He either got
out of the room on some excuse, or made his mother interfere on the
score that so much talking would be bad for his father. He already
knew with tolerable accuracy what was the purport of his father's
will, and by no means approved of it; but as he could not now hope
to induce his father to alter it so as to make it more favourable to
himself, he conceived that no conversation on matters of business
could be of use to him.

"Louis," said Sir Roger, one afternoon to his son; "Louis, I have not
done by you as I ought to have done--I know that now."

"Nonsense, governor; never mind about that now; I shall do well
enough, I dare say. Besides, it isn't too late; you can make it
twenty-three years instead of twenty-five, if you like it."

"I do not mean as to money, Louis. There are things besides money
which a father ought to look to."

"Now, father, don't fret yourself--I'm all right; you may be sure of
that."

"Louis, it's that accursed brandy--it's that that I'm afraid of: you
see me here, my boy, how I'm lying here now."

"Don't you be annoying yourself, governor; I'm all right--quite
right; and as for you, why, you'll be up and about yourself in
another month or so."

"I shall never be off this bed, my boy, till I'm carried into my
coffin, on those chairs there. But I'm not thinking of myself, Louis,
but you; think what you may have before you if you can't avoid that
accursed bottle."

"I'm all right, governor; right as a trivet. It's very little I take,
except at an odd time or so."

"Oh, Louis! Louis!"

"Come, father, cheer up; this sort of thing isn't the thing for you
at all. I wonder where mother is: she ought to be here with the
broth; just let me go, and I'll see for her."

The father understood it all. He saw that it was now much beyond his
faded powers to touch the heart or conscience of such a youth as his
son had become. What now could he do for his boy except die? What
else, what other benefit, did his son require of him but to die; to
die so that his means of dissipation might be unbounded? He let go
the unresisting hand which he held, and, as the young man crept out
of the room, he turned his face to the wall. He turned his face to
the wall and held bitter commune with his own heart. To what had he
brought himself? To what had he brought his son? Oh, how happy would
it have been for him could he have remained all his days a working
stone-mason in Barchester! How happy could he have died as such,
years ago! Such tears as those which wet that pillow are the
bitterest which human eyes can shed.

But while they were dropping, the memoir of his life was in quick
course of preparation. It was, indeed, nearly completed, with
considerable detail. He had lingered on four days longer than might
have been expected, and the author had thus had more than usual time
for the work. In these days a man is nobody unless his biography
is kept so far posted up that it may be ready for the national
breakfast-table on the morning after his demise. When it chances that
the dead hero is one who was taken in his prime of life, of whose
departure from among us the most far-seeing biographical scribe can
have no prophetic inkling, this must be difficult. Of great men, full
of years, who are ripe for the sickle, who in the course of Nature
must soon fall, it is of course comparatively easy for an active
compiler to have his complete memoir ready in his desk. But in order
that the idea of omnipresent and omniscient information may be kept
up, the young must be chronicled as quickly as the old. In some cases
this task must, one would say, be difficult. Nevertheless, it is
done.

The memoir of Sir Roger Scatcherd was progressing favourably. In
this it was told how fortunate had been his life; how, in his case,
industry and genius combined had triumphed over the difficulties
which humble birth and deficient education had thrown in his way;
how he had made a name among England's great men; how the Queen had
delighted to honour him, and nobles had been proud to have him for a
guest at their mansions. Then followed a list of all the great works
which he had achieved, of the railroads, canals, docks, harbours,
jails, and hospitals which he had constructed. His name was held up
as an example to the labouring classes of his countrymen, and he was
pointed at as one who had lived and died happy--ever happy, said the
biographer, because ever industrious. And so a great moral question
was inculcated. A short paragraph was devoted to his appearance in
Parliament; and unfortunate Mr Romer was again held up for disgrace,
for the thirtieth time, as having been the means of depriving
our legislative councils of the great assistance of Sir Roger's
experience.

"Sir Roger," said the biographer in his concluding passage, "was
possessed of an iron frame; but even iron will yield to the repeated
blows of the hammer. In the latter years of his life he was known to
overtask himself; and at length the body gave way, though the mind
remained firm to the _last_. The subject of this memoir was only
fifty-nine when he was taken from us."

And thus Sir Roger's life was written, while the tears were
yet falling on his pillow at Boxall Hill. It was a pity that a
proof-sheet could not have been sent to him. No man was vainer of
his reputation, and it would have greatly gratified him to know that
posterity was about to speak of him in such terms--to speak of him
with a voice that would be audible for twenty-four hours.

Sir Roger made no further attempt to give counsel to his son. It was
too evidently useless. The old dying lion felt that the lion's power
had already passed from him, and that he was helpless in the hands
of the young cub who was so soon to inherit the wealth of the forest.
But Dr Thorne was more kind to him. He had something yet to say as to
his worldly hopes and worldly cares; and his old friend did not turn
a deaf ear to him.

It was during the night that Sir Roger was most anxious to talk, and
most capable of talking. He would lie through the day in a state
half-comatose; but towards evening he would rouse himself, and by
midnight he would be full of fitful energy. One night, as he lay
wakeful and full of thought, he thus poured forth his whole heart to
Dr Thorne.

"Thorne," said he, "I told you about my will, you know."

"Yes," said the other; "and I have blamed myself greatly that I have
not again urged you to alter it. Your illness came too suddenly,
Scatcherd; and then I was averse to speak of it."

"Why should I alter it? It is a good will; as good as I can make. Not
but that I have altered it since I spoke to you. I did it that day
after you left me."

"Have you definitely named your heir in default of Louis?"

"No--that is--yes--I had done that before; I have said Mary's eldest
child: I have not altered that."

"But, Scatcherd, you must alter it."

"Must! well then I won't; but I'll tell you what I have done. I have
added a postscript--a codicil they call it--saying that you, and you
only, know who is her eldest child. Winterbones and Jack Martin have
witnessed that."

Dr Thorne was going to explain how very injudicious such an
arrangement appeared to be; but Sir Roger would not listen to him.
It was not about that that he wished to speak to him. To him it was
matter of but minor interest who might inherit his money if his son
should die early; his care was solely for his son's welfare. At
twenty-five the heir might make his own will--might bequeath all this
wealth according to his own fancy. Sir Roger would not bring himself
to believe that his son could follow him to the grave in so short a
time.

"Never mind that, doctor, now; but about Louis; you will be his
guardian, you know."

"Not his guardian. He is more than of age."

"Ah! but doctor, you will be his guardian. The property will not be
his till he be twenty-five. You will not desert him?"

"I will not desert him; but I doubt whether I can do much for
him--what can I do, Scatcherd?"

"Use the power that a strong man has over a weak one. Use the power
that my will will give you. Do for him as you would for a son of your
own if you saw him going in bad courses. Do as a friend should do for
a friend that is dead and gone. I would do so for you, doctor, if our
places were changed."

"What I can do, that I will do," said Thorne, solemnly, taking as he
spoke the contractor's hand in his own with a tight grasp.

"I know you will; I know you will. Oh! doctor, may you never feel as
I do now! May you on your death-bed have no dread as I have, as to
the fate of those you will leave behind you!"

Doctor Thorne felt that he could not say much in answer to this. The
future fate of Louis Scatcherd was, he could not but own to himself,
greatly to be dreaded. What good, what happiness, could be presaged
for such a one as he was? What comfort could he offer to the father?
And then he was called on to compare, as it were, the prospects of
this unfortunate with those of his own darling; to contrast all that
was murky, foul, and disheartening, with all that was perfect--for to
him she was all but perfect; to liken Louis Scatcherd to the angel
who brightened his own hearthstone. How could he answer to such an
appeal?

He said nothing; but merely tightened his grasp of the other's hand,
to signify that he would do, as best he could, all that was asked
of him. Sir Roger looked up sadly into the doctor's face, as though
expecting some word of consolation. There was no comfort, no
consolation to come to him!

"For three or four years he must greatly depend upon you," continued
Sir Roger.

"I will do what I can," said the doctor. "What I can do I will do.
But he is not a child, Scatcherd: at his age he must stand or fall
mainly by his own conduct. The best thing for him will be to marry."

"Exactly; that's just it, Thorne: I was coming to that. If he would
marry, I think he would do well yet, for all that has come and gone.
If he married, of course you would let him have the command of his
own income."

"I will be governed entirely by your wishes: under any circumstances
his income will, as I understand, be quite sufficient for him,
married or single."

"Ah!--but, Thorne, I should like to think he should shine with the
best of them. For what have I made the money if not for that? Now if
he marries--decently, that is--some woman you know that can assist
him in the world, let him have what he wants. It is not to save the
money that I put it into your hands."

"No, Scatcherd; not to save the money, but to save him. I think that
while you are yet with him you should advise him to marry."

"He does not care a straw for what I advise, not one straw. Why
should he? How can I tell him to be sober when I have been a beast
all my life myself? How can I advise him? That's where it is! It is
that that now kills me. Advise! Why, when I speak to him he treats me
like a child."

"He fears that you are too weak, you know: he thinks that you should
not be allowed to talk."

"Nonsense! he knows better; you know better. Too weak! what
signifies? Would I not give all that I have of strength at one blow
if I could open his eyes to see as I see but for one minute?" And
the sick man raised himself up in his bed as though he were actually
going to expend all that remained to him of vigour in the energy of a
moment.

"Gently, Scatcherd; gently. He will listen to you yet; but do not be
so unruly."

"Thorne, you see that bottle there? Give me half a glass of brandy."

The doctor turned round in his chair; but he hesitated in doing as he
was desired.

"Do as I ask you, doctor. It can do no harm now; you know that well
enough. Why torture me now?"

"No, I will not torture you; but you will have water with it?"

"Water! No; the brandy by itself. I tell you I cannot speak without
it. What's the use of canting now? You know it can make no
difference."

Sir Roger was right. It could make no difference; and Dr Thorne gave
him the half glass of brandy.

"Ah, well; you've a stingy hand, doctor; confounded stingy. You don't
measure your medicines out in such light doses."

"You will be wanting more before morning, you know."

"Before morning! indeed I shall; a pint or so before that. I remember
the time, doctor, when I have drunk to my own cheek above two quarts
between dinner and breakfast! aye, and worked all the day after it!"

"You have been a wonderful man, Scatcherd, very wonderful."

"Aye, wonderful! well, never mind. It's over now. But what was I
saying?--about Louis, doctor; you'll not desert him?"

"Certainly not."

"He's not strong; I know that. How should he be strong, living as he
has done? Not that it seemed to hurt me when I was his age."

"You had the advantage of hard work."

"That's it. Sometimes I wish that Louis had not a shilling in the
world; that he had to trudge about with an apron round his waist as I
did. But it's too late now to think of that. If he would only marry,
doctor."

Dr Thorne again expressed an opinion that no step would be so likely
to reform the habits of the young heir as marriage; and repeated his
advice to the father to implore his son to take a wife.

"I'll tell you what, Thorne," said he. And then, after a pause, he
went on. "I have not half told you as yet what is on my mind; and I'm
nearly afraid to tell it; though, indeed, I don't know why I should
be."

"I never knew you afraid of anything yet," said the doctor, smiling
gently.

"Well, then, I'll not end by turning coward. Now, doctor, tell the
truth to me; what do you expect me to do for that girl of yours that
we were talking of--Mary's child?"

There was a pause for a moment, for Thorne was slow to answer him.

"You would not let me see her, you know, though she is my niece as
truly as she is yours."

"Nothing," at last said the doctor, slowly. "I expect nothing. I
would not let you see her, and therefore, I expect nothing."

"She will have it all if poor Louis should die," said Sir Roger.

"If you intend it so you should put her name into the will," said the
other. "Not that I ask you or wish you to do so. Mary, thank God, can
do without wealth."

"Thorne, on one condition I will put her name into it. I will alter
it all on one condition. Let the two cousins be man and wife--let
Louis marry poor Mary's child."

The proposition for a moment took away the doctor's breath, and he
was unable to answer. Not for all the wealth of India would he have
given up his lamb to that young wolf, even though he had had the
power to do so. But that lamb--lamb though she was--had, as he well
knew, a will of her own on such a matter. What alliance could be more
impossible, thought he to himself, than one between Mary Thorne and
Louis Scatcherd?

"I will alter it all if you will give me your hand upon it that you
will do your best to bring about this marriage. Everything shall be
his on the day he marries her; and should he die unmarried, it shall
all then be hers by name. Say the word, Thorne, and she shall come
here at once. I shall yet have time to see her."

But Dr Thorne did not say the word; just at the moment he said
nothing, but he slowly shook his head.

"Why not, Thorne?"

"My friend, it is impossible."

"Why impossible?"

"Her hand is not mine to dispose of, nor is her heart."

"Then let her come over herself."

"What! Scatcherd, that the son might make love to her while the
father is so dangerously ill! Bid her come to look for a rich
husband! That would not be seemly, would it?"

"No; not for that: let her come merely that I may see her; that we
may all know her. I will leave the matter then in your hands if you
will promise me to do your best."

"But, my friend, in this matter I cannot do my best. I can do
nothing. And, indeed, I may say at once, that it is altogether out of
the question. I know--"

"What do you know?" said the baronet, turning on him almost angrily.
"What can you know to make you say that it is impossible? Is she a
pearl of such price that a man may not win her?"

"She is a pearl of great price."

"Believe me, doctor, money goes far in winning such pearls."

"Perhaps so; I know little about it. But this I do know, that money
will not win her. Let us talk of something else; believe me it is
useless for us to think of this."

"Yes; if you set your face against it obstinately. You must think
very poorly of Louis if you suppose that no girl can fancy him."

"I have not said so, Scatcherd."

"To have the spending of ten thousand a year, and be a baronet's
lady! Why, doctor, what is it you expect for this girl?"

"Not much, indeed; not much. A quiet heart and a quiet home; not much
more."

"Thorne, if you will be ruled by me in this, she shall be the most
topping woman in this county."

"My friend, my friend, why thus grieve me? Why should you thus harass
yourself? I tell you it is impossible. They have never seen each
other; they have nothing, and can have nothing in common; their
tastes, and wishes, and pursuits are different. Besides, Scatcherd,
marriages never answer that are so made; believe me, it is
impossible."

The contractor threw himself back on his bed, and lay for some ten
minutes perfectly quiet; so much so that the doctor began to think
that he was sleeping. So thinking, and wearied by the watching,
Dr Thorne was beginning to creep quietly from the room, when his
companion again roused himself, almost with vehemence.

"You won't do this thing for me, then?" said he.

"Do it! It is not for you or me to do such things as that. Such
things must be left to those concerned themselves."

"You will not even help me?"

"Not in this thing, Sir Roger."

"Then, by ----, she shall not under any circumstances ever have a
shilling of mine. Give me some of that stuff there," and he again
pointed to the brandy bottle which stood ever within his sight.

The doctor poured out and handed to him another small modicum of
spirit.

"Nonsense, man; fill the glass. I'll stand no nonsense now. I'll be
master in my own house to the last. Give it here, I tell you. Ten
thousand devils are tearing me within. You--you could have comforted
me; but you would not. Fill the glass I tell you."

"I should be killing you were I to do it."

"Killing me! killing me! you are always talking of killing me. Do you
suppose that I am afraid to die? Do not I know how soon it is coming?
Give me the brandy, I say, or I will be out across the room to fetch
it."

"No, Scatcherd. I cannot give it to you; not while I am here. Do you
remember how you were engaged this morning?"--he had that morning
taken the sacrament from the parish clergyman--"you would not wish to
make me guilty of murder, would you?"

"Nonsense! You are talking nonsense; habit is second nature. I tell
you I shall sink without it. Why, you know I always get it directly
your back is turned. Come, I will not be bullied in my own house;
give me that bottle, I say!"--and Sir Roger essayed, vainly enough,
to raise himself from the bed.

"Stop, Scatcherd; I will give it you--I will help you. It may be
that habit is second nature." Sir Roger in his determined energy
had swallowed, without thinking of it, the small quantity which the
doctor had before poured out for him, and still held the empty glass
within his hand. This the doctor now took and filled nearly to the
brim.

"Come, Thorne, a bumper; a bumper for this once. 'Whatever the drink,
it a bumper must be.' You stingy fellow! I would not treat you so.
Well--well."

"It's as full as you can hold it, Scatcherd."

"Try me; try me! my hand is a rock; at least at holding liquor." And
then he drained the contents of the glass, which were sufficient in
quantity to have taken away the breath from any ordinary man.

"Ah, I'm better now. But, Thorne, I do love a full glass, ha! ha!
ha!"

There was something frightful, almost sickening, in the peculiar
hoarse guttural tone of his voice. The sounds came from him as
though steeped in brandy, and told, all too plainly, the havoc which
the alcohol had made. There was a fire too about his eyes which
contrasted with his sunken cheeks: his hanging jaw, unshorn beard,
and haggard face were terrible to look at. His hands and arms were
hot and clammy, but so thin and wasted! Of his lower limbs the lost
use had not returned to him, so that in all his efforts at vehemence
he was controlled by his own want of vitality. When he supported
himself, half-sitting against the pillows, he was in a continual
tremor; and yet, as he boasted, he could still lift his glass
steadily to his mouth. Such now was the hero of whom that ready
compiler of memoirs had just finished his correct and succinct
account.

After he had had his brandy, he sat glaring a while at vacancy, as
though he was dead to all around him, and was thinking--thinking--
thinking of things in the infinite distance of the past.

"Shall I go now," said the doctor, "and send Lady Scatcherd to you?"

"Wait a while, doctor; just one minute longer. So you will do nothing
for Louis, then?"

"I will do everything for him that I can do."

"Ah, yes! everything but the one thing that will save him. Well, I
will not ask you again. But remember, Thorne, I shall alter my will
to-morrow."

"Do so by all means; you may well alter it for the better. If I
may advise you, you will have down your own business attorney from
London. If you will let me send he will be here before to-morrow
night."

"Thank you for nothing, Thorne: I can manage that matter myself. Now
leave me; but remember, you have ruined that girl's fortune."

The doctor did leave him, and went not altogether happy to his room.
He could not but confess to himself that he had, despite himself as
it were, fed himself with hope that Mary's future might be made more
secure, aye, and brighter too, by some small unheeded fraction broken
off from the huge mass of her uncle's wealth. Such hope, if it had
amounted to hope, was now all gone. But this was not all, nor was
this the worst of it. That he had done right in utterly repudiating
all idea of a marriage between Mary and her cousin--of that he was
certain enough; that no earthly consideration would have induced Mary
to plight her troth to such a man--that, with him, was as certain as
doom. But how far had he done right in keeping her from the sight of
her uncle? How could he justify it to himself if he had thus robbed
her of her inheritance, seeing that he had done so from a selfish
fear lest she, who was now all his own, should be known to the world
as belonging to others rather than to him? He had taken upon him on
her behalf to reject wealth as valueless; and yet he had no sooner
done so than he began to consume his hours with reflecting how great
to her would be the value of wealth. And thus, when Sir Roger told
him, as he left the room, that he had ruined Mary's fortune, he was
hardly able to bear the taunt with equanimity.

On the next morning, after paying his professional visit to his
patient, and satisfying himself that the end was now drawing near
with steps terribly quickened, he went down to Greshamsbury.

"How long is this to last, uncle?" said his niece, with sad voice, as
he again prepared to return to Boxall Hill.

"Not long, Mary; do not begrudge him a few more hours of life."

"No, I do not, uncle. I will say nothing more about it. Is his son
with him?" And then, perversely enough, she persisted in asking
numerous questions about Louis Scatcherd.

"Is he likely to marry, uncle?"

"I hope so, my dear."

"Will he be so very rich?"

"Yes; ultimately he will be very rich."

"He will be a baronet, will he not?"

"Yes, my dear."

"What is he like, uncle?"

"Like--I never know what a young man is like. He is like a man with
red hair."

"Uncle, you are the worst hand in describing I ever knew. If I'd seen
him for five minutes, I'd be bound to make a portrait of him; and
you, if you were describing a dog, you'd only say what colour his
hair was."

"Well, he's a little man."

"Exactly, just as I should say that Mrs Umbleby had a red-haired
little dog. I wish I had known these Scatcherds, uncle. I do so
admire people that can push themselves in the world. I wish I had
known Sir Roger."

"You will never know him now, Mary."

"I suppose not. I am so sorry for him. Is Lady Scatcherd nice?"

"She is an excellent woman."

"I hope I may know her some day. You are so much there now, uncle; I
wonder whether you ever mention me to them. If you do, tell her from
me how much I grieve for her."

That same night Dr Thorne again found himself alone with Sir Roger.
The sick man was much more tranquil, and apparently more at ease
than he had been on the preceding night. He said nothing about his
will, and not a word about Mary Thorne; but the doctor knew that
Winterbones and a notary's clerk from Barchester had been in the
bedroom a great part of the day; and, as he knew also that the great
man of business was accustomed to do his most important work by the
hands of such tools as these, he did not doubt but that the will
had been altered and remodelled. Indeed, he thought it more than
probable, that when it was opened it would be found to be wholly
different in its provisions from that which Sir Roger had already
described.

"Louis is clever enough," he said, "sharp enough, I mean. He won't
squander the property."

"He has good natural abilities," said the doctor.

"Excellent, excellent," said the father. "He may do well, very well,
if he can only be kept from this;" and Sir Roger held up the empty
wine-glass which stood by his bedside. "What a life he may have
before him!--and to throw it away for this!" and as he spoke he took
the glass and tossed it across the room. "Oh, doctor! would that it
were all to begin again!"

"We all wish that, I dare say, Scatcherd."

"No, you don't wish it. You ain't worth a shilling, and yet you
regret nothing. I am worth half a million in one way or the other,
and I regret everything--everything--everything!"

"You should not think in that way, Scatcherd; you need not think so.
Yesterday you told Mr Clarke that you were comfortable in your mind."
Mr Clarke was the clergyman who had visited him.

"Of course I did. What else could I say when he asked me? It wouldn't
have been civil to have told him that his time and words were
all thrown away. But, Thorne, believe me, when a man's heart is
sad--sad--sad to the core, a few words from a parson at the last
moment will never make it all right."

"May He have mercy on you, my friend!--if you will think of Him, and
look to Him, He will have mercy on you."

"Well--I will try, doctor; but would that it were all to do again.
You'll see to the old woman for my sake, won't you?"

"What, Lady Scatcherd?"

"Lady Devil! If anything angers me now it is that 'ladyship'--her to
be my lady! Why, when I came out of jail that time, the poor creature
had hardly a shoe to her foot. But it wasn't her fault, Thorne; it
was none of her doing. She never asked for such nonsense."

"She has been an excellent wife, Scatcherd; and what is more, she
is an excellent woman. She is, and ever will be, one of my dearest
friends."

"Thank'ee, doctor, thank'ee. Yes; she has been a good wife--better
for a poor man than a rich one; but then, that was what she was born
to. You won't let her be knocked about by them, will you, Thorne?"

Dr Thorne again assured him, that as long as he lived Lady Scatcherd
should never want one true friend; in making this promise, however,
he managed to drop all allusion to the obnoxious title.

"You'll be with him as much as possible, won't you?" again asked the
baronet, after lying quite silent for a quarter of an hour.

"With whom?" said the doctor, who was then all but asleep.

"With my poor boy; with Louis."

"If he will let me, I will," said the doctor.

"And, doctor, when you see a glass at his mouth, dash it down; thrust
it down, though you thrust out the teeth with it. When you see that,
Thorne, tell him of his father--tell him what his father might have
been but for that; tell him how his father died like a beast, because
he could not keep himself from drink."

These, reader, were the last words spoken by Sir Roger Scatcherd. As
he uttered them he rose up in bed with the same vehemence which he
had shown on the former evening. But in the very act of doing so
he was again struck by paralysis, and before nine on the following
morning all was over.

"Oh, my man--my own, own man!" exclaimed the widow, remembering in
the paroxysm of her grief nothing but the loves of their early days;
"the best, the brightest, the cleverest of them all!"

Some weeks after this Sir Roger was buried, with much pomp and
ceremony, within the precincts of Barchester Cathedral; and a
monument was put up to him soon after, in which he was portrayed as
smoothing a block of granite with a mallet and chisel; while his
eagle eye, disdaining such humble work, was fixed upon some intricate
mathematical instrument above him. Could Sir Roger have seen it
himself, he would probably have declared, that no workman was ever
worth his salt who looked one way while he rowed another.

Immediately after the funeral the will was opened, and Dr Thorne
discovered that the clauses of it were exactly identical with those
which his friend had described to him some months back. Nothing had
been altered; nor had the document been unfolded since that strange
codicil was added, in which it was declared that Dr Thorne knew--and
only Dr Thorne--who was the eldest child of the testator's only
sister. At the same time, however, a joint executor with Dr Thorne
had been named--one Mr Stock, a man of railway fame--and Dr Thorne
himself was made a legatee to the humble extent of a thousand pounds.
A life income of a thousand pounds a year was left to Lady Scatcherd.




CHAPTER XXVI

War


We need not follow Sir Roger to his grave, nor partake of the baked
meats which were furnished for his funeral banquet. Such men as Sir
Roger Scatcherd are always well buried, and we have already seen that
his glories were duly told to posterity in the graphic diction of his
sepulchral monument. In a few days the doctor had returned to his
quiet home, and Sir Louis found himself reigning at Boxall Hill in
his father's stead--with, however, a much diminished sway, and, as he
thought it, but a poor exchequer. We must soon return to him and say
something of his career as a baronet; but for the present, we may go
back to our more pleasant friends at Greshamsbury.

But our friends at Greshamsbury had not been making themselves
pleasant--not so pleasant to each other as circumstances would have
admitted. In those days which the doctor had felt himself bound to
pass, if not altogether at Boxall Hill, yet altogether away from his
own home, so as to admit of his being as much as possible with his
patient, Mary had been thrown more than ever with Patience Oriel,
and, also, almost more than ever with Beatrice Gresham. As regarded
Mary, she would doubtless have preferred the companionship of
Patience, though she loved Beatrice far the best; but she had no
choice. When she went to the parsonage Beatrice came there also, and
when Patience came to the doctor's house Beatrice either accompanied
or followed her. Mary could hardly have rejected their society, even
had she felt it wise to do so. She would in such case have been all
alone, and her severance from the Greshamsbury house and household,
from the big family in which she had for so many years been almost at
home, would have made such solitude almost unendurable.

And then these two girls both knew--not her secret: she had no
secret--but the little history of her ill-treatment. They knew that
though she had been blameless in this matter, yet she had been the
one to bear the punishment; and, as girls and bosom friends, they
could not but sympathise with her, and endow her with heroic
attributes; make her, in fact, as we are doing, their little heroine
for the nonce. This was, perhaps, not serviceable for Mary; but it
was far from being disagreeable.

The tendency to finding matter for hero-worship in Mary's endurance
was much stronger with Beatrice than with Miss Oriel. Miss Oriel was
the elder, and naturally less afflicted with the sentimentation of
romance. She had thrown herself into Mary's arms because she had
seen that it was essentially necessary for Mary's comfort that she
should do so. She was anxious to make her friend smile, and to smile
with her. Beatrice was quite as true in her sympathy; but she rather
wished that she and Mary might weep in unison, shed mutual tears, and
break their hearts together.

Patience had spoken of Frank's love as a misfortune, of his conduct
as erroneous, and to be excused only by his youth, and had never
appeared to surmise that Mary also might be in love as well as he.
But to Beatrice the affair was a tragic difficulty, admitting of no
solution; a Gordian knot, not to be cut; a misery now and for ever.
She would always talk about Frank when she and Mary were alone; and,
to speak the truth, Mary did not stop her as she perhaps should have
done. As for a marriage between them, that was impossible; Beatrice
was well sure of that: it was Frank's unfortunate destiny that he
must marry money--money, and, as Beatrice sometimes thoughtlessly
added, cutting Mary to the quick,--money and family also. Under such
circumstances a marriage between them was quite impossible; but not
the less did Beatrice declare, that she would have loved Mary as her
sister-in-law had it been possible; and how worthy Frank was of a
girl's love, had such love been permissible.

"It is so cruel," Beatrice would say; "so very, very, cruel. You
would have suited him in every way."

"Nonsense, Trichy; I should have suited him in no possible way at
all; nor he me."

"Oh, but you would--exactly. Papa loves you so well."

"And mamma; that would have been so nice."

"Yes; and mamma, too--that is, had you had a fortune," said the
daughter, naïvely. "She always liked you personally, always."

"Did she?"

"Always. And we all love you so."

"Especially Lady Alexandrina."

"That would not have signified, for Frank cannot endure the de
Courcys himself."

"My dear, it does not matter one straw whom your brother can endure
or not endure just at present. His character is to be formed, and his
tastes, and his heart also."

"Oh, Mary!--his heart."

"Yes, his heart; not the fact of his having a heart. I think he has a
heart; but he himself does not yet understand it."

"Oh, Mary! you do not know him."

Such conversations were not without danger to poor Mary's comfort.
It came soon to be the case that she looked rather for this sort
of sympathy from Beatrice, than for Miss Oriel's pleasant but less
piquant gaiety.

So the days of the doctor's absence were passed, and so also the
first week after his return. During this week it was almost daily
necessary that the squire should be with him. The doctor was now the
legal holder of Sir Roger's property, and, as such, the holder also
of all the mortgages on Mr Gresham's property; and it was natural
that they should be much together. The doctor would not, however,
go up to Greshamsbury on any other than medical business; and it
therefore became necessary that the squire should be a good deal at
the doctor's house.

Then the Lady Arabella became unhappy in her mind. Frank, it was
true, was away at Cambridge, and had been successfully kept out
of Mary's way since the suspicion of danger had fallen upon Lady
Arabella's mind. Frank was away, and Mary was systematically
banished, with due acknowledgement from all the powers in
Greshamsbury. But this was not enough for Lady Arabella as long as
her daughter still habitually consorted with the female culprit, and
as long as her husband consorted with the male culprit. It seemed to
Lady Arabella at this moment as though, in banishing Mary from the
house, she had in effect banished herself from the most intimate of
the Greshamsbury social circles. She magnified in her own mind the
importance of the conferences between the girls, and was not without
some fear that the doctor might be talking the squire over into very
dangerous compliance.

She resolved, therefore, on another duel with the doctor. In the
first she had been pre-eminently and unexpectedly successful. No
young sucking dove could have been more mild than that terrible enemy
whom she had for years regarded as being too puissant for attack. In
ten minutes she had vanquished him, and succeeded in banishing both
him and his niece from the house without losing the value of his
services. As is always the case with us, she had begun to despise
the enemy she had conquered, and to think that the foe, once beaten,
could never rally.

Her object was to break off all confidential intercourse between
Beatrice and Mary, and to interrupt, as far as she could do it, that
between the doctor and the squire. This, it may be said, could be
more easily done by skilful management within her own household. She
had, however, tried that and failed. She had said much to Beatrice as
to the imprudence of her friendship with Mary, and she had done this
purposely before the squire; injudiciously however,--for the squire
had immediately taken Mary's part, and had declared that he had no
wish to see a quarrel between his family and that of the doctor; that
Mary Thorne was in every way a good girl, and an eligible friend for
his own child; and had ended by declaring, that he would not have
Mary persecuted for Frank's fault. This had not been the end, nor
nearly the end of what had been said on the matter at Greshamsbury;
but the end, when it came, came in this wise, that Lady Arabella
determined to say a few words to the doctor as to the expediency
of forbidding familiar intercourse between Mary and any of the
Greshamsbury people.

With this view Lady Arabella absolutely bearded the lion in his den,
the doctor in his shop. She had heard that both Mary and Beatrice
were to pass a certain afternoon at the parsonage, and took that
opportunity of calling at the doctor's house. A period of many years
had passed since she had last so honoured that abode. Mary, indeed,
had been so much one of her own family that the ceremony of calling
on her had never been thought necessary; and thus, unless Mary had
been absolutely ill, there would have been nothing to bring her
ladyship to the house. All this she knew would add to the importance
of the occasion, and she judged it prudent to make the occasion as
important as it might well be.

She was so far successful that she soon found herself _tête-à-tête_
with the doctor in his own study. She was no whit dismayed by the
pair of human thigh-bones which lay close to his hand, and which,
when he was talking in that den of his own, he was in the constant
habit of handling with much energy; nor was she frightened out of her
propriety even by the little child's skull which grinned at her from
off the chimney-piece.

"Doctor," she said, as soon as the first complimentary greetings were
over, speaking in her kindest and most would-be-confidential tone,
"Doctor, I am still uneasy about that boy of mine, and I have thought
it best to come and see you at once, and tell you freely what I
think."

The doctor bowed, and said that he was very sorry that she should
have any cause for uneasiness about his young friend Frank.

"Indeed, I am very uneasy, doctor; and having, as I do have, such
reliance on your prudence, and such perfect confidence in your
friendship, I have thought it best to come and speak to you openly:"
thereupon the Lady Arabella paused, and the doctor bowed again.

"Nobody knows so well as you do the dreadful state of the squire's
affairs."

"Not so very dreadful; not so very dreadful," said the doctor,
mildly: "that is, as far as I know."

"Yes they are, doctor; very dreadful; very dreadful indeed. You know
how much he owes to this young man: I do not, for the squire never
tells anything to me; but I know that it is a very large sum of
money; enough to swamp the estate and ruin Frank. Now I call that
very dreadful."

"No, no, not ruin him, Lady Arabella; not ruin him, I hope."

"However, I did not come to talk to you about that. As I said before,
I know nothing of the squire's affairs, and, as a matter of course,
I do not ask you to tell me. But I am sure you will agree with me in
this, that, as a mother, I cannot but be interested about my only
son," and Lady Arabella put her cambric handkerchief to her eyes.

"Of course you are; of course you are," said the doctor; "and, Lady
Arabella, my opinion of Frank is such, that I feel sure that he
will do well;" and, in his energy, Dr Thorne brandished one of the
thigh-bones almost in the lady's face.

"I hope he will; I am sure I hope he will. But, doctor, he has such
dangers to contend with; he is so warm and impulsive that I fear
his heart will bring him into trouble. Now, you know, unless Frank
marries money he is lost."

The doctor made no answer to this last appeal, but as he sat and
listened a slight frown came across his brow.

"He must marry money, doctor. Now we have, you see, with your
assistance, contrived to separate him from dear Mary--"

"With my assistance, Lady Arabella! I have given no assistance, nor
have I meddled in the matter; nor will I."

"Well, doctor, perhaps not meddled; but you agreed with me, you know,
that the two young people had been imprudent."

"I agreed to no such thing, Lady Arabella; never, never. I not only
never agreed that Mary had been imprudent, but I will not agree to it
now, and will not allow any one to assert it in my presence without
contradicting it:" and then the doctor worked away at the thigh-bones
in a manner that did rather alarm her ladyship.

"At any rate, you thought that the young people had better be kept
apart."

"No; neither did I think that: my niece, I felt sure, was safe from
danger. I knew that she would do nothing that would bring either her
or me to shame."

"Not to shame," said the lady, apologetically, as it were, using the
word perhaps not exactly in the doctor's sense.

"I felt no alarm for her," continued the doctor, "and desired no
change. Frank is your son, and it is for you to look to him. You
thought proper to do so by desiring Mary to absent herself from
Greshamsbury."

"Oh, no, no, no!" said Lady Arabella.

"But you did, Lady Arabella; and as Greshamsbury is your home,
neither I nor my niece had any ground of complaint. We acquiesced,
not without much suffering, but we did acquiesce; and you, I think,
can have no ground of complaint against us."

Lady Arabella had hardly expected that the doctor would reply to her
mild and conciliatory exordium with so much sternness. He had yielded
so easily to her on the former occasion. She did not comprehend that
when she uttered her sentence of exile against Mary, she had given
an order which she had the power of enforcing; but that obedience to
that order had now placed Mary altogether beyond her jurisdiction.
She was, therefore, a little surprised, and for a few moments
overawed by the doctor's manner; but she soon recovered herself,
remembering, doubtless, that fortune favours none but the brave.

"I make no complaint, Dr Thorne," she said, after assuming a tone
more befitting a de Courcy than that hitherto used, "I make no
complaint either as regards you or Mary."

"You are very kind, Lady Arabella."

"But I think that it is my duty to put a stop, a peremptory stop to
anything like a love affair between my son and your niece."

"I have not the least objection in life. If there is such a love
affair, put a stop to it--that is, if you have the power."

Here the doctor was doubtless imprudent. But he had begun to think
that he had yielded sufficiently to the lady; and he had begun to
resolve, also, that though it would not become him to encourage even
the idea of such a marriage, he would make Lady Arabella understand
that he thought his niece quite good enough for her son, and that
the match, if regarded as imprudent, was to be regarded as equally
imprudent on both sides. He would not suffer that Mary and her heart
and feelings and interest should be altogether postponed to those
of the young heir; and, perhaps, he was unconsciously encouraged in
this determination by the reflection that Mary herself might perhaps
become a young heiress.

"It is my duty," said Lady Arabella, repeating her words with even a
stronger de Courcy intonation; "and your duty also, Dr Thorne."

"My duty!" said he, rising from his chair and leaning on the table
with the two thigh-bones. "Lady Arabella, pray understand at once,
that I repudiate any such duty, and will have nothing whatever to do
with it."

"But you do not mean to say that you will encourage this unfortunate
boy to marry your niece?"

"The unfortunate boy, Lady Arabella--whom, by the by, I regard as
a very fortunate young man--is your son, not mine. I shall take no
steps about his marriage, either one way or the other."

"You think it right, then, that your niece should throw herself in
his way?"

"Throw herself in his way! What would you say if I came up to
Greshamsbury, and spoke to you of your daughters in such language?
What would my dear friend Mr Gresham say, if some neighbour's wife
should come and so speak to him? I will tell you what he would say:
he would quietly beg her to go back to her own home and meddle only
with her own matters."

This was dreadful to Lady Arabella. Even Dr Thorne had never before
dared thus to lower her to the level of common humanity, and liken
her to any other wife in the country-side. Moreover, she was not
quite sure whether he, the parish doctor, was not desiring her, the
earl's daughter, to go home and mind her own business. On this first
point, however, there seemed to be no room for doubt, of which she
gave herself the benefit.

"It would not become me to argue with you, Dr Thorne," she said.

"Not at least on this subject," said he.

"I can only repeat that I mean nothing offensive to our dear Mary;
for whom, I think I may say, I have always shown almost a mother's
care."

"Neither am I, nor is Mary, ungrateful for the kindness she has
received at Greshamsbury."

"But I must do my duty: my own children must be my first
consideration."

"Of course they must, Lady Arabella; that's of course."

"And, therefore, I have called on you to say that I think it is
imprudent that Beatrice and Mary should be so much together."

The doctor had been standing during the latter part of this
conversation, but now he began to walk about, still holding the two
bones like a pair of dumb-bells.

"God bless my soul!" he said; "God bless my soul! Why, Lady Arabella,
do you suspect your own daughter as well as your own son? Do you
think that Beatrice is assisting Mary in preparing this wicked
clandestine marriage? I tell you fairly, Lady Arabella, the present
tone of your mind is such that I cannot understand it."

"I suspect nobody, Dr Thorne; but young people will be young."

"And old people must be old, I suppose; the more's the pity. Lady
Arabella, Mary is the same to me as my own daughter, and owes me the
obedience of a child; but as I do not disapprove of your daughter
Beatrice as an acquaintance for her, but rather, on the other hand,
regard with pleasure their friendship, you cannot expect that I
should take any steps to put an end to it."

"But suppose it should lead to renewed intercourse between Frank and
Mary?"

"I have no objection. Frank is a very nice young fellow,
gentleman-like in his manners, and neighbourly in his disposition."

"Dr Thorne--"

"Lady Arabella--"

"I cannot believe that you really intend to express a wish--"

"You are quite right. I have not intended to express any wish; nor do
I intend to do so. Mary is at liberty, within certain bounds--which
I am sure she will not pass--to choose her own friends. I think she
has not chosen badly as regards Miss Beatrice Gresham; and should she
even add Frank Gresham to the number--"

"Friends! why they were more than friends; they were declared
lovers."

"I doubt that, Lady Arabella, because I have not heard of it from
Mary. But even if it were so, I do not see why I should object."

"Not object!"

"As I said before, Frank is, to my thinking, an excellent young man.
Why should I object?"

"Dr Thorne!" said her ladyship, now also rising from her chair in a
state of too evident perturbation.

"Why should _I_ object? It is for you, Lady Arabella, to look after
your lambs; for me to see that, if possible, no harm shall come to
mine. If you think that Mary is an improper acquaintance for your
children, it is for you to guide them; for you and their father. Say
what you think fit to your own daughter; but pray understand, once
for all, that I will allow no one to interfere with my niece."

"Interfere!" said Lady Arabella, now absolutely confused by the
severity of the doctor's manner.

"I will allow no one to interfere with her; no one, Lady Arabella.
She has suffered very greatly from imputations which you have most
unjustly thrown on her. It was, however, your undoubted right to turn
her out of your house if you thought fit;--though, as a woman who
had known her for so many years, you might, I think, have treated
her with more forbearance. That, however, was your right, and you
exercised it. There your privilege stops; yes, and must stop, Lady
Arabella. You shall not persecute her here, on the only spot of
ground she can call her own."

"Persecute her, Dr Thorne! You do not mean to say that I have
persecuted her?"

"Ah! but I do mean to say so. You do persecute her, and would
continue to do so did I not defend her. It is not sufficient that
she is forbidden to enter your domain--and so forbidden with the
knowledge of all the country round--but you must come here also with
the hope of interrupting all the innocent pleasures of her life.
Fearing lest she should be allowed even to speak to your son, to hear
a word of him through his own sister, you would put her in prison,
tie her up, keep her from the light of day--"

"Dr Thorne! how can you--"

But the doctor was not to be interrupted.

"It never occurs to you to tie him up, to put him in prison. No; he
is the heir of Greshamsbury; he is your son, an earl's grandson. It
is only natural, after all, that he should throw a few foolish words
at the doctor's niece. But she! it is an offence not to be forgiven
on her part that she should, however, unwillingly, have been forced
to listen to them! Now understand me, Lady Arabella; if any of your
family come to my house I shall be delighted to welcome them: if Mary
should meet any of them elsewhere I shall be delighted to hear of it.
Should she tell me to-morrow that she was engaged to marry Frank, I
should talk the matter over with her, quite coolly, solely with a
view to her interest, as would be my duty; feeling, at the same time,
that Frank would be lucky in having such a wife. Now you know my
mind, Lady Arabella. It is so I should do my duty;--you can do yours
as you may think fit."

Lady Arabella had by this time perceived that she was not destined on
this occasion to gain any great victory. She, however, was angry as
well as the doctor. It was not the man's vehemence that provoked her
so much as his evident determination to break down the prestige of
her rank, and place her on a footing in no respect superior to his
own. He had never before been so audaciously arrogant; and, as she
moved towards the door, she determined in her wrath that she would
never again have confidential intercourse with him in any relation of
life whatsoever.

"Dr Thorne," said she. "I think you have forgotten yourself. You must
excuse me if I say that after what has passed I--I--I--"

"Certainly," said he, fully understanding what she meant; and bowing
low as he opened first the study-door, then the front-door, then the
garden-gate.

And then Lady Arabella stalked off, not without full observation from
Mrs Yates Umbleby and her friend Miss Gushing, who lived close by.




CHAPTER XXVII

Miss Thorne Goes on a Visit


And now began the unpleasant things at Greshamsbury of which we have
here told. When Lady Arabella walked away from the doctor's house
she resolved that, let it cost what it might, there should be war to
the knife between her and him. She had been insulted by him--so at
least she said to herself, and so she was prepared to say to others
also--and it was not to be borne that a de Courcy should allow her
parish doctor to insult her with impunity. She would tell her husband
with all the dignity that she could assume, that it had now become
absolutely necessary that he should protect his wife by breaking
entirely with his unmannered neighbour; and, as regarded the young
members of her family, she would use the authority of a mother, and
absolutely forbid them to hold any intercourse with Mary Thorne. So
resolving, she walked quickly back to her own house.

The doctor, when left alone, was not quite satisfied with the part he
had taken in the interview. He had spoken from impulse rather than
from judgement, and, as is generally the case with men who do so
speak, he had afterwards to acknowledge to himself that he had been
imprudent. He accused himself probably of more violence than he
had really used, and was therefore unhappy; but, nevertheless, his
indignation was not at rest. He was angry with himself; but not
on that account the less angry with Lady Arabella. She was cruel,
overbearing, and unreasonable; cruel in the most cruel of manners, so
he thought; but not on that account was he justified in forgetting
the forbearance due from a gentleman to a lady. Mary, moreover, had
owed much to the kindness of this woman, and, therefore, Dr Thorne
felt that he should have forgiven much.

Thus the doctor walked about his room, much disturbed; now accusing
himself for having been so angry with Lady Arabella, and then feeding
his own anger by thinking of her misconduct.

The only immediate conclusion at which he resolved was this, that it
was unnecessary that he should say anything to Mary on the subject
of her ladyship's visit. There was, no doubt, sorrow enough in store
for his darling; why should he aggravate it? Lady Arabella would
doubtless not stop now in her course; but why should he accelerate
the evil which she would doubtless be able to effect?

Lady Arabella, when she returned to the house, allowed no grass to
grow under her feet. As she entered the house she desired that Miss
Beatrice should be sent to her directly she returned; and she desired
also, that as soon as the squire should be in his room a message to
that effect might be immediately brought to her.

"Beatrice," she said, as soon as the young lady appeared before her,
and in speaking she assumed her firmest tone of authority, "Beatrice,
I am sorry, my dear, to say anything that is unpleasant to you, but I
must make it a positive request that you will for the future drop all
intercourse with Dr Thorne's family."

Beatrice, who had received Lady Arabella's message immediately on
entering the house, and had run upstairs imagining that some instant
haste was required, now stood before her mother rather out of breath,
holding her bonnet by the strings.

"Oh, mamma!" she exclaimed, "what on earth has happened?"

"My dear," said the mother, "I cannot really explain to you what has
happened; but I must ask you to give me your positive assurance that
you will comply with my request."

"You don't mean that I am not to see Mary any more?"

"Yes, I do, my dear; at any rate, for the present. When I tell you
that your brother's interest imperatively demands it, I am sure that
you will not refuse me."

Beatrice did not refuse, but she did not appear too willing to
comply. She stood silent, leaning against the end of a sofa and
twisting her bonnet-strings in her hand.

"Well, Beatrice--"

"But, mamma, I don't understand."

Lady Arabella had said that she could not exactly explain: but she
found it necessary to attempt to do so.

"Dr Thorne has openly declared to me that a marriage between poor
Frank and Mary is all he could desire for his niece. After such
unparalleled audacity as that, even your father will see the
necessity of breaking with him."

"Dr Thorne! Oh, mamma, you must have misunderstood him."

"My dear, I am not apt to misunderstand people; especially when I am
so much in earnest as I was in talking to Dr Thorne."

"But, mamma, I know so well what Mary herself thinks about it."

"And I know what Dr Thorne thinks about it; he, at any rate, has been
candid in what he said; there can be no doubt on earth that he has
spoken his true thoughts; there can be no reason to doubt him: of
course such a match would be all that he could wish."

"Mamma, I feel sure that there is some mistake."

"Very well, my dear. I know that you are infatuated about these
people, and that you are always inclined to contradict what I say to
you; but, remember, I expect that you will obey me when I tell you
not to go to Dr Thorne's house any more."

"But, mamma--"

"I expect you to obey me, Beatrice. Though you are so prone to
contradict, you have never disobeyed me; and I fully trust that you
will not do so now."

Lady Arabella had begun by exacting, or trying to exact a promise,
but as she found that this was not forthcoming, she thought it better
to give up the point without a dispute. It might be that Beatrice
would absolutely refuse to pay this respect to her mother's
authority, and then where would she have been?

At this moment a servant came up to say that the squire was in his
room, and Lady Arabella was opportunely saved the necessity of
discussing the matter further with her daughter. "I am now," she
said, "going to see your father on the same subject; you may be quite
sure, Beatrice, that I should not willingly speak to him on any
matter relating to Dr Thorne did I not find it absolutely necessary
to do so."

This Beatrice knew was true, and she did therefore feel convinced
that something terrible must have happened.

While Lady Arabella opened her budget the squire sat quite silent,
listening to her with apparent respect. She found it necessary that
her description to him should be much more elaborate than that which
she had vouchsafed to her daughter, and, in telling her grievance,
she insisted most especially on the personal insult which had been
offered to herself.

"After what has now happened," said she, not quite able to repress a
tone of triumph as she spoke, "I do expect, Mr Gresham, that you
will--will--"

"Will what, my dear?"

"Will at least protect me from the repetition of such treatment."

"You are not afraid that Dr Thorne will come here to attack you? As
far as I can understand, he never comes near the place, unless when
you send for him."

"No; I do not think that he will come to Greshamsbury any more. I
believe I have put a stop to that."

"Then what is it, my dear, that you want me to do?"

Lady Arabella paused a minute before she replied. The game which she
now had to play was not very easy; she knew, or thought she knew,
that her husband, in his heart of hearts, much preferred his friend
to the wife of his bosom, and that he would, if he could, shuffle out
of noticing the doctor's iniquities. It behoved her, therefore, to
put them forward in such a way that they must be noticed.

"I suppose, Mr Gresham, you do not wish that Frank should marry the
girl?"

"I do not think there is the slightest chance of such a thing; and I
am quite sure that Dr Thorne would not encourage it."

"But I tell you, Mr Gresham, that he says he will encourage it."

"Oh, you have misunderstood him."

"Of course; I always misunderstand everything. I know that. I
misunderstood it when I told you how you would distress yourself if
you took those nasty hounds."

"I have had other troubles more expensive than the hounds," said the
poor squire, sighing.

"Oh, yes; I know what you mean; a wife and family are expensive, of
course. It is a little too late now to complain of that."

"My dear, it is always too late to complain of any troubles when they
are no longer to be avoided. We need not, therefore, talk any more
about the hounds at present."

"I do not wish to speak of them, Mr Gresham."

"Nor I."

"But I hope you will not think me unreasonable if I am anxious to
know what you intend to do about Dr Thorne."

"To do?"

"Yes; I suppose you will do something: you do not wish to see your
son marry such a girl as Mary Thorne."

"As far as the girl herself is concerned," said the squire, turning
rather red, "I am not sure that he could do much better. I know
nothing whatever against Mary. Frank, however, cannot afford to make
such a match. It would be his ruin."

"Of course it would; utter ruin; he never could hold up his head
again. Therefore it is I ask, What do you intend to do?"

The squire was bothered. He had no intention whatever of doing
anything, and no belief in his wife's assertion as to Dr Thorne's
iniquity. But he did not know how to get her out of the room. She
asked him the same question over and over again, and on each occasion
urged on him the heinousness of the insult to which she personally
had been subjected; so that at last he was driven to ask her what it
was she wished him to do.

"Well, then, Mr Gresham, if you ask me, I must say, that I think you
should abstain from any intercourse with Dr Thorne whatever."

"Break off all intercourse with him?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean? He has been turned out of this house, and I'm not
to go to see him at his own."

"I certainly think that you ought to discontinue your visits to Dr
Thorne altogether."

"Nonsense, my dear; absolute nonsense."

"Nonsense! Mr Gresham; it is no nonsense. As you speak in that way,
I must let you know plainly what I feel. I am endeavouring to do
my duty by my son. As you justly observe, such a marriage as this
would be utter ruin to him. When I found that the young people were
actually talking of being in love with each other, making vows and
all that sort of thing, I did think it time to interfere. I did not,
however, turn them out of Greshamsbury as you accuse me of doing. In
the kindest possible manner--"

"Well--well--well; I know all that. There, they are gone, and that's
enough. I don't complain; surely that ought to be enough."

"Enough! Mr Gresham. No; it is not enough. I find that, in spite
of what has occurred, the closest intimacy exists between the two
families; that poor Beatrice, who is so very young, and not so
prudent as she should be, is made to act as a go-between; and when
I speak to the doctor, hoping that he will assist me in preventing
this, he not only tells me that he means to encourage Mary in her
plans, but positively insults me to my face, laughs at me for being
an earl's daughter, and tells me--yes, he absolutely told me--to get
out of his house."

Let it be told with some shame as to the squire's conduct, that his
first feeling on hearing this was one of envy--of envy and regret
that he could not make the same uncivil request. Not that he wished
to turn his wife absolutely out of his house; but he would have been
very glad to have had the power of dismissing her summarily from his
own room. This, however, was at present impossible; so he was obliged
to make some mild reply.

"You must have mistaken him, my dear. He could not have intended to
say that."

"Oh! of course, Mr Gresham. It is all a mistake, of course. It will
be a mistake, only a mistake when you find your son married to Mary
Thorne."

"Well, my dear, I cannot undertake to quarrel with Dr Thorne." This
was true; for the squire could hardly have quarrelled with Dr Thorne,
even had he wished it.

"Then I think it right to tell you that I shall. And, Mr Gresham, I
did not expect much co-operation from you; but I did think that you
would have shown some little anger when you heard that I had been so
ill-treated. I shall, however, know how to take care of myself; and
I shall continue to do the best I can to protect Frank from these
wicked intrigues."

So saying, her ladyship arose and left the room, having succeeded in
destroying the comfort of all our Greshamsbury friends. It was very
well for the squire to declare that he would not quarrel with Dr
Thorne, and of course he did not do so. But he, himself, had no wish
whatever that his son should marry Mary Thorne; and as a falling drop
will hollow a stone, so did the continual harping of his wife on the
subject give rise to some amount of suspicion in his own mind. Then
as to Beatrice, though she had made no promise that she would not
again visit Mary, she was by no means prepared to set her mother's
authority altogether at defiance; and she also was sufficiently
uncomfortable.

Dr Thorne said nothing of the matter to his niece, and she,
therefore, would have been absolutely bewildered by Beatrice's
absence, had she not received some tidings of what had taken place at
Greshamsbury through Patience Oriel. Beatrice and Patience discussed
the matter fully, and it was agreed between them that it would be
better that Mary should know what sterner orders respecting her
had gone forth from the tyrant at Greshamsbury, and that she might
understand that Beatrice's absence was compulsory. Patience was thus
placed in this position, that on one day she walked and talked with
Beatrice, and on the next with Mary; and so matters went on for a
while at Greshamsbury--not very pleasantly.

Very unpleasantly and very uncomfortably did the months of May and
June pass away. Beatrice and Mary occasionally met, drinking tea
together at the parsonage, or in some other of the ordinary meetings
of country society; but there were no more confidentially distressing
confidential discourses, no more whispering of Frank's name, no more
sweet allusions to the inexpediency of a passion, which, according
to Beatrice's views, would have been so delightful had it been
expedient.

The squire and the doctor also met constantly; there were
unfortunately many subjects on which they were obliged to meet. Louis
Philippe--or Sir Louis as we must call him--though he had no power
over his own property, was wide awake to all the coming privileges
of ownership, and he would constantly point out to his guardian the
manner in which, according to his ideas, the most should be made of
it. The young baronet's ideas of good taste were not of the most
refined description, and he did not hesitate to tell Dr Thorne that
his, the doctor's, friendship with Mr Gresham must be no bar to his,
the baronet's, interest. Sir Louis also had his own lawyer, who gave
Dr Thorne to understand that, according to his ideas, the sum due
on Mr Gresham's property was too large to be left on its present
footing; the title-deeds, he said, should be surrendered or the
mortgage foreclosed. All this added to the sadness which now seemed
to envelop the village of Greshamsbury.

Early in July, Frank was to come home. The manner in which the
comings and goings of "poor Frank" were allowed to disturb the
arrangements of all the ladies, and some of the gentlemen, of
Greshamsbury was most abominable. And yet it can hardly be said to
have been his fault. He would have been only too well pleased had
things been allowed to go on after their old fashion. Things were
not allowed so to go on. At Christmas Miss Oriel had submitted to be
exiled, in order that she might carry Mary away from the presence of
the young Bashaw, an arrangement by which all the winter festivities
of the poor doctor had been thoroughly sacrificed; and now it began
to be said that some similar plan for the summer must be suggested.

It must not be supposed that any direction to this effect was
conveyed either to Mary or to the doctor. The suggestion came from
them, and was mentioned only to Patience. But Patience, as a matter
of course, told Beatrice, and Beatrice told her mother, somewhat
triumphantly, hoping thereby to convince the she-dragon of Mary's
innocence. Alas! she-dragons are not easily convinced of the
innocence of any one. Lady Arabella quite coincided in the propriety
of Mary's being sent off,--whither she never inquired,--in order that
the coast might be clear for "poor Frank;" but she did not a whit the
more abstain from talking of the wicked intrigues of those Thornes.
As it turned out, Mary's absence caused her to talk all the more.

The Boxall Hill property, including the house and furniture, had been
left to the contractor's son; it being understood that the property
would not be at present in his own hands, but that he might inhabit
the house if he chose to do so. It would thus be necessary for Lady
Scatcherd to find a home for herself, unless she could remain at
Boxall Hill by her son's permission. In this position of affairs the
doctor had been obliged to make a bargain between them. Sir Louis did
wish to have the comfort, or perhaps the honour, of a country house;
but he did not wish to have the expense of keeping it up. He was
also willing to let his mother live at the house; but not without
a consideration. After a prolonged degree of haggling, terms were
agreed upon; and a few weeks after her husband's death, Lady
Scatcherd found herself alone at Boxall Hill--alone as regards
society in the ordinary sense, but not quite alone as concerned her
ladyship, for the faithful Hannah was still with her.

The doctor was of course often at Boxall Hill, and never left it
without an urgent request from Lady Scatcherd that he would bring his
niece over to see her. Now Lady Scatcherd was no fit companion for
Mary Thorne, and though Mary had often asked to be taken to Boxall
Hill, certain considerations had hitherto induced the doctor to
refuse the request; but there was that about Lady Scatcherd,--a kind
of homely honesty of purpose, an absence of all conceit as to her own
position, and a strength of womanly confidence in the doctor as her
friend, which by degrees won upon his heart. When, therefore, both he
and Mary felt that it would be better for her again to absent herself
for a while from Greshamsbury, it was, after much deliberation,
agreed that she should go on a visit to Boxall Hill.

To Boxall Hill, accordingly, she went, and was received almost as a
princess. Mary had all her life been accustomed to women of rank, and
had never habituated herself to feel much trepidation in the presence
of titled grandees; but she had prepared herself to be more than
ordinarily submissive to Lady Scatcherd. Her hostess was a widow, was
not a woman of high birth, was a woman of whom her uncle spoke well;
and, for all these reasons, Mary was determined to respect her, and
pay to her every consideration. But when she settled down in the
house she found it almost impossible to do so. Lady Scatcherd treated
her as a farmer's wife might have treated some convalescent young
lady who had been sent to her charge for a few weeks, in order that
she might benefit by the country air. Her ladyship could hardly bring
herself to sit still and eat her dinner tranquilly in her guest's
presence. And then nothing was good enough for Mary. Lady Scatcherd
besought her, almost with tears, to say what she liked best to eat
and drink; and was in despair when Mary declared she didn't care,
that she liked anything, and that she was in nowise particular in
such matters.

"A roast fowl, Miss Thorne?"

"Very nice, Lady Scatcherd."

"And bread sauce?"

"Bread sauce--yes; oh, yes--I like bread sauce,"--and poor Mary tried
hard to show a little interest.

"And just a few sausages. We make them all in the house, Miss Thorne;
we know what they are. And mashed potatoes--do you like them best
mashed or baked?"

Mary finding herself obliged to vote, voted for mashed potatoes.

"Very well. But, Miss Thorne, if you like boiled fowl better, with
a little bit of ham, you know, I do hope you'll say so. And there's
lamb in the house, quite beautiful; now do 'ee say something; do 'ee,
Miss Thorne."

So invoked, Mary felt herself obliged to say something, and declared
for the roast fowl and sausages; but she found it very difficult to
pay much outward respect to a person who would pay so much outward
respect to her. A day or two after her arrival it was decided that
she should ride about the place on a donkey; she was accustomed to
riding, the doctor having generally taken care that one of his own
horses should, when required, consent to carry a lady; but there was
no steed at Boxall Hill that she could mount; and when Lady Scatcherd
had offered to get a pony for her, she had willingly compromised
matters by expressing the delight she would have in making a campaign
on a donkey. Upon this, Lady Scatcherd had herself set off in quest
of the desired animal, much to Mary's horror; and did not return till
the necessary purchase had been effected. Then she came back with the
donkey close at her heels, almost holding its collar, and stood there
at the hall-door till Mary came to approve.

"I hope she'll do. I don't think she'll kick," said Lady Scatcherd,
patting the head of her purchase quite triumphantly.

"Oh, you are so kind, Lady Scatcherd. I'm sure she'll do quite
nicely; she seems very quiet," said Mary.

"Please, my lady, it's a he," said the boy who held the halter.

"Oh! a he, is it?" said her ladyship; "but the he-donkeys are quite
as quiet as the shes, ain't they?"

"Oh, yes, my lady; a deal quieter, all the world over, and twice as
useful."

"I'm so glad of that, Miss Thorne," said Lady Scatcherd, her eyes
bright with joy.

And so Mary was established with her donkey, who did all that could
be expected from an animal in his position.

"But, dear Lady Scatcherd," said Mary, as they sat together at the
open drawing-room window the same evening, "you must not go on
calling me Miss Thorne; my name is Mary, you know. Won't you call me
Mary?" and she came and knelt at Lady Scatcherd's feet, and took hold
of her, looking up into her face.

Lady Scatcherd's cheeks became rather red, as though she was somewhat
ashamed of her position.

"You are so very kind to me," continued Mary, "and it seems so cold
to hear you call me Miss Thorne."

"Well, Miss Thorne, I'm sure I'd call you anything to please you.
Only I didn't know whether you'd like it from me. Else I do think
Mary is the prettiest name in all the language."

"I should like it very much."

"My dear Roger always loved that name better than any other; ten
times better. I used to wish sometimes that I'd been called Mary."

"Did he! Why?"

"He once had a sister called Mary; such a beautiful creature! I
declare I sometimes think you are like her."

"Oh, dear! then she must have been beautiful indeed!" said Mary,
laughing.

"She was very beautiful. I just remember her--oh, so beautiful! she
was quite a poor girl, you know; and so was I then. Isn't it odd that
I should have to be called 'my lady' now? Do you know Miss Thorne--"

"Mary! Mary!" said her guest.

"Ah, yes; but somehow, I hardly like to make so free; but, as I was
saying, I do so dislike being called 'my lady:' I always think the
people are laughing at me; and so they are."

"Oh, nonsense."

"Yes, they are though: poor dear Roger, he used to call me 'my lady'
just to make fun of me; I didn't mind it so much from him. But, Miss
Thorne--"

"Mary, Mary, Mary."

"Ah, well! I shall do it in time. But, Miss--Mary, ha! ha! ha! never
mind, let me alone. But what I want to say is this: do you think I
could drop it? Hannah says, that if I go the right way about it she
is sure I can."

"Oh! but, Lady Scatcherd, you shouldn't think of such a thing."

"Shouldn't I now?"

"Oh, no; for your husband's sake you should be proud of it. He gained
great honour, you know."

"Ah, well," said she, sighing after a short pause; "if you think it
will do him any good, of course I'll put up with it. And then I know
Louis would be mad if I talked of such a thing. But, Miss Thorne,
dear, a woman like me don't like to have to be made a fool of all the
days of her life if she can help it."

"But, Lady Scatcherd," said Mary, when this question of the title had
been duly settled, and her ladyship made to understand that she must
bear the burden for the rest of her life, "but, Lady Scatcherd, you
were speaking of Sir Roger's sister; what became of her?"

"Oh, she did very well at last, as Sir Roger did himself; but in
early life she was very unfortunate--just at the time of my marriage
with dear Roger--," and then, just as she was about to commence so
much as she knew of the history of Mary Scatcherd, she remembered
that the author of her sister-in-law's misery had been a Thorne, a
brother of the doctor; and, therefore, as she presumed, a relative of
her guest; and suddenly she became mute.

"Well," said Mary; "just as you were married, Lady Scatcherd?"

Poor Lady Scatcherd had very little worldly knowledge, and did not
in the least know how to turn the conversation or escape from the
trouble into which she had fallen. All manner of reflections began to
crowd upon her. In her early days she had known very little of the
Thornes, nor had she thought much of them since, except as regarded
her friend the doctor; but at this moment she began for the first
time to remember that she had never heard of more than two brothers in
the family. Who then could have been Mary's father? She felt at once
that it would be improper for to say anything as to Henry Thorne's
terrible faults and sudden fate;--improper also, to say more about
Mary Scatcherd; but she was quite unable to drop the matter otherwise
than abruptly, and with a start.

"She was very unfortunate, you say, Lady Scatcherd?"

"Yes, Miss Thorne; Mary, I mean--never mind me--I shall do it in
time. Yes, she was; but now I think of it, I had better say nothing
more about it. There are reasons, and I ought not to have spoken of
it. You won't be provoked with me, will you?"

Mary assured her that she would not be provoked, and of course asked
no more questions about Mary Scatcherd; nor did she think much more
about it. It was not so however with her ladyship, who could not
keep herself from reflecting that the old clergyman in the Close at
Barchester certainly had but two sons, one of whom was now the doctor
at Greshamsbury, and the other of whom had perished so wretchedly at
the gate of that farmyard. Who then was the father of Mary Thorne?

The days passed very quietly at Boxall Hill. Every morning Mary went
out on her donkey, who justified by his demeanour all that had been
said in his praise; then she would read or draw, then walk with Lady
Scatcherd, then dine, then walk again; and so the days passed quietly
away. Once or twice a week the doctor would come over and drink his
tea there, riding home in the cool of the evening. Mary also received
one visit from her friend Patience.

So the days passed quietly away till the tranquillity of the house
was suddenly broken by tidings from London. Lady Scatcherd received a
letter from her son, contained in three lines, in which he intimated
that on the following day he meant to honour her with a visit. He had
intended, he said, to have gone to Brighton with some friends; but as
he felt himself a little out of sorts, he would postpone his marine
trip and do his mother the grace of spending a few days with her.

This news was not very pleasant to Mary, by whom it had been
understood, as it had also by her uncle, that Lady Scatcherd would
have had the house to herself; but as there were no means of
preventing the evil, Mary could only inform the doctor, and prepare
herself to meet Sir Louis Scatcherd.




CHAPTER XXVIII

The Doctor Hears Something to His Advantage


Sir Louis Scatcherd had told his mother that he was rather out of
sorts, and when he reached Boxall Hill it certainly did not appear
that he had given any exaggerated statement of his own maladies. He
certainly was a good deal out of sorts. He had had more than one
attack of delirium tremens since his father's death, and had almost
been at death's door.

Nothing had been said about this by Dr Thorne at Boxall Hill; but
he was by no means ignorant of his ward's state. Twice he had gone
up to London to visit him; twice he had begged him to go down into
the country and place himself under his mother's care. On the last
occasion, the doctor had threatened him with all manner of pains and
penalties: with pains, as to his speedy departure from this world and
all its joys; and with penalties, in the shape of poverty if that
departure should by any chance be retarded. But these threats had
at the moment been in vain, and the doctor had compromised matters
by inducing Sir Louis to promise that he would go to Brighton. The
baronet, however, who was at length frightened by some renewed
attack, gave up his Brighton scheme, and, without any notice to the
doctor, hurried down to Boxall Hill.

Mary did not see him on the first day of his coming, but the doctor
did. He received such intimation of the visit as enabled him to be at
the house soon after the young man's arrival; and, knowing that his
assistance might be necessary, he rode over to Boxall Hill. It was
a dreadful task to him, this of making the same fruitless endeavour
for the son that he had made for the father, and in the same house.
But he was bound by every consideration to perform the task. He had
promised the father that he would do for the son all that was in his
power; and he had, moreover, the consciousness, that should Sir Louis
succeed in destroying himself, the next heir to all the property was
his own niece, Mary Thorne.

He found Sir Louis in a low, wretched, miserable state. Though he
was a drunkard as his father was, he was not at all such a drunkard
as was his father. The physical capacities of the men were very
different. The daily amount of alcohol which the father had consumed
would have burnt up the son in a week; whereas, though the son
was continually tipsy, what he swallowed would hardly have had an
injurious effect upon the father.

"You are all wrong, quite wrong," said Sir Louis, petulantly; "it
isn't that at all. I have taken nothing this week past--literally
nothing. I think it's the liver."

Dr Thorne wanted no one to tell him what was the matter with his
ward. It was his liver; his liver, and his head, and his stomach, and
his heart. Every organ in his body had been destroyed, or was in the
course of destruction. His father had killed himself with brandy;
the son, more elevated in his tastes, was doing the same thing with
curaçoa, maraschino, and cherry-bounce.

"Sir Louis," said the doctor--he was obliged to be much more
punctilious with him than he had been with the contractor--"the
matter is in your own hands entirely: if you cannot keep your lips
from that accursed poison, you have nothing in this world to look
forward to; nothing, nothing!"

Mary proposed to return with her uncle to Greshamsbury, and he was
at first well inclined that she should do so. But this idea was
overruled, partly in compliance with Lady Scatcherd's entreaties, and
partly because it would have seemed as though they had both thought
the presence of its owner had made the house an unfit habitation for
decent people. The doctor therefore returned, leaving Mary there; and
Lady Scatcherd busied herself between her two guests.

On the next day Sir Louis was able to come down to a late dinner, and
Mary was introduced to him. He had dressed himself in his best array;
and as he had--at any rate for the present moment--been frightened
out of his libations, he was prepared to make himself as agreeable as
possible. His mother waited on him almost as a slave might have done;
but she seemed to do so with the fear of a slave rather than the love
of a mother. She was fidgety in her attentions, and worried him by
endeavouring to make her evening sitting-room agreeable.

But Sir Louis, though he was not very sweetly behaved under these
manipulations from his mother's hands, was quite complaisant to
Miss Thorne; nay, after the expiration of a week he was almost more
than complaisant. He piqued himself on his gallantry, and now found
that, in the otherwise dull seclusion of Boxall Hill, he had a good
opportunity of exercising it. To do him justice it must be admitted
that he would not have been incapable of a decent career had he
stumbled upon some girl who could have loved him before he stumbled
upon his maraschino bottle. Such might have been the case with many
a lost rake. The things that are bad are accepted because the things
that are good do not come easily in his way. How many a miserable
father reviles with bitterness of spirit the low tastes of his son,
who has done nothing to provide his child with higher pleasures!

Sir Louis--partly in the hopes of Mary's smiles, and partly
frightened by the doctor's threats--did, for a while, keep himself
within decent bounds. He did not usually appear before Mary's eyes
till three or four in the afternoon; but when he did come forth, he
came forth sober and resolute to please. His mother was delighted,
and was not slow to sing his praises; and even the doctor, who now
visited Boxall Hill more frequently than ever, began to have some
hopes.

One constant subject, I must not say of conversation, on the part
of Lady Scatcherd, but rather of declamation, had hitherto been the
beauty and manly attributes of Frank Gresham. She had hardly ceased
to talk to Mary of the infinite good qualities of the young squire,
and especially of his prowess in the matter of Mr Moffat. Mary had
listened to all this eloquence, not perhaps with inattention, but
without much reply. She had not been exactly sorry to hear Frank
talked about; indeed, had she been so minded, she could herself have
said something on the same subject; but she did not wish to take Lady
Scatcherd altogether into her confidence, and she had been unable to
say much about Frank Gresham without doing so. Lady Scatcherd had,
therefore, gradually conceived the idea that her darling was not a
favourite with her guest.

Now, therefore, she changed the subject; and, as her own son was
behaving with such unexampled propriety, she dropped Frank and
confined her eulogies to Louis. He had been a little wild, she
admitted; young men so often were so; but she hoped that it was now
over.

"He does still take a little drop of those French drinks in the
morning," said Lady Scatcherd, in her confidence; for she was too
honest to be false, even in her own cause. "He does do that, I know:
but that's nothing, my dear, to swilling all day; and everything
can't be done at once, can it, Miss Thorne?"

On this subject Mary found her tongue loosened. She could not talk
about Frank Gresham, but she could speak with hope to the mother of
her only son. She could say that Sir Louis was still very young; that
there was reason to trust that he might now reform; that his present
conduct was apparently good; and that he appeared capable of better
things. So much she did say; and the mother took her sympathy for
more than it was worth.

On this matter, and on this matter perhaps alone, Sir Louis and Lady
Scatcherd were in accord. There was much to recommend Mary to the
baronet; not only did he see her to be beautiful, and perceive her
to be attractive and ladylike; but she was also the niece of the man
who, for the present, held the purse-strings of his wealth. Mary, it
is true, had no fortune. But Sir Louis knew that she was acknowledged
to be a lady; and he was ambitious that his "lady" should be a lady.
There was also much to recommend Mary to the mother, to any mother;
and thus it came to pass, that Miss Thorne had no obstacle between
her and the dignity of being Lady Scatcherd the second;--no obstacle
whatever, if only she could bring herself to wish it.

It was some time--two or three weeks, perhaps--before Mary's mind was
first opened to this new brilliancy in her prospects. Sir Louis at
first was rather afraid of her, and did not declare his admiration
in any very determined terms. He certainly paid her many compliments
which, from any one else, she would have regarded as abominable.
But she did not expect great things from the baronet's taste: she
concluded that he was only doing what he thought a gentleman should
do; and she was willing to forgive much for Lady Scatcherd's sake.

His first attempts were, perhaps, more ludicrous than passionate. He
was still too much an invalid to take walks, and Mary was therefore
saved from his company in her rambles; but he had a horse of his own
at Boxall Hill, and had been advised to ride by the doctor. Mary
also rode--on a donkey only, it is true--but Sir Louis found himself
bound in gallantry to accompany her. Mary's steed had answered every
expectation, and proved himself very quiet; so quiet, that without
the admonition of a cudgel behind him, he could hardly be persuaded
into the demurest trot. Now, as Sir Louis's horse was of a very
different mettle, he found it rather difficult not to step faster
than his inamorata; and, let him struggle as he would, was generally
so far ahead as to be debarred the delights of conversation.

When for the second time he proposed to accompany her, Mary did what
she could to hinder it. She saw that he had been rather ashamed of
the manner in which his companion was mounted, and she herself would
have enjoyed her ride much more without him. He was an invalid,
however; it was necessary to make much of him, and Mary did not
absolutely refuse his offer.

"Lady Scatcherd," said he, as they were standing at the door previous
to mounting--he always called his mother Lady Scatcherd--"why don't
you have a horse for Miss Thorne? This donkey is--is--really is, so
very--very--can't go at all, you know?"

Lady Scatcherd began to declare that she would willingly have got a
pony if Mary would have let her do so.

"Oh, no, Lady Scatcherd; not on any account. I do like the donkey so
much--I do indeed."

"But he won't go," said Sir Louis. "And for a person who rides like
you, Miss Thorne--such a horsewoman you know--why, you know, Lady
Scatcherd, it's positively ridiculous; d---- absurd, you know."

And then, with an angry look at his mother, he mounted his horse, and
was soon leading the way down the avenue.

"Miss Thorne," said he, pulling himself up at the gate, "if I had
known that I was to be so extremely happy as to have found you here,
I would have brought you down the most beautiful creature, an Arab.
She belongs to my friend Jenkins; but I wouldn't have stood at any
price in getting her for you. By Jove! if you were on that mare, I'd
back you, for style and appearance, against anything in Hyde Park."

The offer of this sporting wager, which naturally would have been
very gratifying to Mary, was lost upon her, for Sir Louis had again
unwittingly got on in advance, but he stopped himself in time to hear
Mary again declare her passion was a donkey.

"If you could only see Jenkins's little mare, Miss Thorne! Only say
one word, and she shall be down here before the week's end. Price
shall be no obstacle--none whatever. By Jove, what a pair you would
be!"

This generous offer was repeated four or five times; but on each
occasion Mary only half heard what was said, and on each occasion the
baronet was far too much in advance to hear Mary's reply. At last he
recollected that he wanted to call on one of the tenants, and begged
his companion to allow him to ride on.

"If you at all dislike being left alone, you know--"

"Oh dear no, not at all, Sir Louis. I am quite used to it."

"Because I don't care about it, you know; only I can't make this
horse walk the same pace as that brute."

"You mustn't abuse my pet, Sir Louis."

"It's a d---- shame on my mother's part;" said Sir Louis, who, even
when in his best behaviour, could not quite give up his ordinary mode
of conversation. "When she was fortunate enough to get such a girl as
you to come and stay with her, she ought to have had something proper
for her to ride upon; but I'll look to it as soon as I am a little
stronger, you see if I don't;" and, so saying, Sir Louis trotted off,
leaving Mary in peace with her donkey.

Sir Louis had now been living cleanly and forswearing sack for what
was to him a very long period, and his health felt the good effects
of it. No one rejoiced at this more cordially than did the doctor. To
rejoice at it was with him a point of conscience. He could not help
telling himself now and again that, circumstanced as he was, he was
most specially bound to take joy in any sign of reformation which
the baronet might show. Not to do so would be almost tantamount
to wishing that he might die in order that Mary might inherit his
wealth; and, therefore, the doctor did with all his energy devote
himself to the difficult task of hoping and striving that Sir Louis
might yet live to enjoy what was his own. But the task was altogether
a difficult one, for as Sir Louis became stronger in health, so
also did he become more exorbitant in his demands on the doctor's
patience, and more repugnant to the doctor's tastes.

In his worst fits of disreputable living he was ashamed to apply to
his guardian for money; and in his worst fits of illness he was,
through fear, somewhat patient under his doctor's hands; but just at
present he had nothing of which to be ashamed, and was not at all
patient.

"Doctor,"--said he, one day, at Boxall Hill--"how about those
Greshamsbury title-deeds?"

"Oh, that will all be properly settled between my lawyer and your
own."

"Oh--ah--yes; no doubt the lawyers will settle it: settle it with a
fine bill of costs, of course. But, as Finnie says,"--Finnie was Sir
Louis's legal adviser--"I have got a tremendously large interest at
stake in this matter; eighty thousand pounds is no joke. It ain't
everybody that can shell out eighty thousand pounds when they're
wanted; and I should like to know how the thing's going on. I've a
right to ask, you know; eh, doctor?"

"The title-deeds of a large portion of the Greshamsbury estate will
be placed with the mortgage-deeds before the end of next month."

"Oh, that's all right. I choose to know about these things; for
though my father did make such a con-found-ed will, that's no reason
I shouldn't know how things are going."

"You shall know everything that I know, Sir Louis."

"And now, doctor, what are we to do about money?"

"About money?"

"Yes; money, rhino, ready! 'put money in your purse and cut a dash;'
eh, doctor? Not that I want to cut a dash. No, I'm going on the quiet
line altogether now: I've done with all that sort of thing."

"I'm heartily glad of it; heartily," said the doctor.

"Yes, I'm not going to make way for my far-away cousin yet; not if I
know it, at least. I shall soon be all right now, doctor; shan't I?"

"'All right' is a long word, Sir Louis. But I do hope you will be all
right in time, if you will live with decent prudence. You shouldn't
take that filth in the morning though."

"Filth in the morning! That's my mother, I suppose! That's her
ladyship! She's been talking, has she? Don't you believe her, doctor.
There's not a young man in Barsetshire is going more regular, all
right within the posts, than I am."

The doctor was obliged to acknowledge that there did seem to be some
improvement.

"And now, doctor, how about money? Eh?"

Doctor Thorne, like other guardians similarly circumstanced, began to
explain that Sir Louis had already had a good deal of money, and had
begun also to promise that more should be forthcoming in the event
of good behaviour, when he was somewhat suddenly interrupted by Sir
Louis.

"Well, now; I'll tell you what, doctor; I've got a bit of news for
you; something that I think will astonish you."

The doctor opened his eyes, and tried to look as though ready to be
surprised.

"Something that will really make you look about; and something, too,
that will be very much to the hearer's advantage,--as the newspaper
advertisements say."

"Something to my advantage?" said the doctor.

"Well, I hope you'll think so. Doctor, what would you think now of my
getting married?"

"I should be delighted to hear of it--more delighted than I can
express; that is, of course, if you were to marry well. It was your
father's most eager wish that you should marry early."

"That's partly my reason," said the young hypocrite. "But then, if I
marry I must have an income fit to live on; eh, doctor?"

The doctor had some fear that his interesting protégée was desirous
of a wife for the sake of the income, instead of desiring the income
for the sake of the wife. But let the cause be what it would,
marriage would probably be good for him; and he had no hesitation,
therefore, in telling him, that if he married well, he should be put
in possession of sufficient income to maintain the new Lady Scatcherd
in a manner becoming her dignity.

"As to marrying well," said Sir Louis, "you, I take it, will be the
last man, doctor, to quarrel with my choice."

"Shall I?" said the doctor, smiling.

"Well, you won't disapprove, I guess, as the Yankee says. What would
you think of Miss Mary Thorne?"

It must be said in Sir Louis's favour that he had probably no idea
whatever of the estimation in which such young ladies as Mary Thorne
are held by those who are nearest and dearest to them. He had no sort
of conception that she was regarded by her uncle as an inestimable
treasure, almost too precious to be rendered up to the arms of any
man; and infinitely beyond any price in silver and gold, baronets'
incomes of eight or ten thousand a year, and such coins usually
current in the world's markets. He was a rich man and a baronet,
and Mary was an unmarried girl without a portion. In Sir Louis's
estimation he was offering everything, and asking for nothing. He
certainly had some idea that girls were apt to be coy, and required
a little wooing in the shape of presents, civil speeches--perhaps
kisses also. The civil speeches he had, he thought, done, and
imagined that they had been well received. The other things were to
follow; an Arab pony, for instance,--and the kisses probably with it;
and then all these difficulties would be smoothed.

But he did not for a moment conceive that there would be any
difficulty with the uncle. How should there be? Was he not a baronet
with ten thousand a year coming to him? Had he not everything which
fathers want for portionless daughters, and uncles for dependant
nieces? Might he not well inform the doctor that he had something to
tell him for his advantage?

And yet, to tell the truth, the doctor did not seem to be overjoyed
when the announcement was first made to him. He was by no means
overjoyed. On the contrary, even Sir Louis could perceive his
guardian's surprise was altogether unmixed with delight.

What a question was this that was asked him! What would he think of
a marriage between Mary Thorne--his Mary and Sir Louis Scatcherd?
Between the alpha of the whole alphabet, and him whom he could not
but regard as the omega! Think of it! Why he would think of it as
though a lamb and a wolf were to stand at the altar together. Had Sir
Louis been a Hottentot, or an Esquimaux, the proposal could not have
astonished him more. The two persons were so totally of a different
class, that the idea of the one falling in love with the other had
never occurred to him. "What would you think of Miss Mary Thorne?"
Sir Louis had asked; and the doctor, instead of answering him
with ready and pleased alacrity, stood silent, thunderstruck with
amazement.

"Well, wouldn't she be a good wife?" said Sir Louis, rather in a tone
of disgust at the evident disapproval shown at his choice. "I thought
you'd have been so delighted."

"Mary Thorne!" ejaculated the doctor at last. "Have you spoken to my
niece about this, Sir Louis?"

"Well, I have and yet I haven't; I haven't, and yet in a manner I
have."

"I don't understand you," said the doctor.

"Why, you see, I haven't exactly popped to her yet; but I have been
doing the civil; and if she's up to snuff, as I take her to be, she
knows very well what I'm after by this time."

Up to snuff! Mary Thorne, his Mary Thorne, up to snuff! To snuff too
of such a very disagreeable description!

"I think, Sir Louis, that you are in mistake about this. I think you
will find that Mary will not be disposed to avail herself of the
great advantages--for great they undoubtedly are--which you are able
to offer to your intended wife. If you will take my advice, you will
give up thinking of Mary. She would not suit you."

"Not suit me! Oh, but I think she just would. She's got no money, you
mean?"

"No, I did not mean that. It will not signify to you whether your
wife has money or not. You need not look for money. But you should
think of some one more nearly of your own temperament. I am quite
sure that my niece would refuse you."

These last words the doctor uttered with much emphasis. His intention
was to make the baronet understand that the matter was quite
hopeless, and to induce him if possible to drop it on the spot. But
he did not know Sir Louis; he ranked him too low in the scale of
human beings, and gave him no credit for any strength of character.
Sir Louis in his way did love Mary Thorne; and could not bring
himself to believe that Mary did not, or at any rate, would not soon
return his passion. He was, moreover, sufficiently obstinate, firm we
ought perhaps to say,--for his pursuit in this case was certainly not
an evil one,--and he at once made up his mind to succeed in spite of
the uncle.

"If she consents, however, you will do so too?" asked he.

"It is impossible she should consent," said the doctor.

"Impossible! I don't see anything at all impossible. But if she
does?"

"But she won't."

"Very well,--that's to be seen. But just tell me this, if she does,
will you consent?"

"The stars would fall first. It's all nonsense. Give it up, my dear
friend; believe me you are only preparing unhappiness for yourself;"
and the doctor put his hand kindly on the young man's arm. "She will
not, cannot accept such an offer."

"Will not! cannot!" said the baronet, thinking over all the reasons
which in his estimation could possibly be inducing the doctor to be
so hostile to his views, and shaking the hand off his arm. "Will not!
cannot! But come, doctor, answer my question fairly. If she'll have
me for better or worse, you won't say aught against it; will you?"

"But she won't have you; why should you give her and yourself the
pain of a refusal?"

"Oh, as for that, I must stand my chances like another. And as for
her, why d----, doctor, you wouldn't have me believe that any young
lady thinks it so very dreadful to have a baronet with ten thousand
pounds a year at her feet, specially when that same baronet ain't
very old, nor yet particularly ugly. I ain't so green as that,
doctor."

"I suppose she must go through it, then," said the doctor, musing.

"But, Dr Thorne, I did look for a kinder answer from you, considering
all that you so often say about your great friendship with my father.
I did think you'd at any rate answer me when I asked you a question."

But the doctor did not want to answer that special question. Could
it be possible that Mary should wish to marry this odious man, could
such a state of things be imagined to be the case, he would not
refuse his consent, infinitely as he would be disgusted by her
choice. But he would not give Sir Louis any excuse for telling Mary
that her uncle approved of so odious a match.

"I cannot say that in any case I should approve of such a marriage,
Sir Louis. I cannot bring myself to say so; for I know it would make
you both miserable. But on that matter my niece will choose wholly
for herself."

"And about the money, doctor?"

"If you marry a decent woman you shall not want the means of
supporting her decently," and so saying the doctor walked away,
leaving Sir Louis to his meditations.




CHAPTER XXIX

The Donkey Ride


Sir Louis, when left to himself, was slightly dismayed and somewhat
discouraged; but he was not induced to give up his object. The first
effort of his mind was made in conjecturing what private motive
Dr Thorne could possibly have in wishing to debar his niece from
marrying a rich young baronet. That the objection was personal to
himself, Sir Louis did not for a moment imagine. Could it be that the
doctor did not wish that his niece should be richer, and grander, and
altogether bigger than himself? Or was it possible that his guardian
was anxious to prevent him from marrying from some view of the
reversion of the large fortune? That there was some such reason, Sir
Louis was well sure; but let it be what it might, he would get the
better of the doctor. "He knew," so he said to himself, "what stuff
girls were made of. Baronets did not grow like blackberries." And so,
assuring himself with such philosophy, he determined to make his
offer.

The time he selected for doing this was the hour before dinner; but
on the day on which his conversation with the doctor had taken place,
he was deterred by the presence of a strange visitor. To account for
this strange visit it will be necessary that we should return to
Greshamsbury for a few minutes.

Frank, when he returned home for his summer vacation, found that
Mary had again flown; and the very fact of her absence added fuel to
the fire of his love, more perhaps than even her presence might have
done. For the flight of the quarry ever adds eagerness to the pursuit
of the huntsman. Lady Arabella, moreover, had a bitter enemy; a
foe, utterly opposed to her side in the contest, where she had once
fondly looked for her staunchest ally. Frank was now in the habit
of corresponding with Miss Dunstable, and received from her most
energetic admonitions to be true to the love which he had sworn. True
to it he resolved to be; and therefore, when he found that Mary was
flown, he resolved to fly after her.

He did not, however, do this till he had been in a measure provoked
to it by it by the sharp-tongued cautions and blunted irony of his
mother. It was not enough for her that she had banished Mary out of
the parish, and made Dr Thorne's life miserable; not enough that
she harassed her husband with harangues on the constant subject of
Frank's marrying money, and dismayed Beatrice with invectives against
the iniquity of her friend. The snake was so but scotched; to kill it
outright she must induce Frank utterly to renounce Miss Thorne.

This task she essayed, but not exactly with success. "Well, mother,"
said Frank, at last turning very red, partly with shame, and partly
with indignation, as he made the frank avowal, "since you press me
about it, I tell you fairly that my mind is made up to marry Mary
sooner or later, if--"

"Oh, Frank! good heavens! you wicked boy; you are saying this
purposely to drive me distracted."

"If," continued Frank, not attending to his mother's interjections,
"if she will consent."

"Consent!" said Lady Arabella. "Oh, heavens!" and falling into the
corner of the sofa, she buried her face in her handkerchief.

"Yes, mother, if she will consent. And now that I have told you so
much, it is only just that I should tell you this also; that as far
as I can see at present I have no reason to hope that she will do
so."

"Oh, Frank, the girl is doing all she can to catch you," said Lady
Arabella,--not prudently.

"No, mother; there you wrong her altogether; wrong her most cruelly."

"You ungracious, wicked boy! you call me cruel!"

"I don't call you cruel; but you wrong her cruelly, most cruelly.
When I have spoken to her about this--for I have spoken to her--she
has behaved exactly as you would have wanted her to do; but not at
all as I wished her. She has given me no encouragement. You have
turned her out among you"--Frank was beginning to be very bitter
now--"but she has done nothing to deserve it. If there has been any
fault it has been mine. But it is well that we should all understand
each other. My intention is to marry Mary if I can." And, so
speaking, certainly without due filial respect, he turned towards the
door.

"Frank," said his mother, raising herself up with energy to make one
last appeal. "Frank, do you wish to see me die of a broken heart?"

"You know, mother, I would wish to make you happy, if I could."

"If you wish to see me ever happy again, if you do not wish to see
me sink broken-hearted to my grave, you must give up this mad idea,
Frank,"--and now all Lady Arabella's energy came out. "Frank there is
but one course left open to you. You MUST _marry money_." And then
Lady Arabella stood up before her son as Lady Macbeth might have
stood, had Lady Macbeth lived to have a son of Frank's years.

"Miss Dunstable, I suppose," said Frank, scornfully. "No, mother; I
made an ass, and worse than an ass of myself once in that way, and I
won't do it again. I hate money."

"Oh, Frank!"

"I hate money."

"But, Frank, the estate?"

"I hate the estate--at least I shall hate it if I am expected to buy
it at such a price as that. The estate is my father's."

"Oh, no, Frank; it is not."

"It is in the sense I mean. He may do with it as he pleases; he will
never have a word of complaint from me. I am ready to go into a
profession to-morrow. I'll be a lawyer, or a doctor, or an engineer;
I don't care what." Frank, in his enthusiasm, probably overlooked
some of the preliminary difficulties. "Or I'll take a farm under him,
and earn my bread that way; but, mother, don't talk to me any more
about marrying money." And, so saying, Frank left the room.

Frank, it will be remembered, was twenty-one when he was first
introduced to the reader; he is now twenty-two. It may be said that
there was a great difference between his character then and now. A
year at that period will make a great difference; but the change has
been, not in his character, but in his feelings.

Frank went out from his mother and immediately ordered his black
horse to be got ready for him. He would at once go over to Boxall
Hill. He went himself to the stables to give his orders; and as he
returned to get his gloves and whip he met Beatrice in the corridor.

"Beatrice," said he, "step in here," and she followed him into his
room. "I'm not going to bear this any longer; I'm going to Boxall
Hill."

"Oh, Frank! how can you be so imprudent?"

"You, at any rate, have some decent feeling for Mary. I believe you
have some regard for her; and therefore I tell you. Will you send her
any message?"

"Oh, yes; my best, best love; that is if you will see her; but,
Frank, you are very foolish, very; and she will be infinitely
distressed."

"Do not mention this, that is, not at present; not that I mean to
make any secret of it. I shall tell my father everything. I'm off
now!" and then, paying no attention to her remonstrance, he turned
down the stairs and was soon on horseback.

He took the road to Boxall Hill, but he did not ride very fast: he
did not go jauntily as a jolly, thriving wooer; but musingly, and
often with diffidence, meditating every now and then whether it
would not be better for him to turn back: to turn back--but not from
fear of his mother; not from prudential motives; not because that
often-repeated lesson as to marrying money was beginning to take
effect; not from such causes as these; but because he doubted how he
might be received by Mary.

He did, it is true, think something about his worldly prospects. He
had talked rather grandiloquently to his mother as to his hating
money, and hating the estate. His mother's never-ceasing worldly
cares on such subjects perhaps demanded that a little grandiloquence
should be opposed to them. But Frank did not hate the estate; nor did
he at all hate the position of an English country gentleman. Miss
Dunstable's eloquence, however, rang in his ears. For Miss Dunstable
had an eloquence of her own, even in her letters. "Never let them
talk you out of your own true, honest, hearty feelings," she had
said. "Greshamsbury is a very nice place, I am sure; and I hope I
shall see it some day; but all its green knolls are not half so nice,
should not be half so precious, as the pulses of your own heart. That
is your own estate, your own, your very own--your own and another's;
whatever may go to the money-lenders, don't send that there. Don't
mortgage that, Mr Gresham."

"No," said Frank, pluckily, as he put his horse into a faster trot,
"I won't mortgage that. They may do what they like with the estate;
but my heart's my own," and so speaking to himself, almost aloud, he
turned a corner of the road rapidly and came at once upon the doctor.

"Hallo, doctor! is that you?" said Frank, rather disgusted.

"What! Frank! I hardly expected to meet you here," said Dr Thorne,
not much better pleased.

They were now not above a mile from Boxall Hill, and the doctor,
therefore, could not but surmise whither Frank was going. They had
repeatedly met since Frank's return from Cambridge, both in the
village and in the doctor's house; but not a word had been said
between them about Mary beyond what the merest courtesy had required.
Not that each did not love the other sufficiently to make a full
confidence between them desirable to both; but neither had had the
courage to speak out.

Nor had either of them the courage to do so now. "Yes," said Frank,
blushing, "I am going to Lady Scatcherd's. Shall I find the ladies at
home?"

"Yes; Lady Scatcherd is there; but Sir Louis is there also--an
invalid: perhaps you would not wish to meet him."

"Oh! I don't mind," said Frank, trying to laugh; "he won't bite, I
suppose?"

The doctor longed in his heart to pray to Frank to return with him;
not to go and make further mischief; not to do that which might cause
a more bitter estrangement between himself and the squire. But he had
not the courage to do it. He could not bring himself to accuse Frank
of being in love with his niece. So after a few more senseless words
on either side, words which each knew to be senseless as he uttered
them, they both rode on their own ways.

And then the doctor silently, and almost unconsciously, made such a
comparison between Louis Scatcherd and Frank Gresham as Hamlet made
between the dead and live king. It was Hyperion to a satyr. Was it
not as impossible that Mary should not love the one, as that she
should love the other? Frank's offer of his affections had at first
probably been but a boyish ebullition of feeling; but if it should
now be, that this had grown into a manly and disinterested love, how
could Mary remain unmoved? What could her heart want more, better,
more beautiful, more rich than such a love as his? Was he not
personally all that a girl could like? Were not his disposition,
mind, character, acquirements, all such as women most delight to
love? Was it not impossible that Mary should be indifferent to him?

So meditated the doctor as he rode along, with only too true a
knowledge of human nature. Ah! it was impossible, it was quite
impossible that Mary should be indifferent. She had never been
indifferent since Frank had uttered his first half-joking word of
love. Such things are more important to women than they are to men,
to girls than they are to boys. When Frank had first told her that he
loved her; aye, months before that, when he merely looked his love,
her heart had received the whisper, had acknowledged the glance,
unconscious as she was herself, and resolved as she was to rebuke his
advances. When, in her hearing, he had said soft nothings to Patience
Oriel, a hated, irrepressible tear had gathered in her eye. When he
had pressed in his warm, loving grasp the hand which she had offered
him as a token of mere friendship, her heart had forgiven him the
treachery, nay, almost thanked him for it, before her eyes or
her words had been ready to rebuke him. When the rumour of his
liaison with Miss Dunstable reached her ears, when she heard of
Miss Dunstable's fortune, she had wept, wept outright, in her
chamber--wept, as she said to herself, to think that he should be so
mercenary; but she had wept, as she should have said to herself, at
finding that he was so faithless. Then, when she knew at last that
this rumour was false, when she found that she was banished from
Greshamsbury for his sake, when she was forced to retreat with her
friend Patience, how could she but love him, in that he was not
mercenary? How could she not love him in that he was so faithful?

It was impossible that she should not love him. Was he not the
brightest and the best of men that she had ever seen, or was like
to see?--that she could possibly ever see, she would have said to
herself, could she have brought herself to own the truth? And then,
when she heard how true he was, how he persisted against father,
mother, and sisters, how could it be that that should not be a merit
in her eyes which was so great a fault in theirs? When Beatrice, with
would-be solemn face, but with eyes beaming with feminine affection,
would gravely talk of Frank's tender love as a terrible misfortune,
as a misfortune to them all, to Mary herself as well as others, how
could Mary do other than love him? "Beatrice is his sister," she
would say within her own mind, "otherwise she would never talk like
this; were she not his sister, she could not but know the value of
such love as this." Ah! yes; Mary did love him; love him with all the
strength of her heart; and the strength of her heart was very great.
And now by degrees, in those lonely donkey-rides at Boxall Hill, in
those solitary walks, she was beginning to own to herself the truth.

And now that she did own it, what should be her course? What should
she do, how should she act if this loved one persevered in his
love? And, ah! what should she do, how should she act if he did not
persevere? Could it be that there should be happiness in store for
her? Was it not too clear that, let the matter go how it would, there
was no happiness in store for her? Much as she might love Frank
Gresham, she could never consent to be his wife unless the squire
would smile on her as his daughter-in-law. The squire had been
all that was kind, all that was affectionate. And then, too, Lady
Arabella! As she thought of the Lady Arabella a sterner form of
thought came across her brow. Why should Lady Arabella rob her of her
heart's joy? What was Lady Arabella that she, Mary Thorne, need quail
before her? Had Lady Arabella stood only in her way, Lady Arabella,
flanked by the de Courcy legion, Mary felt that she could have
demanded Frank's hand as her own before them all without a blush of
shame or a moment's hesitation. Thus, when her heart was all but
ready to collapse within her, would she gain some little strength by
thinking of the Lady Arabella.

"Please, my lady, here be young squoire Gresham," said one of the
untutored servants at Boxall Hill, opening Lady Scatcherd's little
parlour door as her ladyship was amusing herself by pulling down and
turning, and re-folding, and putting up again, a heap of household
linen which was kept in a huge press for the express purpose of
supplying her with occupation.

Lady Scatcherd, holding a vast counterpane in her arms, looked back
over her shoulders and perceived that Frank was in the room. Down
went the counterpane on the ground, and Frank soon found himself in
the very position which that useful article had so lately filled.

"Oh! Master Frank! oh, Master Frank!" said her ladyship, almost in an
hysterical fit of joy; and then she hugged and kissed him as she had
never kissed and hugged her own son since that son had first left the
parent nest.

Frank bore it patiently and with a merry laugh. "But, Lady
Scatcherd," said he, "what will they all say? you forget I am a man
now," and he stooped his head as she again pressed her lips upon his
forehead.

"I don't care what none of 'em say," said her ladyship, quite going
back to her old days; "I will kiss my own boy; so I will. Eh, but
Master Frank, this is good of you. A sight of you is good for sore
eyes; and my eyes have been sore enough too since I saw you;" and she
put her apron up to wipe away a tear.

"Yes," said Frank, gently trying to disengage himself, but not
successfully; "yes, you have had a great loss, Lady Scatcherd. I was
so sorry when I heard of your grief."

"You always had a soft, kind heart, Master Frank; so you had. God's
blessing on you! What a fine man you have grown! Deary me! Well, it
seems as though it were only just t'other day like." And she pushed
him a little off from her, so that she might look the better into his
face.

"Well. Is it all right? I suppose you would hardly know me again now
I've got a pair of whiskers?"

"Know you! I should know you well if I saw but the heel of your
foot. Why, what a head of hair you have got, and so dark too! but it
doesn't curl as it used once." And she stroked his hair, and looked
into his eyes, and put her hand to his cheeks. "You'll think me an
old fool, Master Frank: I know that; but you may think what you like.
If I live for the next twenty years you'll always be my own boy; so
you will."

By degrees, slow degrees, Frank managed to change the conversation,
and to induce Lady Scatcherd to speak on some other topic than his
own infantine perfections. He affected an indifference as he spoke of
her guest, which would have deceived no one but Lady Scatcherd; but
her it did deceive; and then he asked where Mary was.

"She's just gone out on her donkey--somewhere about the place. She
rides on a donkey mostly every day. But you'll stop and take a bit of
dinner with us? Eh, now do 'ee, Master Frank."

But Master Frank excused himself. He did not choose to pledge himself
to sit down to dinner with Mary. He did not know in what mood they
might return with regard to each other at dinner-time. He said,
therefore, that he would walk out and, if possible, find Miss Thorne;
and that he would return to the house again before he went.

Lady Scatcherd then began making apologies for Sir Louis. He was an
invalid; the doctor had been with him all the morning, and he was not
yet out of his room.

These apologies Frank willingly accepted, and then made his way as
he could on to the lawn. A gardener, of whom he inquired, offered to
go with him in pursuit of Miss Thorne. This assistance, however, he
declined, and set forth in quest of her, having learnt what were her
most usual haunts. Nor was he directed wrongly; for after walking
about twenty minutes, he saw through the trees the legs of a donkey
moving on the green-sward, at about two hundred yards from him. On
that donkey doubtless sat Mary Thorne.

The donkey was coming towards him; not exactly in a straight line,
but so much so as to make it impossible that Mary should not see him
if he stood still. He did stand still, and soon emerging from the
trees, Mary saw him all but close to her.

Her heart gave a leap within her, but she was so far mistress of
herself as to repress any visible sign of outward emotion. She did
not fall from her donkey, or scream, or burst into tears. She merely
uttered the words, "Mr Gresham!" in a tone of not unnatural surprise.

"Yes," said he, trying to laugh, but less successful than she had
been in suppressing a show of feeling. "Mr Gresham! I have come over
at last to pay my respects to you. You must have thought me very
uncourteous not to do so before."

This she denied. "She had not," she said, "thought him at all
uncivil. She had come to Boxall Hill to be out of the way; and, of
course, had not expected any such formalities." As she uttered this
she almost blushed at the abrupt truth of what she was saying. But
she was taken so much unawares that she did not know how to make the
truth other than abrupt.

"To be out of the way!" said Frank. "And why should you want to be
out of the way?"

"Oh! there were reasons," said she, laughing. "Perhaps I have
quarrelled dreadfully with my uncle."

Frank at the present moment had not about him a scrap of badinage. He
had not a single easy word at his command. He could not answer her
with anything in guise of a joke; so he walked on, not answering at
all.

"I hope all my friends at Greshamsbury are well," said Mary. "Is
Beatrice quite well?"

"Quite well," said he.

"And Patience?"

"What, Miss Oriel; yes, I believe so. I haven't seen her this day or
two." How was it that Mary felt a little flush of joy, as Frank spoke
in this indifferent way about Miss Oriel's health?

"I thought she was always a particular friend of yours," said she.

"What! who? Miss Oriel? So she is! I like her amazingly; so does
Beatrice." And then he walked about six steps in silence, plucking up
courage for the great attempt. He did pluck up his courage and then
rushed at once to the attack.

"Mary!" said he, and as he spoke he put his hand on the donkey's
neck, and looked tenderly into her face. He looked tenderly, and, as
Mary's ear at once told her, his voice sounded more soft than it had
ever sounded before. "Mary, do you remember the last time that we
were together?"

Mary did remember it well. It was on that occasion when he had
treacherously held her hand; on that day when, according to law, he
had become a man; when he had outraged all the propriety of the de
Courcy interest by offering his love to Mary in Augusta's hearing.
Mary did remember it well; but how was she to speak of it? "It was
your birthday, I think," said she.

"Yes, it was my birthday. I wonder whether you remember what I said
to you then?"

"I remember that you were very foolish, Mr Gresham."

"Mary, I have come to repeat my folly;--that is, if it be folly.
I told you then that I loved you, and I dare say that I did so
awkwardly, like a boy. Perhaps I may be just as awkward now; but you
ought at any rate to believe me when you find that a year has not
altered me."

Mary did not think him at all awkward, and she did believe him. But
how was she to answer him? She had not yet taught herself what answer
she ought to make if he persisted in his suit. She had hitherto been
content to run away from him; but she had done so because she would
not submit to be accused of the indelicacy of putting herself in his
way. She had rebuked him when he first spoke of his love; but she had
done so because she looked on what he said as a boy's nonsense. She
had schooled herself in obedience to the Greshamsbury doctrines. Was
there any real reason, any reason founded on truth and honesty, why
she should not be a fitting wife to Frank Gresham,--Francis Newbold
Gresham, of Greshamsbury, though he was, or was to be?

He was well born--as well born as any gentleman in England. She
was basely born--as basely born as any lady could be. Was this
sufficient bar against such a match? Mary felt in her heart that some
twelvemonth since, before she knew what little she did now know of
her own story, she would have said it was so. And would she indulge
her own love by inveigling him she loved into a base marriage? But
then reason spoke again. What, after all, was this blood of which she
had taught herself to think so much? Would she have been more honest,
more fit to grace an honest man's hearthstone, had she been the
legitimate descendant of a score of legitimate duchesses? Was it not
her first duty to think of him--of what would make him happy? Then of
her uncle--what he would approve? Then of herself--what would best
become her modesty; her sense of honour? Could it be well that she
should sacrifice the happiness of two persons to a theoretic love of
pure blood?

So she had argued within herself; not now, sitting on the donkey,
with Frank's hand before her on the tame brute's neck; but on other
former occasions as she had ridden along demurely among those trees.
So she had argued; but she had never brought her arguments to a
decision. All manner of thoughts crowded on her to prevent her doing
so. She would think of the squire, and resolve to reject Frank; and
would then remember Lady Arabella, and resolve to accept him. Her
resolutions, however, were most irresolute; and so, when Frank
appeared in person before her, carrying his heart in his hand, she
did not know what answer to make to him. Thus it was with her as with
so many other maidens similarly circumstanced; at last she left it
all to chance.

"You ought, at any rate, to believe me," said Frank, "when you find
that a year has not altered me."

"A year should have taught you to be wiser," said she. "You should
have learnt by this time, Mr Gresham, that your lot and mine are not
cast in the same mould; that our stations in life are different.
Would your father or mother approve of your even coming here to see
me?"

Mary, as she spoke these sensible words, felt that they were "flat,
stale, and unprofitable." She felt, also, that they were not true in
sense; that they did not come from her heart; that they were not such
as Frank deserved at her hands, and she was ashamed of herself.

"My father I hope will approve of it," said he. "That my mother
should disapprove of it is a misfortune which I cannot help; but
on this point I will take no answer from my father or mother; the
question is one too personal to myself. Mary, if you say that you
will not, or cannot return my love, I will go away;--not from here
only, but from Greshamsbury. My presence shall not banish you from
all that you hold dear. If you can honestly say that I am nothing to
you, can be nothing to you, I will then tell my mother that she may
be at ease, and I will go away somewhere and get over it as I may."
The poor fellow got so far, looking apparently at the donkey's ears,
with hardly a gasp of hope in his voice, and he so far carried Mary
with him that she also had hardly a gasp of hope in her heart. There
he paused for a moment, and then looking up into her face, he spoke
but one word more. "But," said he--and there he stopped. It was
clearly told in that "but." Thus would he do if Mary would declare
that she did not care for him. If, however, she could not bring
herself so to declare, then was he ready to throw his father and
mother to the winds; then would he stand his ground; then would he
look all other difficulties in the face, sure that they might finally
be overcome. Poor Mary! the whole onus of settling the matter was
thus thrown upon her. She had only to say that he was indifferent to
her;--that was all.

If "all the blood of the Howards" had depended upon it, she could
not have brought herself to utter such a falsehood. Indifferent to
her, as he walked there by her donkey's side, talking thus earnestly
of his love for her! Was he not to her like some god come from the
heavens to make her blessed? Did not the sun shine upon him with a
halo, so that he was bright as an angel? Indifferent to her! Could
the open unadulterated truth have been practicable for her, she
would have declared her indifference in terms that would truly have
astonished him. As it was, she found it easier to say nothing. She
bit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. She struggled hard, but
in vain, to prevent her hands and feet from trembling. She seemed to
swing upon her donkey as though like to fall, and would have given
much to be upon her own feet upon the sward.

"_Si la jeunesse savait . . ._" There is so much in that wicked old
French proverb! Had Frank known more about a woman's mind--had he,
that is, been forty-two instead of twenty-two--he would at once have
been sure of his game, and have felt that Mary's silence told him
all he wished to know. But then, had he been forty-two instead of
twenty-two, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres of
Greshamsbury for the smiles of Mary Thorne.

"If you can't say one word to comfort me, I will go," said he,
disconsolately. "I made up my mind to tell you this, and so I came
over. I told Lady Scatcherd I should not stay,--not even for dinner."

"I did not know you were so hurried," said she, almost in a whisper.

On a sudden he stood still, and pulling the donkey's rein, caused him
to stand still also. The beast required very little persuasion to be
so guided, and obligingly remained meekly passive.

"Mary, Mary!" said Frank, throwing his arms round her knees as she
sat upon her steed, and pressing his face against her body. "Mary,
you were always honest; be honest now. I love you with all my heart.
Will you be my wife?"

But still Mary said not a word. She no longer bit her lips; she was
beyond that, and was now using all her efforts to prevent her tears
from falling absolutely on her lover's face. She said nothing. She
could no more rebuke him now and send him from her than she could
encourage him. She could only sit there shaking and crying and
wishing she was on the ground. Frank, on the whole, rather liked the
donkey. It enabled him to approach somewhat nearer to an embrace than
he might have found practicable had they both been on their feet. The
donkey himself was quite at his ease, and looked as though he was
approvingly conscious of what was going on behind his ears.

"I have a right to a word, Mary; say 'Go,' and I will leave you at
once."

But Mary did not say "Go." Perhaps she would have done so had she
been able; but just at present she could say nothing. This came from
her having failed to make up her mind in due time as to what course
it would best become her to follow.

"One word, Mary; one little word. There, if you will not speak,
here is my hand. If you will have it, let it lie in yours;--if not,
push it away." So saying, he managed to get the end of his fingers
on to her palm, and there it remained unrepulsed. "La jeunesse"
was beginning to get a lesson; experience when duly sought after
sometimes comes early in life.

In truth Mary had not strength to push the fingers away. "My love,
my own, my own!" said Frank, presuming on this very negative sign of
acquiescence. "My life, my own one, my own Mary!" and then the hand
was caught hold of and was at his lips before an effort could be made
to save it from such treatment.

"Mary, look at me; say one word to me."

There was a deep sigh, and then came the one word--"Oh, Frank!"

"Mr Gresham, I hope I have the honour of seeing you quite well,"
said a voice close to his ear. "I beg to say that you are welcome to
Boxall Hill." Frank turned round and instantly found himself shaking
hands with Sir Louis Scatcherd.

How Mary got over her confusion Frank never saw, for he had enough
to do to get over his own. He involuntarily deserted Mary and began
talking very fast to Sir Louis. Sir Louis did not once look at Miss
Thorne, but walked back towards the house with Mr Gresham, sulky
enough in temper, but still making some effort to do the fine
gentleman. Mary, glad to be left alone, merely occupied herself with
sitting on the donkey; and the donkey, when he found that the two
gentlemen went towards the house, for company's sake and for his
stable's sake, followed after them.

Frank stayed but three minutes in the house; gave another kiss to
Lady Scatcherd, getting three in return, and thereby infinitely
disgusting Sir Louis, shook hands, anything but warmly, with the
young baronet, and just felt the warmth of Mary's hand within his
own. He felt also the warmth of her eyes' last glance, and rode home
a happy man.




CHAPTER XXX

Post Prandial


Frank rode home a happy man, cheering himself, as successful lovers
do cheer themselves, with the brilliancy of his late exploit: nor was
it till he had turned the corner into the Greshamsbury stables that
he began to reflect what he would do next. It was all very well to
have induced Mary to allow his three fingers to lie half a minute
in her soft hand; the having done so might certainly be sufficient
evidence that he had overcome one of the lions in his path; but it
could hardly be said that all his difficulties were now smoothed. How
was he to make further progress?

To Mary, also, the same ideas no doubt occurred--with many others.
But, then, it was not for Mary to make any progress in the matter. To
her at least belonged this passive comfort, that at present no act
hostile to the de Courcy interest would be expected from her. All
that she could do would be to tell her uncle so much as it was
fitting that he should know. The doing this would doubtless be in
some degree difficult; but it was not probable that there would be
much difference, much of anything but loving anxiety for each other,
between her and Dr Thorne. One other thing, indeed, she must do;
Frank must be made to understand what her birth had been. "This," she
said to herself, "will give him an opportunity of retracting what
he has done should he choose to avail himself of it. It is well he
should have such opportunity."

But Frank had more than this to do. He had told Beatrice that he
would make no secret of his love, and he fully resolved to be as good
as his word. To his father he owed an unreserved confidence; and he
was fully minded to give it. It was, he knew, altogether out of the
question that he should at once marry a portionless girl without his
father's consent; probably out of the question that he should do so
even with it. But he would, at any rate, tell his father, and then
decide as to what should be done next. So resolving, he put his black
horse into the stable and went in to dinner. After dinner he and his
father would be alone.

Yes; after dinner he and his father would be alone. He dressed
himself hurriedly, for the dinner-bell was almost on the stroke as he
entered the house. He said this to himself once and again; but when
the meats and the puddings, and then the cheese, were borne away,
as the decanters were placed before his father, and Lady Arabella
sipped her one glass of claret, and his sisters ate their portion of
strawberries, his pressing anxiety for the coming interview began to
wax somewhat dull.

His mother and sisters, however, rendered him no assistance by
prolonging their stay. With unwonted assiduity he pressed a second
glass of claret on his mother. But Lady Arabella was not only
temperate in her habits, but also at the present moment very angry
with her son. She thought that he had been to Boxall Hill, and was
only waiting a proper moment to cross-question him sternly on the
subject. Now she departed, taking her train of daughters with her.

"Give me one big gooseberry," said Nina, as she squeezed herself in
under her brother's arm, prior to making her retreat. Frank would
willingly have given her a dozen of the biggest, had she wanted them;
but having got the one, she squeezed herself out again and scampered
off.

The squire was very cheery this evening; from what cause cannot now
be said. Perhaps he had succeeded in negotiating a further loan, thus
temporarily sprinkling a drop of water over the ever-rising dust of
his difficulties.

"Well, Frank, what have you been after to-day? Peter told me you had
the black horse out," said he, pushing the decanter to his son. "Take
my advice, my boy, and don't give him too much summer road-work. Legs
won't stand it, let them be ever so good."

"Why, sir, I was obliged to go out to-day, and therefore, it had to
be either the old mare or the young horse."

"Why didn't you take Ramble?" Now Ramble was the squire's own saddle
hack, used for farm surveying, and occasionally for going to cover.

"I shouldn't think of doing that, sir."

"My dear boy, he is quite at your service; for goodness' sake do let
me have a little wine, Frank--quite at your service; any riding I
have now is after the haymakers, and that's all on the grass."

"Thank'ee, sir. Well, perhaps I will take a turn out of Ramble should
I want it."

"Do, and pray, pray take care of that black horse's legs. He's
turning out more of a horse than I took him to be, and I should be
sorry to see him injured. Where have you been to-day?"

"Well, father, I have something to tell you."

"Something to tell me!" and then the squire's happy and gay look,
which had been only rendered more happy and more gay by his assumed
anxiety about the black horse, gave place to that heaviness of visage
which acrimony and misfortune had made so habitual to him. "Something
to tell me!" Any grave words like these always presaged some money
difficulty to the squire's ears. He loved Frank with the tenderest
love. He would have done so under almost any circumstances; but,
doubtless, that love had been made more palpable to himself by the
fact that Frank had been a good son as regards money--not exigeant
as was Lady Arabella, or selfishly reckless as was his nephew Lord
Porlock. But now Frank must be in difficulty about money. This was
his first idea. "What is it, Frank; you have seldom had anything
to say that has not been pleasant for me to hear?" And then the
heaviness of visage again gave way for a moment as his eye fell upon
his son.

"I have been to Boxall Hill, sir."

The tenor of his father's thoughts was changed in an instant; and the
dread of immediate temporary annoyance gave place to true anxiety for
his son. He, the squire, had been no party to Mary's exile from his
own domain; and he had seen with pain that she had now a second time
been driven from her home: but he had never hitherto questioned the
expediency of separating his son from Mary Thorne. Alas! it became
too necessary--too necessary through his own default--that Frank
should marry money!

"At Boxall Hill, Frank! Has that been prudent? Or, indeed, has it
been generous to Miss Thorne, who has been driven there, as it were,
by your imprudence?"

"Father, it is well that we should understand each other about
this--"

"Fill your glass, Frank;" Frank mechanically did as he was told, and
passed the bottle.

"I should never forgive myself were I to deceive you, or keep
anything from you."

"I believe it is not in your nature to deceive me, Frank."

"The fact is, sir, that I have made up my mind that Mary Thorne shall
be my wife--sooner or later that is, unless, of course, she should
utterly refuse. Hitherto, she has utterly refused me. I believe I may
now say that she has accepted me."

The squire sipped his claret, but at the moment said nothing. There
was a quiet, manly, but yet modest determination about his son
that he had hardly noticed before. Frank had become legally of
age, legally a man, when he was twenty-one. Nature, it seems, had
postponed the ceremony till he was twenty-two. Nature often does
postpone the ceremony even to a much later age;--sometimes,
altogether forgets to accomplish it.

The squire continued to sip his claret; he had to think over the
matter a while before he could answer a statement so deliberately
made by his son.

"I think I may say so," continued Frank, with perhaps unnecessary
modesty. "She is so honest that, had she not intended it, she
would have said so honestly. Am I right, father, in thinking that,
as regards Mary, personally, you would not reject her as a
daughter-in-law?"

"Personally!" said the squire, glad to have the subject presented to
him in a view that enabled him to speak out. "Oh, no; personally, I
should not object to her, for I love her dearly. She is a good girl.
I do believe she is a good girl in every respect. I have always liked
her; liked to see her about the house. But--"

"I know what you would say, father." This was rather more than the
squire knew himself. "Such a marriage is imprudent."

"It is more than that, Frank; I fear it is impossible."

"Impossible! No, father; it is not impossible."

"It is impossible, Frank, in the usual sense. What are you to live
upon? What would you do with your children? You would not wish to see
your wife distressed and comfortless."

"No, I should not like to see that."

"You would not wish to begin life as an embarrassed man and end it
as a ruined man. If you were now to marry Miss Thorne such would, I
fear, doubtless be your lot."

Frank caught at the word "now." "I don't expect to marry immediately.
I know that would be imprudent. But I am pledged, father, and I
certainly cannot go back. And now that I have told you all this, what
is your advice to me?"

The father again sat silent, still sipping his wine. There was
nothing in his son that he could be ashamed of, nothing that he could
meet with anger, nothing that he could not love; but how should he
answer him? The fact was, that the son had more in him than the
father; this his mind and spirit were of a calibre not to be opposed
successfully by the mind and spirit of the squire.

"Do you know Mary's history?" said Mr Gresham, at last; "the history
of her birth?"

"Not a word of it," said Frank. "I did not know she had a history."

"Nor does she know it; at least, I presume not. But you should know
it now. And, Frank, I will tell it you; not to turn you from her--not
with that object, though I think that, to a certain extent, it should
have that effect. Mary's birth was not such as would become your wife
and be beneficial to your children."

"If so, father, I should have known that sooner. Why was she brought
in here among us?"

"True, Frank. The fault is mine; mine and your mother's.
Circumstances brought it about years ago, when it never occurred to
us that all this would arise. But I will tell you her history. And,
Frank, remember this, though I tell it you as a secret, a secret to
be kept from all the world but one, you are quite at liberty to let
the doctor know that I have told you. Indeed, I shall be careful to
let him know myself should it ever be necessary that he and I should
speak together as to this engagement." The squire then told his son
the whole story of Mary's birth, as it is known to the reader.

Frank sat silent, looking very blank; he also had, as had every
Gresham, a great love for his pure blood. He had said to his mother
that he hated money, that he hated the estate; but he would have been
very slow to say, even in his warmest opposition to her, that he
hated the roll of the family pedigree. He loved it dearly, though he
seldom spoke of it;--as men of good family seldom do speak of it. It
is one of those possessions which to have is sufficient. A man having
it need not boast of what he has, or show it off before the world.
But on that account he values it more. He had regarded Mary as a
cutting duly taken from the Ullathorne tree; not, indeed, as a
grafting branch, full of flower, just separated from the parent
stalk, but as being not a whit the less truly endowed with the pure
sap of that venerable trunk. When, therefore, he heard her true
history he sat awhile dismayed.

"It is a sad story," said the father.

"Yes, sad enough," said Frank, rising from his chair and standing
with it before him, leaning on the back of it. "Poor Mary, poor Mary!
She will have to learn it some day."

"I fear so, Frank;" and then there was again a few moments' silence.

"To me, father, it is told too late. It can now have no effect on me.
Indeed," said he, sighing as he spoke, but still relieving himself by
the very sigh, "it could have had no effect had I learned it ever so
soon."

"I should have told you before," said the father; "certainly I ought
to have done so."

"It would have been no good," said Frank. "Ah, sir, tell me this: who
were Miss Dunstable's parents? What was that fellow Moffat's family?"

This was perhaps cruel of Frank. The squire, however, made no answer
to the question. "I have thought it right to tell you," said he.
"I leave all commentary to yourself. I need not tell you what your
mother will think."

"What did she think of Miss Dunstable's birth?" said he, again more
bitterly than before. "No, sir," he continued, after a further pause.
"All that can make no change; none at any rate now. It can't make my
love less, even if it could have prevented it. Nor, even, could it do
so--which it can't the least, not in the least--but could it do so,
it could not break my engagement. I am now engaged to Mary Thorne."

And then he again repeated his question, asking for his father's
advice under the present circumstances. The conversation was a very
long one, as long as to disarrange all Lady Arabella's plans. She
had determined to take her son most stringently to task that very
evening; and with this object had ensconced herself in the small
drawing-room which had formerly been used for a similar purpose by
the august countess herself. Here she now sat, having desired Augusta
and Beatrice, as well as the twins, to beg Frank to go to her as soon
as he should come out of the dining-room. Poor lady! there she waited
till ten o'clock,--tealess. There was not much of the Bluebeard about
the squire; but he had succeeded in making it understood through the
household that he was not to be interrupted by messages from his wife
during the post-prandial hour, which, though no toper, he loved so
well.

As a period of twelve months will now have to be passed over, the
upshot of this long conversation must be told in as few words as
possible. The father found it impracticable to talk his son out of
his intended marriage; indeed, he hardly attempted to do so by any
direct persuasion. He explained to him that it was impossible that he
should marry at once, and suggested that he, Frank, was very young.

"You married, sir, before you were one-and-twenty," said Frank. Yes,
and repented before I was two-and-twenty. So did not say the squire.

He suggested that Mary should have time to ascertain what would be
her uncle's wishes, and ended by inducing Frank to promise, that
after taking his degree in October he would go abroad for some
months, and that he would not indeed return to Greshamsbury till he
was three-and-twenty.

"He may perhaps forget her," said the father to himself, as this
agreement was made between them.

"He thinks that I shall forget her," said Frank to himself at the
same time; "but he does not know me."

When Lady Arabella at last got hold of her son she found that the
time for her preaching was utterly gone by. He told her, almost with
_sang-froid_, what his plans were; and when she came to understand
them, and to understand also what had taken place at Boxall Hill, she
could not blame the squire for what he had done. She also said to
herself, more confidently than the squire had done, that Frank would
quite forget Mary before the year was out. "Lord Buckish," said she
to herself, rejoicingly, "is now with the ambassador at Paris"--Lord
Buckish was her nephew--"and with him Frank will meet women that are
really beautiful--women of fashion. When with Lord Buckish he will
soon forget Mary Thorne."

But not on this account did she change her resolve to follow up
to the furthest point her hostility to the Thornes. She was fully
enabled now to do so, for Dr Fillgrave was already reinstalled at
Greshamsbury as her medical adviser.

One other short visit did Frank pay to Boxall Hill, and one interview
had he with Dr Thorne. Mary told him all she knew of her own sad
history, and was answered only by a kiss,--a kiss absolutely not in
any way by her to be avoided; the first, the only one, that had ever
yet reached her lips from his. And then he went away.

The doctor told him all the story. "Yes," said Frank, "I knew it all
before. Dear Mary, dearest Mary! Don't you, doctor, teach yourself to
believe that I shall forget her." And then also he went his way from
him--went his way also from Greshamsbury, and was absent for the full
period of his allotted banishment--twelve months, namely, and a day.




CHAPTER XXXI

The Small End of the Wedge


Frank Gresham was absent from Greshamsbury twelve months and a day: a
day is always added to the period of such absences, as shown in the
history of Lord Bateman and other noble heroes. We need not detail
all the circumstances of his banishment, all the details of the
compact that was made. One detail of course was this, that there
should be no corresponding; a point to which the squire found some
difficulty in bringing his son to assent.

It must not be supposed that Mary Thorne or the doctor were in any
way parties to, or privy to these agreements. By no means. The
agreements were drawn out, and made, and signed, and sealed at
Greshamsbury, and were known of nowhere else. The reader must not
imagine that Lady Arabella was prepared to give up her son, if
only his love could remain constant for one year. Neither did Lady
Arabella consent to any such arrangement, nor did the squire. It was
settled rather in this wise: that Frank should be subjected to no
torturing process, pestered to give no promises, should in no way be
bullied about Mary--that is, not at present--if he would go away for
a year. Then, at the end of the year, the matter should again be
discussed. Agreeing to this, Frank took his departure, and was absent
as per agreement.

What were Mary's fortunes immediately after his departure must be
shortly told, and then we will again join some of our Greshamsbury
friends at a period about a month before Frank's return.

When Sir Louis saw Frank Gresham standing by Mary's donkey, with
his arms round Mary's knees, he began to fear that there must be
something in it. He had intended that very day to throw himself
at Mary's feet, and now it appeared to his inexperienced eyes as
though somebody else had been at the same work before him. This not
unnaturally made him cross; so, after having sullenly wished the
visitor good-bye, he betook himself to his room, and there drank
curaçoa alone, instead of coming down to dinner.

This he did for two or three days, and then, taking heart of grace,
he remembered that, after all, he had very many advantages over young
Gresham. In the first place, he was a baronet, and could make his
wife a "lady." In the next place, Frank's father was alive and like
to live, whereas his own was dead. He possessed Boxall Hill in his
own right, but his rival had neither house nor land of his own. After
all, might it not be possible for him also to put his arm round
Mary's knees;--her knees, or her waist, or, perhaps, even her neck?
Faint heart never won fair lady. At any rate, he would try.

And he did try. With what result, as regards Mary, need hardly be
told. He certainly did not get nearly so far as putting his hand even
upon her knee before he was made to understand that it "was no go,"
as he graphically described it to his mother. He tried once and
again. On the first time Mary was very civil, though very determined.
On the second, she was more determined, though less civil; and then
she told him, that if he pressed her further he would drive her from
his mother's house. There was something then about Mary's eye, a
fixed composure round her mouth, and an authority in her face, which
went far to quell him; and he did not press her again.

He immediately left Boxall Hill, and, returning to London, had more
violent recourse to the curaçoa. It was not long before the doctor
heard of him, and was obliged to follow him, and then again occurred
those frightful scenes in which the poor wretch had to expiate,
either in terrible delirium or more terrible prostration of spirits,
the vile sin which his father had so early taught him.

Then Mary returned to her uncle's home. Frank was gone, and she
therefore could resume her place at Greshamsbury. Yes, she came back
to Greshamsbury; but Greshamsbury was by no means the same place that
it was formerly. Almost all intercourse was now over between the
doctor and the Greshamsbury people. He rarely ever saw the squire,
and then only on business. Not that the squire had purposely
quarrelled with him; but Dr Thorne himself had chosen that it should
be so, since Frank had openly proposed for his niece. Frank was now
gone, and Lady Arabella was in arms against him. It should not be
said that he kept up any intimacy for the sake of aiding the lovers
in their love. No one should rightfully accuse him of inveigling the
heir to marry his niece.

Mary, therefore, found herself utterly separated from Beatrice. She
was not even able to learn what Beatrice would think, or did think,
of the engagement as it now stood. She could not even explain to
her friend that love had been too strong for her, and endeavour to
get some comfort from that friend's absolution from her sin. This
estrangement was now carried so far that she and Beatrice did not
even meet on neutral ground. Lady Arabella made it known to Miss
Oriel that her daughter could not meet Mary Thorne, even as strangers
meet; and it was made known to others also. Mrs Yates Umbleby, and
her dear friend Miss Gushing, to whose charming tea-parties none of
the Greshamsbury ladies went above once in a twelvemonth, talked
through the parish of this distressing difficulty. They would have
been so happy to have asked dear Mary Thorne, only the Greshamsbury
ladies did not approve.

Mary was thus tabooed from all society in the place in which a
twelvemonth since she had been, of all its denizens, perhaps the
most courted. In those days, no bevy of Greshamsbury young ladies
had fairly represented the Greshamsbury young ladyhood if Mary
Thorne was not there. Now she was excluded from all such bevies.
Patience did not quarrel with her, certainly;--came to see her
frequently;--invited her to walk;--invited her frequently to the
parsonage. But Mary was shy of acceding to such invitations, and at
last frankly told her friend Patience, that she would not again break
bread in Greshamsbury in any house in which she was not thought fit
to meet the other guests who habitually resorted there.

In truth, both the doctor and his niece were very sore, but they
were of that temperament that keeps all its soreness to itself. Mary
walked out by herself boldly, looking at least as though she were
indifferent to all the world. She was, indeed, hardly treated. Young
ladies' engagements are generally matters of profoundest secrecy, and
are hardly known of by their near friends till marriage is a thing
settled. But all the world knew of Mary's engagement within a month
of that day on which she had neglected to expel Frank's finger from
her hand; it had been told openly through the country-side that she
had confessed her love for the young squire. Now it is disagreeable
for a young lady to walk about under such circumstances, especially
so when she has no female friend to keep her in countenance,
more especially so when the gentleman is of such importance in the
neighbourhood as Frank was in that locality. It was a matter of
moment to every farmer, and every farmer's wife, which bride Frank
should marry of those bespoken for him; Mary, namely, or Money. Every
yokel about the place had been made to understand that, by some
feminine sleight of hand, the doctor's niece had managed to trap
Master Frank, and that Master Frank had been sent out of the way so
that he might, if yet possible, break through the trapping. All this
made life rather unpleasant for her.

One day, walking solitary in the lanes, she met that sturdy farmer to
whose daughter she had in former days been so serviceable. "God bless
'ee, Miss Mary," said he--he always did bid God bless her when he saw
her. "And, Miss Mary, to say my mind out freely, thee be quite gude
enough for un, quite gude enough; so thee be'st tho'f he were ten
squoires." There may, perhaps, have been something pleasant in the
heartiness of this; but it was not pleasant to have this heart affair
of hers thus publicly scanned and talked over: to have it known to
every one that she had set her heart on marrying Frank Gresham, and
that all the Greshams had set their hearts on preventing it. And yet
she could in nowise help it. No girl could have been more staid and
demure, less demonstrative and boastful about her love. She had never
yet spoken freely, out of her full heart, to one human being. "Oh,
Frank!" All her spoken sin had been contained in that.

But Lady Arabella had been very active. It suited her better that it
should be known, far and wide, that a nameless pauper--Lady Arabella
only surmised that her foe was nameless; but she did not scruple to
declare it--was intriguing to catch the heir of Greshamsbury. None of
the Greshams must meet Mary Thorne; that was the edict sent about the
country; and the edict was well understood. Those, therefore, were
bad days for Miss Thorne.

She had never yet spoken on the matter freely, out of her full heart
to one human being. Not to one? Not to him? Not to her uncle? No, not
even to him, fully and freely. She had told him that that had passed
between Frank and her which amounted, at any rate on his part, to a
proposal.

"Well, dearest, and what was your answer?" said her uncle, drawing
her close to him, and speaking in his kindest voice.

"I hardly made any answer, uncle."

"You did not reject him, Mary?"

"No, uncle," and then she paused;--he had never known her tremble as
she now trembled. "But if you say that I ought, I will," she added,
drawing every word from herself with difficulty.

"I say you ought, Mary! Nay; but this question you must answer
yourself."

"Must I?" said she, plaintively. And then she sat for the next
half hour with her head against his shoulder; but nothing more was
said about it. They both acquiesced in the sentence that had been
pronounced against them, and went on together more lovingly than
before.

The doctor was quite as weak as his niece; nay, weaker. She hesitated
fearfully as to what she ought to do: whether she should obey her
heart or the dictates of Greshamsbury. But he had other doubts than
hers, which nearly set him wild when he strove to bring his mind to
a decision. He himself was now in possession--of course as a trustee
only--of the title-deeds of the estate; more of the estate, much
more, belonged to the heirs under Sir Roger Scatcherd's will than to
the squire. It was now more than probable that that heir must be Mary
Thorne. His conviction became stronger and stronger that no human
efforts would keep Sir Louis in the land of the living till he
was twenty-five. Could he, therefore, wisely or honestly, in true
friendship to the squire, to Frank, or to his niece, take any steps
to separate two persons who loved each other, and whose marriage
would in all human probability be so suitable?

And yet he could not bring himself to encourage it then. The idea
of "looking after dead men's shoes" was abhorrent to his mind,
especially when the man whose death he contemplated had been so
trusted to him as had been Sir Louis Scatcherd. He could not speak
of the event, even to the squire, as being possible. So he kept his
peace from day to day, and gave no counsel to Mary in the matter.

And then he had his own individual annoyances, and very aggravating
annoyances they were. The carriage--or rather post-chaise--of Dr
Fillgrave was now frequent in Greshamsbury, passing him constantly
in the street, among the lanes, and on the high roads. It seemed as
though Dr Fillgrave could never get to his patients at the big house
without showing himself to his beaten rival, either on his way
thither or on his return. This alone would, perhaps, not have hurt
the doctor much; but it did hurt him to know that Dr Fillgrave was
attending the squire for a little incipient gout, and that dear Nina
was in measles under those unloving hands.

And then, also, the old-fashioned phaeton, of old-fashioned old
Dr Century was seen to rumble up to the big house, and it became
known that Lady Arabella was not very well. "Not very well," when
pronounced in a low, grave voice about Lady Arabella, always meant
something serious. And, in this case, something serious was meant.
Lady Arabella was not only ill, but frightened. It appeared, even to
her, that Dr Fillgrave himself hardly knew what he was about, that he
was not so sure in his opinion, so confident in himself, as Dr Thorne
used to be. How should he be, seeing that Dr Thorne had medically had
Lady Arabella in his hands for the last ten years?

If sitting with dignity in his hired carriage, and stepping with
authority up the big front steps, would have done anything, Dr
Fillgrave might have done much. Lady Arabella was greatly taken with
his looks when he first came to her, and it was only when she by
degrees perceived that the symptoms, which she knew so well, did not
yield to him that she began to doubt those looks.

After a while Dr Fillgrave himself suggested Dr Century. "Not that
I fear anything, Lady Arabella," said he,--lying hugely, for he did
fear; fear both for himself and for her. "But Dr Century has great
experience, and in such a matter, when the interests are so
important, one cannot be too safe."

So Dr Century came and toddled slowly into her ladyship's room. He
did not say much; he left the talking to his learned brother, who
certainly was able to do that part of the business. But Dr Century,
though he said very little, looked very grave, and by no means
quieted Lady Arabella's mind. She, as she saw the two putting their
heads together, already had misgivings that she had done wrong. She
knew that she could not be safe without Dr Thorne at her bedside, and
she already felt that she had exercised a most injudicious courage in
driving him away.

"Well, doctor?" said she, as soon as Dr Century had toddled
downstairs to see the squire.

"Oh! we shall be all right, Lady Arabella; all right, very soon. But
we must be careful, very careful; I am glad I've had Century here,
very; but there's nothing to alter; little or nothing."

There were but few words spoken between Dr Century and the squire;
but few as they were, they frightened Mr Gresham. When Dr Fillgrave
came down the grand stairs, a servant waited at the bottom to ask him
also to go to the squire. Now there never had been much cordiality
between the squire and Dr Fillgrave, though Mr Gresham had consented
to take a preventative pill from his hands, and the little man
therefore swelled himself out somewhat more than ordinarily as he
followed the servant.

"Dr Fillgrave," said the squire, at once beginning the conversation,
"Lady Arabella, is, I fear, in danger?"

"Well, no; I hope not in danger, Mr Gresham. I certainly believe I
may be justified in expressing a hope that she is not in danger. Her
state is, no doubt, rather serious--rather serious--as Dr Century has
probably told you;" and Dr Fillgrave made a bow to the old man, who
sat quiet in one of the dining-room arm-chairs.

"Well, doctor," said the squire, "I have not any grounds on which to
doubt your judgement."

Dr Fillgrave bowed, but with the stiffest, slightest inclination
which a head could possibly make. He rather thought that Mr Gresham
had no ground for doubting his judgement.

"Nor do I."

The doctor bowed, and a little, a very little less stiffly.

"But, doctor, I think that something ought to be done."

The doctor this time did his bowing merely with his eyes and mouth.
The former he closed for a moment, the latter he pressed; and then
decorously rubbed his hands one over the other.

"I am afraid, Dr Fillgrave, that you and my friend Thorne are not the
best friends in the world."

"No, Mr Gresham, no; I may go so far as to say we are not."

"Well, I am sorry for it--"

"Perhaps, Mr Gresham, we need hardly discuss it; but there have been
circumstances--"

"I am not going to discuss anything, Dr Fillgrave; I say I am sorry
for it, because I believe that prudence will imperatively require
Lady Arabella to have Doctor Thorne back again. Now, if you would not
object to meet him--"

"Mr Gresham, I beg pardon; I beg pardon, indeed; but you must really
excuse me. Doctor Thorne has, in my estimation--"

"But, Doctor Fillgrave--"

"Mr Gresham, you really must excuse me; you really must, indeed.
Anything else that I could do for Lady Arabella, I should be most
happy to do; but after what has passed, I cannot meet Doctor Thorne;
I really cannot. You must not ask me to do so; Mr Gresham. And, Mr
Gresham," continued the doctor, "I did understand from Lady Arabella
that his--that is, Dr Thorne's--conduct to her ladyship had been
such--so very outrageous, I may say, that--that--that--of course, Mr
Gresham, you know best; but I did think that Lady Arabella herself
was quite unwilling to see Doctor Thorne again;" and Dr Fillgrave
looked very big, and very dignified, and very exclusive.

The squire did not ask again. He had no warrant for supposing that
Lady Arabella would receive Dr Thorne if he did come; and he saw
that it was useless to attempt to overcome the rancour of a man so
pig-headed as the little Galen now before him. Other propositions
were then broached, and it was at last decided that assistance should
be sought for from London, in the person of the great Sir Omicron
Pie.

Sir Omicron came, and Drs Fillgrave and Century were there to meet
him. When they all assembled in Lady Arabella's room, the poor
woman's heart almost sank within her,--as well it might, at such
a sight. If she could only reconcile it with her honour, her
consistency, with her high de Courcy principles, to send once more
for Dr Thorne. Oh, Frank! Frank! to what misery your disobedience
brought your mother!

Sir Omicron and the lesser provincial lights had their consultation,
and the lesser lights went their way to Barchester and Silverbridge,
leaving Sir Omicron to enjoy the hospitality of Greshamsbury.

"You should have Thorne back here, Mr Gresham," said Sir Omicron,
almost in a whisper, when they were quite alone. "Doctor Fillgrave
is a very good man, and so is Dr Century; very good, I am sure. But
Thorne has known her ladyship so long." And then, on the following
morning, Sir Omicron also went his way.

And then there was a scene between the squire and her ladyship. Lady
Arabella had given herself credit for great good generalship when she
found that the squire had been induced to take that pill. We have
all heard of the little end of the wedge, and we have most of us an
idea that the little end is the difficulty. That pill had been the
little end of Lady Arabella's wedge. Up to that period she had been
struggling in vain to make a severance between her husband and her
enemy. That pill should do the business. She well knew how to make
the most of it; to have it published in Greshamsbury that the squire
had put his gouty toe into Dr Fillgrave's hands; how to let it
be known--especially at that humble house in the corner of the
street--that Fillgrave's prescriptions now ran current through the
whole establishment. Dr Thorne did hear of it, and did suffer. He had
been a true friend to the squire, and he thought the squire should
have stood to him more staunchly.

"After all," said he himself, "perhaps it's as well--perhaps it will
be best that I should leave this place altogether." And then he
thought of Sir Roger and his will, and of Mary and her lover. And
then of Mary's birth, and of his own theoretical doctrines as to pure
blood. And so his troubles multiplied, and he saw no present daylight
through them.

Such had been the way in which Lady Arabella had got in the little
end of the wedge. And she would have triumphed joyfully had not her
increased doubts and fears as to herself then come in to check her
triumph and destroy her joy. She had not yet confessed to any one
her secret regret for the friend she had driven away. She hardly yet
acknowledged to herself that she did regret him; but she was uneasy,
frightened, and in low spirits.

"My dear," said the squire, sitting down by her bedside, "I want to
tell you what Sir Omicron said as he went away."

"Well?" said her ladyship, sitting up and looking frightened.

"I don't know how you may take it, Bell; but I think it very good
news:" the squire never called his wife Bell, except when he wanted
her to be on particularly good terms with him.

"Well?" said she again. She was not over-anxious to be gracious, and
did not reciprocate his familiarity.

"Sir Omicron says that you should have Thorne back again, and upon my
honour, I cannot but agree with him. Now, Thorne is a clever man, a
very clever man; nobody denies that; and then, you know--"

"Why did not Sir Omicron say that to me?" said her ladyship, sharply,
all her disposition in Dr Thorne's favour becoming wonderfully damped
by her husband's advocacy.

"I suppose he thought it better to say it to me," said the squire,
rather curtly.

"He should have spoken to myself," said Lady Arabella, who, though
she did not absolutely doubt her husband's word, gave him credit
for having induced and led on Sir Omicron to the uttering of this
opinion. "Doctor Thorne has behaved to me in so gross, so indecent a
manner! And then, as I understand, he is absolutely encouraging that
girl--"

"Now, Bell, you are quite wrong--"

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong."

"Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an
acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor."

"It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me.
How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one
looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening,
almost melted into tears.

"My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you."

Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not
very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as
an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity.

"And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir
Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very
words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he
is to do any good no time should be lost."

And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone,
perplexed by many doubts.




CHAPTER XXXII

Mr Oriel


I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do
it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made
of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has
offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards.

Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford
with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with
very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a
feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means
an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He
was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a
parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his
profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking
slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather
to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and
spiritual graces.

He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark
hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats
and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers,
and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given
such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the
scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner
or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there
was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to
get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least,
all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of
that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying
convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a
Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty
hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are
but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe,
or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a
false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less.

But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate,
for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him
as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the
neighbours declared that he scourged himself.

Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say,
when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he
took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for
him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year
after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself
and his sister to the rectory.

Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking
man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish
austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the
Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman,
good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he
was not a marrying man.

On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at
one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he
should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom
fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family;
but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around
should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the
country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious
observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad
as this!

There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe
there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house
he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the
verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think
very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly
at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of
a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him
in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step
of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the
younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage;
and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure,
who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and
who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of
a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have
the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded
just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard
Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his
zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any
scruple.

And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a
great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of
Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning
services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable
that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise
him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one
long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to
be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at
six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made,
uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an
enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter.

Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a
clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that
person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not
become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should
not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from
her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such
eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had
nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation.

By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her
final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her
nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on
the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of
his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally
walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The
young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation
progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far
as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and
a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it.

"Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none
here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your
coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To
me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so
beautiful, so touching!"

"I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr
Oriel.

"Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of
depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm
to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for
one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?"

"I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly."

"Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same
time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not
leave the children."

"No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel.

"And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night."

"Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business."

"But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?"

"I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in
church."

"Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink
herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be
presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter
he did not enlighten her.

Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile
attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional
absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool
as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing
returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made
with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious
morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on
that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no
particular advantage in her favour.

Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to
her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit
to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of
their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch
friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced
to think that an English parson might get through his parish work
with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such
feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was
not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham.

And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he
was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love
to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as
to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser
about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as
to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to
take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice
had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary
in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss
Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great
people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased.

All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr
Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great
house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure
he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home
again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to
Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to
the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about
a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found
himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham.

From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however
for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent
Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in
any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear
that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly
completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached
her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not
been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel;
that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she
said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man,
with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings
had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So
Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table
covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the
young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been
in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic
happiness.

But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature.
Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice,
and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time
informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those
two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta
with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard
of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more
private manner.

"I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning.

"Indeed I am."

"He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks
of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves."

Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was
full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may
lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as
the praises of her lover.

"I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you."

"Nonsense, Patience."

"I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there
were only two to choose from."

"Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing.

"No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there."

"I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be
good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have
been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she
have parted her hair in the centre.

"Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said
Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion
that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in
the matter. "And who was the other?"

"Can't you guess?"

"I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green."

"Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of
course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne.
But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never
have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him."

"Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne."

"So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved
her as he loves you."

"But, Patience, have you told Mary?"

"No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave."

"Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest,
warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to
her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that
before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled."

Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her
also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to
hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never
herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she
believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be
secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of
Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself.

"She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her
bridesmaids."

"Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne;
but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No,
I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once
before her marriage."

"And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to
that."

"Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do
not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall
from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her
wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to
Lady Arabella."

"Then why not come to it?"

She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I
do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do
care for his son."

"But the squire always loved you."

"Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell
you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till
Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married
woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat
them ill."

"I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel.

"I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of
their fêtes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm
of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she
endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had
all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her
friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk
of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she
was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises.

"Mary, dear Mary."

"Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she,
convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears.
"I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every
happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I
wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot
be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you
know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak."

"But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you
know."

"Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go
into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it
all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could
not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not
Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in
church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to
look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me."

Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said,
that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would
not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she
could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any
objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter,
when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends.

"Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to
comfort you."

"Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone."

"That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so
determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way."

"What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then
they kissed each other and parted.




CHAPTER XXXIII

A Morning Visit


It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer
this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she
had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he
was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her
in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed
to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that
she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It
might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but
she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It
was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one;
flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would
of course be made of it.

But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without
a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to
any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting,
being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had
she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment
when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she
allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she
not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that
which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think
of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever
been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like
Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he
were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow
him to degrade himself by such a marriage?

There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken
his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter,
doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to
Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by
Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a
red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy
and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He
had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through
all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And
it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and
some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken
sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative,
perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and
hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to
Greshamsbury.

But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss
Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable,
could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was
never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way,
she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no
one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his
path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended
by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means
might put in his way.

"No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I
never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I
certainly will never take the money alone."

A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following
note from Beatrice.


   DEAREST, DEAREST MARY,

   I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at
   twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once,
   she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that
   I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home
   on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st
   of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon;
   doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side.
   I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a
   delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without
   you.

   Ever your own affectionate,

   TRICHY

   Monday.


Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend
in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which
oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice
should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She
hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not
refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face,
the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all
her anger.

And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had
promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours
all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the
responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal
ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not
exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of
an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband
comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and
exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a
year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves
over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also
close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have
the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In
fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously
with her friend.

But it was impossible that they should separate without something
having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been
better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass
of human nature.

"And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I
like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own."

Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly
attempt.

"You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of
course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it,
there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of
that."

"You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very
different from that she would have used eighteen months ago.

"Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see
us?"

"I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see
you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be
pleasant to me."

"And shan't you be glad to see him?"

"Yes, certainly, if he loves you."

"Of course he loves me."

"All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there
should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should
make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have
only one--should make them opposed to each other?"

"Circumstances! What circumstances?"

"You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you
not?"

"Indeed, I am!"

"And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?"

"Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not
at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking
of her own little affairs.

"And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?"
Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her
friend full in the face.

Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly
understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day."

"No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love
Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love
Caleb Oriel."

"Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one
long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put
before her.

"It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been
intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I
should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?"

"But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us
that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the
way of loving him, you know--I thought you always said so--I have
always told mamma so as if it came from yourself."

"Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came
from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or
from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not
anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh,
I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn away
from me!"

There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost
ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away from
you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy."

"It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be
led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I
should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly.
I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr
Oriel."

"But, Mary, you cannot marry him!"

"Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? If
the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well
as you and your husband?"

"But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money."

"Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do
not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant
it--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place
in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything.
He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him.
But yet I do love him."

"Are you engaged to him, Mary?"

"He is not engaged to me; but I am to him."

"Oh, Mary, that is impossible!"

"It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he is
not pledged to me."

"But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand
you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?"

"Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make
myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could.
But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my
coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different."

Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of
the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly
loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all
this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given
her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they
were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct.

She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of
a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had
been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas
had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be
guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge,
and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which
Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her.

Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank,
she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner
or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon
sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the
declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were,
to speak tenderly to her friend.

She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she
thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different.

Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all
the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness,
she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong
enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed
for it to do so.

"I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceit
and hypocrisy are detestable."

"It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice.

"Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart
within me, which like those of some others has not always been under
my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the
mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of
me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir,
I might have some chance of happiness."

"But, Mary--"

"Well?"

"You say you love him."

"Yes; I do say so."

"But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?"

"If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I
must do so, or die."

"I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think,
what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early
in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London,
whom, of course, he cannot marry."

Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of
Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought
it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to
quiet Mary's spirit.

"Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say against
it."

"But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for
yourself?"

"Very likely."

"Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should
be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible."

"Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that
Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying
such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am
prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes
with me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite
enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own
position;--and yet I love him."

"But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--"

"You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever
told you that he has done so?"

At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had
said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score
of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him;
but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The
pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently.

"We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this:
should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him.
He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if
he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have
told you, I have told you only."

"Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it to
anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here,
and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk to
which she had looked forward with so much eagerness.

"Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I
sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees
with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more.
You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long."

And then they parted.

Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the
right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory
branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps,
for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she
could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was
full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she
had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not
to appear uncourteous or unkind to him.

"Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as best
she might, and attempting a smile.

"Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming
out to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady."

"Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old
for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been
a traitor."

"Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right
to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my
pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart.
Oriel is an excellent, good fellow."

"Is he not, doctor?"

"An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he
had."

"What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?"

"He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that,
and now he's perfect."

"Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of
all my friends."

"And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do
congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man
you have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them
warmly, and bade God bless her.

"Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be
friends again."

"I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my
regard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also,
and went her way.

Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece
excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having
reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following
morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned.

At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a
harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once
clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed
him.

"That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from
Greyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as
medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business
consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr
Thorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter from
Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid
up in a terribly nervous state."

"You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?"

"I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down
here to Greshamsbury."

"Who, Sir Louis?"

"Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can
get out of his room."

"What! to this house?"

"What other house can he come to?"

"Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here."

"I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him."

They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "I
am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you any
message to send to Lady Scatcherd?"

"Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love,
of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had
suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I go
to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted."

"What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more
running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could
annoy you much more there than he can here."

"But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said,
blushing.

"What! Frank?"

"Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th."

"And would you run away from him too, Mary?"

"I do not know: I do not know what to do."

"No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did
so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish."

"Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup
which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her
forehead on her hands.

"And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes
the happiness."

"No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in
any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than
here."

"I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our
staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and
settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like
that, dearest?"

Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in
the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was.
Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had
passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her
staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the
full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind
resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its
inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking
away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms,
and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her.

"No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come to
that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I
will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears
the name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with his
breakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to
give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for
your happiness; not at all--"

"Happiness, uncle, is out of the question."

"I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the
question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct
will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will
remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed
to show our faces."

She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the
subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world
that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so;
and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless
he did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-toned
voice.

"Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will."

"No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice.

"Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he
should come here?"

"I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't
think he will come."

She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat
down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "you
must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have
that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should
go away."

"I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door.
"Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will be
base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do
so."

"No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me."

"No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for
him--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me.
Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw her
arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she
got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her
strength, it would not be well for us to inquire.




CHAPTER XXXIV

A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury


During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very
efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon
Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself,
Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to
entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to
perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still
a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights
and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead
three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with
a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the
doctor's, own ward.

And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who
had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne
soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only
with Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself.
While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He
was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very
well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself
some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly
unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham.

He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it
seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to
himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the
squire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly
to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made
a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were
incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when
put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London,
that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended from
his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned
over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate.

Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one
exception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed
the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which
Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a
relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their
family. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had
done, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she
had despised such work," so she said. "But though she had despised
it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr
Umbleby had been driven out of his house." We can hardly believe
this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however,
stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to
believe it herself.

Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire
himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his
own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him
when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him
if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this
Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort
of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption,
Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled
itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in
the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property
both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her
marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's
heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the
polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm
in Mount Street.

The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having
everything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now,
alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as
long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation
till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and
then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go,
there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of
Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee.

It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee
were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote
no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts,
filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "as
aforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant
of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their
Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of
great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family
marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also,
they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this
was done by proxy.

The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the
designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of
Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed
names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee
& Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption &
Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption,
Gazebee & Gazebee.

Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young
man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have
taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken
him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather
bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His
exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of
jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his
head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a
distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire.
The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm
Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be
made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small
beer.

When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through his
difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to
them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work.
But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcy
interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to
Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before
he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain.

Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which
he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _en
grand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome
guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to
speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man
who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was
a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in
London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby,
he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of
making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the
Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months,
that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had
never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own
peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and
said, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person,
very." Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the
tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady
Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr Mortimer
Gazebee.

All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir
Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be
those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by
running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less
true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and
one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite
safe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to
meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr
Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and
so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them
distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor,
for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money.

There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to
Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he
was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather
of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his
mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his
own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the
squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit
would go off pleasantly.

When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he
was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This
intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done
the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in
purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a
present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other
lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet
and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir
Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and
Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person,
indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however,
had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance
of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen
him since.

Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second
was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be
received _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than Mr
Mortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from the
Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door
in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the
squire himself for a many long year had been contented to come home
with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except
when the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with all
her daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns.

Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked,
leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon,
and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the
dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his
master--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's
special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen
originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that
may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door
show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished
strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather
breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side
of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's
friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very
intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity.

This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take
every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had
at first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause.
Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and
had become the worst instrument of his master's dissipation. When,
therefore, his hat and the cockade were seen, as the carriage dashed
up to the door, the doctor's contentment was by no means increased.

Sir Louis was now twenty-three years old, and was a great deal too
knowing to allow himself to be kept under the doctor's thumb. It
had, indeed, become his plan to rebel against his guardian in almost
everything. He had at first been decently submissive, with the view
of obtaining increased supplies of ready money; but he had been sharp
enough to perceive that, let his conduct be what it would, the doctor
would keep him out of debt; but that the doing so took so large a sum
that he could not hope for any further advances. In this respect Sir
Louis was perhaps more keen-witted than Dr Thorne.

Mary, when she saw the carriage, at once ran up to her own bedroom.
The doctor, who had been with her in the drawing-room, went down to
meet his ward, but as soon as he saw the cockade he darted almost
involuntarily into his shop and shut the door. This protection,
however, lasted only for a moment; he felt that decency required him
to meet his guest, and so he went forth and faced the enemy.

"I say," said Joe, speaking to Janet, who stood curtsying at the
gate, with Bridget, the other maid, behind her, "I say, are there
any chaps about the place to take these things--eh? come, look sharp
here."

It so happened that the doctor's groom was not on the spot, and
"other chaps" the doctor had none.

"Take those things, Bridget," he said, coming forward and offering
his hand to the baronet. Sir Louis, when he saw his host, roused
himself slowly from the back of his carriage. "How do, doctor?" said
he. "What terrible bad roads you have here! and, upon my word, it's
as cold as winter:" and, so saying, he slowly proceeded to descend.

Sir Louis was a year older than when we last saw him, and, in his
generation, a year wiser. He had then been somewhat humble before the
doctor; but now he was determined to let his guardian see that he
knew how to act the baronet; that he had acquired the manners of a
great man; and that he was not to be put upon. He had learnt some
lessons from Jenkins, in London, and other friends of the same sort,
and he was about to profit by them.

The doctor showed him to his room, and then proceeded to ask after
his health. "Oh, I'm right enough," said Sir Louis. "You mustn't
believe all that fellow Greyson tells you: he wants me to take salts
and senna, opodeldoc, and all that sort of stuff; looks after his
bill, you know--eh? like all the rest of you. But I won't have
it;--not at any price; and then he writes to you."

"I'm glad to see you able to travel," said Dr Thorne, who could not
force himself to tell his guest that he was glad to see him at
Greshamsbury.

"Oh, travel; yes, I can travel well enough. But I wish you had some
better sort of trap down in these country parts. I'm shaken to bits.
And, doctor, would you tell your people to send that fellow of mine
up here with hot water."

So dismissed, the doctor went his way, and met Joe swaggering in one
of the passages, while Janet and her colleague dragged along between
them a heavy article of baggage.

"Janet," said he, "go downstairs and get Sir Louis some hot water,
and Joe, do you take hold of your master's portmanteau."

Joe sulkily did as he was bid. "Seems to me," said he, turning to
the girl, and speaking before the doctor was out of hearing, "seems
to me, my dear, you be rather short-handed here; lots of work and
nothing to get; that's about the ticket, ain't it?" Bridget was too
demurely modest to make any answer upon so short an acquaintance; so,
putting her end of the burden down at the strange gentleman's door,
she retreated into the kitchen.

Sir Louis, in answer to the doctor's inquiries, had declared himself
to be all right; but his appearance was anything but all right.
Twelve months since, a life of dissipation, or rather, perhaps, a
life of drinking, had not had upon him so strong an effect but that
some of the salt of youth was still left; some of the freshness of
young years might still be seen in his face. But this was now all
gone; his eyes were sunken and watery, his cheeks were hollow and
wan, his mouth was drawn and his lips dry; his back was even bent,
and his legs were unsteady under him, so that he had been forced to
step down from his carriage as an old man would do. Alas, alas! he
had no further chance now of ever being all right again.

Mary had secluded herself in her bedroom as soon as the carriage had
driven up to the door, and there she remained till dinner-time. But
she could not shut herself up altogether. It would be necessary that
she should appear at dinner; and, therefore, a few minutes before the
hour, she crept out into the drawing-room. As she opened the door,
she looked in timidly, expecting Sir Louis to be there; but when
she saw that her uncle was the only occupant of the room, her brow
cleared, and she entered with a quick step.

"He'll come down to dinner; won't he, uncle?"

"Oh, I suppose so."

"What's he doing now?"

"Dressing, I suppose; he's been at it this hour."

"But, uncle--"

"Well?"

"Will he come up after dinner, do you think?"

Mary spoke of him as though he were some wild beast, whom her uncle
insisted on having in his house.

"Goodness knows what he will do! Come up? Yes. He will not stay in
the dining-room all night."

"But, dear uncle, do be serious."

"Serious!"

"Yes; serious. Don't you think that I might go to bed, instead of
waiting?"

The doctor was saved the trouble of answering by the entrance of the
baronet. He was dressed in what he considered the most fashionable
style of the day. He had on a new dress-coat lined with satin,
new dress-trousers, a silk waistcoat covered with chains, a white
cravat, polished pumps, and silk stockings, and he carried a scented
handkerchief in his hand; he had rings on his fingers, and carbuncle
studs in his shirt, and he smelt as sweet as patchouli could make
him. But he could hardly do more than shuffle into the room, and
seemed almost to drag one of his legs behind him.

Mary, in spite of her aversion, was shocked and distressed when she
saw him. He, however, seemed to think himself perfect, and was no
whit abashed by the unfavourable reception which twelve months since
had been paid to his suit. Mary came up and shook hands with him, and
he received her with a compliment which no doubt he thought must be
acceptable. "Upon my word, Miss Thorne, every place seems to agree
with you; one better than another. You were looking charming at
Boxall Hill; but, upon my word, charming isn't half strong enough
now."

Mary sat down quietly, and the doctor assumed a face of unutterable
disgust. This was the creature for whom all his sympathies had been
demanded, all his best energies put in requisition; on whose behalf
he was to quarrel with his oldest friends, lose his peace and
quietness of life, and exercise all the functions of a loving friend!
This was his self-invited guest, whom he was bound to foster, and
whom he could not turn from his door.

Then dinner came, and Mary had to put her hand upon his arm. She
certainly did not lean upon him, and once or twice felt inclined to
give him some support. They reached the dining-room, however, the
doctor following them, and then sat down, Janet waiting in the room,
as was usual.

"I say, doctor," said the baronet, "hadn't my man better come in
and help? He's got nothing to do, you know. We should be more cosy,
shouldn't we?"

"Janet will manage pretty well," said the doctor.

"Oh, you'd better have Joe; there's nothing like a good servant at
table. I say, Janet, just send that fellow in, will you?"

"We shall do very well without him," said the doctor, becoming rather
red about the cheek-bones, and with a slight gleam of determination
about the eye. Janet, who saw how matters stood, made no attempt to
obey the baronet's order.

"Oh, nonsense, doctor; you think he's an uppish sort of fellow, I
know, and you don't like to trouble him; but when I'm near him, he's
all right; just send him in, will you?"

"Sir Louis," said the doctor, "I'm accustomed to none but my own old
woman here in my own house, and if you will allow me, I'll keep my
old ways. I shall be sorry if you are not comfortable." The baronet
said nothing more, and the dinner passed off slowly and wearily
enough.

When Mary had eaten her fruit and escaped, the doctor got into one
arm-chair and the baronet into another, and the latter began the only
work of existence of which he knew anything.

"That's good port," said he; "very fair port."

The doctor loved his port wine, and thawed a little in his manner. He
loved it not as a toper, but as a collector loves his pet pictures.
He liked to talk about it, and think about it; to praise it, and hear
it praised; to look at it turned towards the light, and to count over
the years it had lain in his cellar.

"Yes," said he, "it's pretty fair wine. It was, at least, when I got
it, twenty years ago, and I don't suppose time has hurt it;" and he
held the glass up to the window, and looked at the evening light
through the ruby tint of the liquid. "Ah, dear, there's not much of
it left; more's the pity."

"A good thing won't last for ever. I'll tell you what now; I wish
I'd brought down a dozen or two of claret. I've some prime stuff in
London; got it from Muzzle & Drug, at ninety-six shillings; it was
a great favour, though. I'll tell you what now, I'll send up for a
couple of dozen to-morrow. I mustn't drink you out of house, high and
dry; must I, doctor?"

The doctor froze immediately.

"I don't think I need trouble you," said he; "I never drink claret,
at least not here; and there's enough of the old bin left to last
some little time longer yet."

Sir Louis drank two or three glasses of wine very quickly after each
other, and they immediately began to tell upon his weak stomach. But
before he was tipsy, he became more impudent and more disagreeable.

"Doctor," said he, "when are we to see any of this Greshamsbury
money? That's what I want to know."

"Your money is quite safe, Sir Louis; and the interest is paid to the
day."

"Interest, yes; but how do I know how long it will be paid? I should
like to see the principal. A hundred thousand pounds, or something
like it, is a precious large stake to have in one man's hands, and he
preciously hard up himself. I'll tell you what, doctor--I shall look
the squire up myself."

"Look him up?"

"Yes; look him up; ferret him out; tell him a bit of my mind. I'll
thank you to pass the bottle. D---- me doctor; I mean to know how
things are going on."

"Your money is quite safe," repeated the doctor, "and, to my mind,
could not be better invested."

"That's all very well; d---- well, I dare say, for you and Squire
Gresham--"

"What do you mean, Sir Louis?"

"Mean! why I mean that I'll sell the squire up; that's what I
mean--hallo--beg pardon. I'm blessed if I haven't broken the
water-jug. That comes of having water on the table. Oh, d---- me,
it's all over me." And then, getting up, to avoid the flood he
himself had caused, he nearly fell into the doctor's arms.

"You're tired with your journey, Sir Louis; perhaps you'd better go
to bed."

"Well, I am a bit seedy or so. Those cursed roads of yours shake a
fellow so."

The doctor rang the bell, and, on this occasion, did request that Joe
might be sent for. Joe came in, and, though he was much steadier than
his master, looked as though he also had found some bin of which he
had approved.

"Sir Louis wishes to go to bed," said the doctor; "you had better
give him your arm."

"Oh, yes; in course I will," said Joe, standing immoveable about
half-way between the door and the table.

"I'll just take one more glass of the old port--eh, doctor?" said Sir
Louis, putting out his hand and clutching the decanter.

It is very hard for any man to deny his guest in his own house, and
the doctor, at the moment, did not know how to do it; so Sir Louis
got his wine, after pouring half of it over the table.

"Come in, sir, and give Sir Louis your arm," said the doctor,
angrily.

"So I will in course, if my master tells me; but, if you please, Dr
Thorne,"--and Joe put his hand up to his hair in a manner that had a
great deal more of impudence than reverence in it--"I just want to ax
one question: where be I to sleep?"

Now this was a question which the doctor was not prepared to answer
on the spur of the moment, however well Janet or Mary might have been
able to do so.

"Sleep," said he, "I don't know where you are to sleep, and don't
care; ask Janet."

"That's all very well, master--"

"Hold your tongue, sirrah!" said Sir Louis. "What the devil do you
want of sleep?--come here," and then, with his servant's help, he
made his way up to his bedroom, and was no more heard of that night.

"Did he get tipsy," asked Mary, almost in a whisper, when her uncle
joined her in the drawing-room.

"Don't talk of it," said he. "Poor wretch! poor wretch! Let's
have some tea now, Molly, and pray don't talk any more about him
to-night." Then Mary did make the tea, and did not talk any more
about Sir Louis that night.

What on earth were they to do with him? He had come there
self-invited; but his connexion with the doctor was such, that it
was impossible he should be told to go away, either he himself, or
that servant of his. There was no reason to disbelieve him when he
declared that he had come down to ferret out the squire. Such was,
doubtless, his intention. He would ferret out the squire. Perhaps he
might ferret out Lady Arabella also. Frank would be home in a few
days; and he, too, might be ferreted out.

But the matter took a very singular turn, and one quite unexpected
on the doctor's part. On the morning following the little dinner of
which we have spoken, one of the Greshamsbury grooms rode up to the
doctor's door with two notes. One was addressed to the doctor in the
squire's well-known large handwriting, and the other was for Sir
Louis. Each contained an invitation to dinner for the following day;
and that to the doctor was in this wise:--


   DEAR DOCTOR,

   Do come and dine here to-morrow, and bring Sir Louis
   Scatcherd with you. If you're the man I take you to be,
   you won't refuse me. Lady Arabella sends a note for
   Sir Louis. There will be nobody here but Oriel, and Mr
   Gazebee, who is staying in the house.

   Yours ever,

   F. N. GRESHAM.

   Greshamsbury, July, 185--.

   P.S.--I make a positive request that you'll come, and I
   think you will hardly refuse me.


The doctor read it twice before he could believe it, and then ordered
Janet to take the other note up to Sir Louis. As these invitations
were rather in opposition to the then existing Greshamsbury tactics,
the cause of Lady Arabella's special civility must be explained.

Mr Mortimer Gazebee was now at the house, and therefore, it must
be presumed, that things were not allowed to go on after their old
fashion. Mr Gazebee was an acute as well as a fashionable man; one
who knew what he was about, and who, moreover, had determined to give
his very best efforts on behalf of the Greshamsbury property. His
energy, in this respect, will explain itself hereafter. It was not
probable that the arrival in the village of such a person as Sir
Louis Scatcherd should escape attention. He had heard of it before
dinner, and, before the evening was over, had discussed it with Lady
Arabella.

Her ladyship was not at first inclined to make much of Sir Louis, and
expressed herself as but little inclined to agree with Mr Gazebee
when that gentleman suggested that he should be treated with civility
at Greshamsbury. But she was at last talked over. She found it
pleasant enough to have more to do with the secret management of the
estate than Mr Gresham himself; and when Mr Gazebee proved to her,
by sundry nods and winks, and subtle allusions to her own infinite
good sense, that it was necessary to catch this obscene bird which
had come to prey upon the estate, by throwing a little salt upon his
tail, she also nodded and winked, and directed Augusta to prepare the
salt according to order.

"But won't it be odd, Mr Gazebee, asking him out of Dr Thorne's
house?"

"Oh, we must have the doctor, too, Lady Arabella; by all means ask
the doctor also."

Lady Arabella's brow grew dark. "Mr Gazebee," she said, "you can
hardly believe how that man has behaved to me."

"He is altogether beneath your anger," said Mr Gazebee, with a bow.

"I don't know: in one way he may be, but not in another. I really do
not think I can sit down to table with Doctor Thorne."

But, nevertheless, Mr Gazebee gained his point. It was now about a
week since Sir Omicron Pie had been at Greshamsbury, and the squire
had, almost daily, spoken to his wife as to that learned man's
advice. Lady Arabella always answered in the same tone: "You can
hardly know, Mr Gresham, how that man has insulted me." But,
nevertheless, the physician's advice had not been disbelieved: it
tallied too well with her own inward convictions. She was anxious
enough to have Doctor Thorne back at her bedside, if she could only
get him there without damage to her pride. Her husband, she thought,
might probably send the doctor there without absolute permission from
herself; in which case she would have been able to scold, and show
that she was offended; and, at the same time, profit by what had been
done. But Mr Gresham never thought of taking so violent a step as
this, and, therefore, Dr Fillgrave still came, and her ladyship's
_finesse_ was wasted in vain.

But Mr Gazebee's proposition opened a door by which her point might
be gained. "Well," said she, at last, with infinite self-denial, "if
you think it is for Mr Gresham's advantage, and if he chooses to ask
Dr Thorne, I will not refuse to receive him."

Mr Gazebee's next task was to discuss the matter with the squire. Nor
was this easy, for Mr Gazebee was no favourite with Mr Gresham. But
the task was at last performed successfully. Mr Gresham was so glad
at heart to find himself able, once more, to ask his old friend to
his own house; and, though it would have pleased him better that this
sign of relenting on his wife's part should have reached him by other
means, he did not refuse to take advantage of it; and so he wrote the
above letter to Dr Thorne.

The doctor, as we have said, read it twice; and he at once resolved
stoutly that he would not go.

"Oh, do, do go!" said Mary. She well knew how wretched this feud had
made her uncle. "Pray, pray go!"

"Indeed, I will not," said he. "There are some things a man should
bear, and some he should not."

"You must go," said Mary, who had taken the note from her uncle's
hand, and read it. "You cannot refuse him when he asks you like
that."

"It will greatly grieve me; but I must refuse him."

"I also am angry, uncle; very angry with Lady Arabella; but for him,
for the squire, I would go to him on my knees if he asked me in that
way."

"Yes; and had he asked you, I also would have gone."

"Oh! now I shall be so wretched. It is his invitation, not hers: Mr
Gresham could not ask me. As for her, do not think of her; but do, do
go when he asks you like that. You will make me so miserable if you
do not. And then Sir Louis cannot go without you,"--and Mary pointed
upstairs--"and you may be sure that he will go."

"Yes; and make a beast of himself."

This colloquy was cut short by a message praying the doctor to go up
to Sir Louis's room. The young man was sitting in his dressing-gown,
drinking a cup of coffee at his toilet-table, while Joe was preparing
his razor and hot water. The doctor's nose immediately told him
that there was more in the coffee-cup than had come out of his own
kitchen, and he would not let the offence pass unnoticed.

"Are you taking brandy this morning, Sir Louis?"

"Just a little _chasse-café_," said he, not exactly understanding
the word he used. "It's all the go now; and a capital thing for the
stomach."

"It's not a capital thing for your stomach;--about the least capital
thing you can take; that is, if you wish to live."

"Never mind about that now, doctor, but look here. This is what we
call the civil thing--eh?" and he showed the Greshamsbury note. "Not
but what they have an object, of course. I understand all that. Lots
of girls there--eh?"

The doctor took the note and read it. "It is civil," said he; "very
civil."

"Well; I shall go, of course. I don't bear malice because he can't
pay me the money he owes me. I'll eat his dinner, and look at the
girls. Have you an invite too, doctor?"

"Yes; I have."

"And you'll go?"

"I think not; but that need not deter you. But, Sir Louis--"

"Well! eh! what is it?"

"Step downstairs a moment," said the doctor, turning to the servant,
"and wait till you are called for. I wish to speak to your master."
Joe, for a moment, looked up at the baronet's face, as though he
wanted but the slightest encouragement to disobey the doctor's
orders; but not seeing it, he slowly retired, and placed himself, of
course, at the keyhole.

And then, the doctor began a long and very useless lecture. The first
object of it was to induce his ward not to get drunk at Greshamsbury;
but having got so far, he went on, and did succeed in frightening
his unhappy guest. Sir Louis did not possess the iron nerves of
his father--nerves which even brandy had not been able to subdue.
The doctor spoke strongly, very strongly; spoke of quick, almost
immediate death in case of further excesses; spoke to him of the
certainty there would be that he could not live to dispose of his own
property if he could not refrain. And thus he did frighten Sir Louis.
The father he had never been able to frighten. But there are men
who, though they fear death hugely, fear present suffering more;
who, indeed, will not bear a moment of pain if there be any mode of
escape. Sir Louis was such: he had no strength of nerve, no courage,
no ability to make a resolution and keep it. He promised the doctor
that he would refrain; and, as he did so, he swallowed down his cup
of coffee and brandy, in which the two articles bore about equal
proportions.

The doctor did, at last, make up his mind to go. Whichever way he
determined, he found that he was not contented with himself. He did
not like to trust Sir Louis by himself, and he did not like to show
that he was angry. Still less did he like the idea of breaking bread
in Lady Arabella's house till some amends had been made to Mary. But
his heart would not allow him to refuse the petition contained in
the squire's postscript, and the matter ended in his accepting the
invitation.

This visit of his ward's was, in every way, pernicious to the doctor.
He could not go about his business, fearing to leave such a man alone
with Mary. On the afternoon of the second day, she escaped to the
parsonage for an hour or so, and then walked away among the lanes,
calling on some of her old friends among the farmers' wives. But even
then, the doctor was afraid to leave Sir Louis. What could such a
man do, left alone in a village like Greshamsbury? So he stayed at
home, and the two together went over their accounts. The baronet was
particular about his accounts, and said a good deal as to having
Finnie over to Greshamsbury. To this, however, Dr Thorne positively
refused his consent.

The evening passed off better than the preceding one; at least the
early part of it. Sir Louis did not get tipsy; he came up to tea, and
Mary, who did not feel so keenly on the subject as her uncle, almost
wished that he had done so. At ten o'clock he went to bed.

But after that new troubles came on. The doctor had gone downstairs
into his study to make up some of the time which he had lost, and
had just seated himself at his desk, when Janet, without announcing
herself, burst into the room; and Bridget, dissolved in hysterical
tears, with her apron to her eyes, appeared behind the senior
domestic.

"Please, sir," said Janet, driven by excitement much beyond her
usual pace of speaking, and becoming unintentionally a little less
respectful than usual, "please sir, that 'ere young man must go out
of this here house; or else no respectable young 'ooman can't stop
here; no, indeed, sir; and we be sorry to trouble you, Dr Thorne; so
we be."

"What young man? Sir Louis?" asked the doctor.

"Oh, no! he abides mostly in bed, and don't do nothing amiss; least
way not to us. 'Tan't him, sir; but his man."

"Man!" sobbed Bridget from behind. "He an't no man, nor nothing
like a man. If Tummas had been here, he wouldn't have dared; so he
wouldn't." Thomas was the groom, and, if all Greshamsbury reports
were true, it was probable, that on some happy, future day, Thomas
and Bridget would become one flesh and one bone.

"Please sir," continued Janet, "there'll be bad work here if that
'ere young man doesn't quit this here house this very night, and I'm
sorry to trouble you, doctor; and so I am. But Tom, he be given to
fight a'most for nothin'. He's hout now; but if that there young man
be's here when Tom comes home, Tom will be punching his head; I know
he will."

"He wouldn't stand by and see a poor girl put upon; no more he
wouldn't," said Bridget, through her tears.

After many futile inquiries, the doctor ascertained that Mr Jonah had
expressed some admiration for Bridget's youthful charms, and had, in
the absence of Janet, thrown himself at the lady's feet in a manner
which had not been altogether pleasing to her. She had defended
herself stoutly and loudly, and in the middle of the row Janet had
come down.

"And where is he now?" said the doctor.

"Why, sir," said Janet, "the poor girl was so put about that she did
give him one touch across the face with the rolling-pin, and he be
all bloody now, in the back kitchen." At hearing this achievement of
hers thus spoken of, Bridget sobbed more hysterically than ever; but
the doctor, looking at her arm as she held her apron to her face,
thought in his heart that Joe must have had so much the worst of it,
that there could be no possible need for the interference of Thomas
the groom.

And such turned out to be the case. The bridge of Joe's nose was
broken; and the doctor had to set it for him in a little bedroom at
the village public-house, Bridget having positively refused to go to
bed in the same house with so dreadful a character.

"Quiet now, or I'll be serving thee the same way; thee see I've found
the trick of it." The doctor could not but hear so much as he made
his way into his own house by the back door, after finishing his
surgical operation. Bridget was recounting to her champion the fracas
that had occurred; and he, as was so natural, was expressing his
admiration at her valour.




CHAPTER XXXV

Sir Louis Goes Out to Dinner


The next day Joe did not make his appearance, and Sir Louis, with
many execrations, was driven to the terrible necessity of dressing
himself. Then came an unexpected difficulty: how were they to get up
to the house? Walking out to dinner, though it was merely through
the village and up the avenue, seemed to Sir Louis to be a thing
impossible. Indeed, he was not well able to walk at all, and
positively declared that he should never be able to make his way over
the gravel in pumps. His mother would not have thought half as much
of walking from Boxall Hill to Greshamsbury and back again. At last,
the one village fly was sent for, and the matter was arranged.

When they reached the house, it was easy to see that there was some
unwonted bustle. In the drawing-room there was no one but Mr Mortimer
Gazebee, who introduced himself to them both. Sir Louis, who knew
that he was only an attorney, did not take much notice of him, but
the doctor entered into conversation.

"Have you heard that Mr Gresham has come home?" said Mr Gazebee.

"Mr Gresham! I did not know that he had been away."

"Mr Gresham, junior, I mean." No, indeed; the doctor had not heard.
Frank had returned unexpectedly just before dinner, and he was now
undergoing his father's smiles, his mother's embraces, and his
sisters' questions.

"Quite unexpectedly," said Mr Gazebee. "I don't know what has brought
him back before his time. I suppose he found London too hot."

"Deuced hot," said the baronet. "I found it so, at least. I don't
know what keeps men in London when it's so hot; except those fellows
who have business to do: they're paid for it."

Mr Mortimer Gazebee looked at him. He was managing an estate which
owed Sir Louis an enormous sum of money, and, therefore, he could not
afford to despise the baronet; but he thought to himself, what a very
abject fellow the man would be if he were not a baronet, and had not
a large fortune!

And then the squire came in. His broad, honest face was covered with
a smile when he saw the doctor.

"Thorne," he said, almost in a whisper, "you're the best fellow
breathing; I have hardly deserved this." The doctor, as he took his
old friend's hand, could not but be glad that he had followed Mary's
counsel.

"So Frank has come home?"

"Oh, yes; quite unexpectedly. He was to have stayed a week longer in
London. You would hardly know him if you met him. Sir Louis, I beg
your pardon." And the squire went up to his other guest, who had
remained somewhat sullenly standing in one corner of the room. He was
the man of highest rank present, or to be present, and he expected to
be treated as such.

"I am happy to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance,
Mr Gresham," said the baronet, intending to be very courteous.
"Though we have not met before, I very often see your name in my
accounts--ha! ha! ha!" and Sir Louis laughed as though he had said
something very good.

The meeting between Lady Arabella and the doctor was rather
distressing to the former; but she managed to get over it. She shook
hands with him graciously, and said that it was a fine day. The
doctor said that it was fine, only perhaps a little rainy. And then
they went into different parts of the room.

When Frank came in, the doctor hardly did know him. His hair was
darker than it had been, and so was his complexion; but his chief
disguise was in a long silken beard, which hung down over his cravat.
The doctor had hitherto not been much in favour of long beards, but
he could not deny that Frank looked very well with the appendage.

"Oh, doctor, I am so delighted to find you here," said he, coming up
to him; "so very, very glad:" and, taking the doctor's arm, he led
him away into a window, where they were alone. "And how is Mary?"
said he, almost in a whisper. "Oh, I wish she were here! But, doctor,
it shall all come in time. But tell me, doctor, there is no news
about her, is there?"

"News--what news?"

"Oh, well; no news is good news: you will give her my love, won't
you?"

The doctor said that he would. What else could he say? It appeared
quite clear to him that some of Mary's fears were groundless.

Frank was again very much altered. It has been said, that though
he was a boy at twenty-one, he was a man at twenty-two. But now,
at twenty-three, he appeared to be almost a man of the world. His
manners were easy, his voice under his control, and words were at his
command: he was no longer either shy or noisy; but, perhaps, was open
to the charge of seeming, at least, to be too conscious of his own
merits. He was, indeed, very handsome; tall, manly, and powerfully
built, his form was such as women's eyes have ever loved to look
upon. "Ah, if he would but marry money!" said Lady Arabella to
herself, taken up by a mother's natural admiration for her son. His
sisters clung round him before dinner, all talking to him at once.
How proud a family of girls are of one, big, tall, burly brother!

"You don't mean to tell me, Frank, that you are going to eat soup
with that beard?" said the squire, when they were seated round the
table. He had not ceased to rally his son as to this patriarchal
adornment; but, nevertheless, any one could have seen, with half an
eye, that he was as proud of it as were the others.

"Don't I, sir? All I require is a relay of napkins for every course:"
and he went to work, covering it with every spoonful, as men with
beards always do.

"Well, if you like it!" said the squire, shrugging his shoulders.

"But I do like it," said Frank.

"Oh, papa, you wouldn't have him cut it off," said one of the twins.
"It is so handsome."

"I should like to work it into a chair-back instead of floss-silk,"
said the other twin.

"Thank'ee, Sophy; I'll remember you for that."

"Doesn't it look nice, and grand, and patriarchal?" said Beatrice,
turning to her neighbour.

"Patriarchal, certainly," said Mr Oriel. "I should grow one myself if
I had not the fear of the archbishop before my eyes."

What was next said to him was in a whisper, audible only to himself.

"Doctor, did you know Wildman of the 9th? He was left as surgeon at
Scutari for two years. Why, my beard to his is only a little down."

"A little way down, you mean," said Mr Gazebee.

"Yes," said Frank, resolutely set against laughing at Mr Gazebee's
pun. "Why, his beard descends to his ankles, and he is obliged to tie
it in a bag at night, because his feet get entangled in it when he is
asleep!"

"Oh, Frank!" said one of the girls.

This was all very well for the squire, and Lady Arabella, and the
girls. They were all delighted to praise Frank, and talk about him.
Neither did it come amiss to Mr Oriel and the doctor, who had both a
personal interest in the young hero. But Sir Louis did not like it
at all. He was the only baronet in the room, and yet nobody took any
notice of him. He was seated in the post of honour, next to Lady
Arabella; but even Lady Arabella seemed to think more of her own
son than of him. Seeing how he was ill-used, he meditated revenge;
but not the less did it behove him to make some effort to attract
attention.

"Was your ladyship long in London, this season?" said he.

Lady Arabella had not been in London at all this year, and it
was a sore subject with her. "No," said she, very graciously;
"circumstances have kept us at home."

Sir Louis only understood one description of "circumstances."
Circumstances, in his idea, meant the want of money, and he
immediately took Lady Arabella's speech as a confession of poverty.

"Ah, indeed! I am very sorry for that; that must be very distressing
to a person like your ladyship. But things are mending, perhaps?"

Lady Arabella did not in the least understand him. "Mending!" she
said, in her peculiar tone of aristocratic indifference; and then
turned to Mr Gazebee, who was on the other side of her.

Sir Louis was not going to stand this. He was the first man in the
room, and he knew his own importance. It was not to be borne that
Lady Arabella should turn to talk to a dirty attorney, and leave him,
a baronet, to eat his dinner without notice. If nothing else would
move her, he would let her know who was the real owner of the
Greshamsbury title-deeds.

"I think I saw your ladyship out to-day, taking a ride." Lady
Arabella had driven through the village in her pony-chair.

"I never ride," said she, turning her head for one moment from Mr
Gazebee.

"In the one-horse carriage, I mean, my lady. I was delighted with the
way you whipped him up round the corner."

Whipped him up round the corner! Lady Arabella could make no answer
to this; so she went on talking to Mr Gazebee. Sir Louis, repulsed,
but not vanquished--resolved not to be vanquished by any Lady
Arabella--turned his attention to his plate for a minute or two, and
then recommenced.

"The honour of a glass of wine with you, Lady Arabella," said he.

"I never take wine at dinner," said Lady Arabella. The man was
becoming intolerable to her, and she was beginning to fear that it
would be necessary for her to fly the room to get rid of him.

The baronet was again silent for a moment; but he was determined not
to be put down.

"This is a nice-looking country about here," said he.

"Yes; very nice," said Mr Gazebee, endeavouring to relieve the lady
of the mansion.

"I hardly know which I like best; this, or my own place at Boxall
Hill. You have the advantage here in trees, and those sort of things.
But, as to the house, why, my box there is very comfortable, very.
You'd hardly know the place now, Lady Arabella, if you haven't seen
it since my governor bought it. How much do you think he spent about
the house and grounds, pineries included, you know, and those sort of
things?"

Lady Arabella shook her head.

"Now guess, my lady," said he. But it was not to be supposed that
Lady Arabella should guess on such a subject.

"I never guess," said she, with a look of ineffable disgust.

"What do you say, Mr Gazebee?"

"Perhaps a hundred thousand pounds."

"What! for a house! You can't know much about money, nor yet about
building, I think, Mr Gazebee."

"Not much," said Mr Gazebee, "as to such magnificent places as Boxall
Hill."

"Well, my lady, if you won't guess, I'll tell you. It cost twenty-two
thousand four hundred and nineteen pounds four shillings and
eightpence. I've all the accounts exact. Now, that's a tidy lot of
money for a house for a man to live in."

Sir Louis spoke this in a loud tone, which at least commanded the
attention of the table. Lady Arabella, vanquished, bowed her head,
and said that it was a large sum; Mr Gazebee went on sedulously
eating his dinner; the squire was struck momentarily dumb in the
middle of a long chat with the doctor; even Mr Oriel ceased to
whisper; and the girls opened their eyes with astonishment. Before
the end of his speech, Sir Louis's voice had become very loud.

"Yes, indeed," said Frank; "a very tidy lot of money. I'd have
generously dropped the four and eightpence if I'd been the
architect."

"It wasn't all one bill; but that's the tot. I can show the bills:"
and Sir Louis, well pleased with his triumph, swallowed a glass of
wine.

Almost immediately after the cloth was removed, Lady Arabella
escaped, and the gentlemen clustered together. Sir Louis found
himself next to Mr Oriel, and began to make himself agreeable.

"A very nice girl, Miss Beatrice; very nice."

Now Mr Oriel was a modest man, and, when thus addressed as to his
future wife, found it difficult to make any reply.

"You parsons always have your own luck," said Sir Louis. "You get all
the beauty, and generally all the money, too. Not much of the latter
in this case, though--eh?"

Mr Oriel was dumbfounded. He had never said a word to any creature as
to Beatrice's dowry; and when Mr Gresham had told him, with sorrow,
that his daughter's portion must be small, he had at once passed away
from the subject as one that was hardly fit for conversation, even
between him and his future father-in-law; and now he was abruptly
questioned on the subject by a man he had never before seen in his
life. Of course, he could make no answer.

"The squire has muddled his matters most uncommonly," continued Sir
Louis, filling his glass for the second time before he passed the
bottle. "What do you suppose now he owes me alone; just at one lump,
you know?"

Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to run. He could make no answer, nor
would he sit there to hear tidings as to Mr Gresham's embarrassments.
So he fairly retreated, without having said one word to his
neighbour, finding such discretion to be the only kind of valour left
to him.

"What, Oriel! off already?" said the squire. "Anything the matter?"

"Oh, no; nothing particular. I'm not just quite--I think I'll go out
for a few minutes."

"See what it is to be in love," said the squire, half-whispering to
Dr Thorne. "You're not in the same way, I hope?"

Sir Louis then shifted his seat again, and found himself next to
Frank. Mr Gazebee was opposite to him, and the doctor opposite to
Frank.

"Parson seems peekish, I think," said the baronet.

"Peekish?" said the squire, inquisitively.

"Rather down on his luck. He's decently well off himself, isn't he?"

There was another pause, and nobody seemed inclined to answer the
question.

"I mean, he's got something more than his bare living."

"Oh, yes," said Frank, laughing. "He's got what will buy him bread
and cheese when the Rads shut up the Church:--unless, indeed, they
shut up the Funds too."

"Ah, there's nothing like land," said Sir Louis: "nothing like the
dirty acres; is there, squire?"

"Land is a very good investment, certainly," said Mr Gresham.

"The best going," said the other, who was now, as people say when
they mean to be good-natured, slightly under the influence of liquor.
"The best going--eh, Gazebee?"

Mr Gazebee gathered himself up, and turned away his head, looking out
of the window.

"You lawyers never like to give an opinion without money, ha! ha! ha!
Do they, Mr Gresham? You and I have had to pay for plenty of them,
and will have to pay for plenty more before they let us alone."

Here Mr Gazebee got up, and followed Mr Oriel out of the room. He was
not, of course, on such intimate terms in the house as was Mr Oriel;
but he hoped to be forgiven by the ladies in consequence of the
severity of the miseries to which he was subjected. He and Mr Oriel
were soon to be seen through the dining-room window, walking about
the grounds with the two eldest Miss Greshams. And Patience Oriel,
who had also been of the party, was also to be seen with the twins.
Frank looked at his father with almost a malicious smile, and began
to think that he too might be better employed out among the walks.
Did he think then of a former summer evening, when he had half broken
Mary's heart by walking there too lovingly with Patience Oriel?

Sir Louis, if he continued his brilliant career of success, would
soon be left the cock of the walk. The squire, to be sure, could
not bolt, nor could the doctor very well; but they might be equally
vanquished, remaining there in their chairs. Dr Thorne, during all
this time, was sitting with tingling ears. Indeed, it may be said
that his whole body tingled. He was in a manner responsible for this
horrid scene; but what could he do to stop it? He could not take Sir
Louis up bodily and carry him away. One idea did occur to him. The
fly had been ordered for ten o'clock. He could rush out and send for
it instantly.

"You're not going to leave me?" said the squire, in a voice of
horror, as he saw the doctor rising from his chair.

"Oh, no, no, no," said the doctor; and then he whispered the purpose
of his mission. "I will be back in two minutes." The doctor would
have given twenty pounds to have closed the scene at once; but he was
not the man to desert his friend in such a strait as that.

"He's a well-meaning fellow, the doctor," said Sir Louis, when his
guardian was out of the room, "very; but he's not up to trap--not at
all."

"Up to trap--well, I should say he was; that is, if I know what trap
means," said Frank.

"Ah, but that's just the ticket. Do you know? Now I say Dr Thorne's
not a man of the world."

"He's about the best man I know, or ever heard of," said the squire.
"And if any man ever had a good friend, you have got one in him; and
so have I:" and the squire silently drank the doctor's health.

"All very true, I dare say; but yet he's not up to trap. Now look
here, squire--"

"If you don't mind, sir," said Frank, "I've got something very
particular--perhaps, however--"

"Stay till Thorne returns, Frank."

Frank did stay till Thorne returned, and then escaped.

"Excuse me, doctor," said he, "but I've something very particular to
say; I'll explain to-morrow." And then the three were left alone.

Sir Louis was now becoming almost drunk, and was knocking his words
together. The squire had already attempted to stop the bottle; but
the baronet had contrived to get hold of a modicum of Madeira, and
there was no preventing him from helping himself; at least, none at
that moment.

"As we were saying about lawyers," continued Sir Louis. "Let's see,
what were we saying? Why, squire, it's just here. Those fellows will
fleece us both if we don't mind what we are after."

"Never mind about lawyers now," said Dr Thorne, angrily.

"Ah, but I do mind; most particularly. That's all very well for you,
doctor; you've nothing to lose. You've no great stake in the matter.
Why, now, what sum of money of mine do you think those d---- doctors
are handling?"

"D---- doctors!" said the squire in a tone of dismay.

"Lawyers, I mean, of course. Why, now, Gresham; we're all totted
now, you see; you're down in my books, I take it, for pretty near a
hundred thousand pounds."

"Hold your tongue, sir," said the doctor, getting up.

"Hold my tongue!" said Sir Louis.

"Sir Louis Scatcherd," said the squire, slowly rising from his chair,
"we will not, if you please, talk about business at the present
moment. Perhaps we had better go to the ladies."

This latter proposition had certainly not come from the squire's
heart: going to the ladies was the very last thing for which Sir
Louis was now fit. But the squire had said it as being the only
recognised formal way he could think of for breaking up the
symposium.

"Oh, very well," hiccupped the baronet, "I'm always ready for the
ladies," and he stretched out his hand to the decanter to get a last
glass of Madeira.

"No," said the doctor, rising stoutly, and speaking with a determined
voice. "No; you will have no more wine:" and he took the decanter
from him.

"What's all this about?" said Sir Louis, with a drunken laugh.

"Of course he cannot go into the drawing-room, Mr Gresham. If you
will leave him here with me, I will stay with him till the fly
comes. Pray tell Lady Arabella from me, how sorry I am that this has
occurred."

The squire would not leave his friend, and they sat together till the
fly came. It was not long, for the doctor had dispatched his
messenger with much haste.

"I am so heartily ashamed of myself," said the doctor, almost with
tears.

The squire took him by the hand affectionately. "I've seen a tipsy
man before to-night," said he.

"Yes," said the doctor, "and so have I, but--" He did not express the
rest of his thoughts.




CHAPTER XXXVI

Will He Come Again?


Long before the doctor returned home after the little dinner-party
above described, Mary had learnt that Frank was already at
Greshamsbury. She had heard nothing of him or from him, not a word,
nothing in the shape of a message, for twelve months; and at her age
twelve months is a long period. Would he come and see her in spite of
his mother? Would he send her any tidings of his return, or notice
her in any way? If he did not, what would she do? and if he did, what
then would she do? It was so hard to resolve; so hard to be deserted;
and so hard to dare to wish that she might not be deserted! She
continued to say to herself, that it would be better that they should
be strangers; and she could hardly keep herself from tears in the
fear that they might be so. What chance could there be that he should
care for her, after an absence spent in travelling over the world?
No; she would forget that affair of his hand; and then, immediately
after having so determined, she would confess to herself that it was
a thing not to be forgotten, and impossible of oblivion.

On her uncle's return, she would hear some word about him; and so
she sat alone, with a book before her, of which she could not read
a line. She expected them about eleven, and was, therefore, rather
surprised when the fly stopped at the door before nine.

She immediately heard her uncle's voice, loud and angry, calling
for Thomas. Both Thomas and Bridget were unfortunately out, being,
at this moment, forgetful of all sublunary cares, and seated in
happiness under a beech-tree in the park. Janet flew to the little
gate, and there found Sir Louis insisting that he would be taken at
once to his own mansion at Boxall Hill, and positively swearing that
he would no longer submit to the insult of the doctor's surveillance.

In the absence of Thomas, the doctor was forced to apply for
assistance to the driver of the fly. Between them the baronet was
dragged out of the vehicle, the windows suffered much, and the
doctor's hat also. In this way, he was taken upstairs, and was at
last put to bed, Janet assisting; nor did the doctor leave the room
till his guest was asleep. Then he went into the drawing-room to
Mary. It may easily be conceived that he was hardly in a humour to
talk much about Frank Gresham.

"What am I to do with him?" said he, almost in tears: "what am I to
do with him?"

"Can you not send him to Boxall Hill?" asked Mary.

"Yes; to kill himself there! But it is no matter; he will kill
himself somewhere. Oh! what that family have done for me!" And then,
suddenly remembering a portion of their doings, he took Mary in his
arms, and kissed and blessed her; and declared that, in spite of all
this, he was a happy man.

There was no word about Frank that night. The next morning the doctor
found Sir Louis very weak, and begging for stimulants. He was worse
than weak; he was in such a state of wretched misery and mental
prostration; so low in heart, in such collapse of energy and spirit,
that Dr Thorne thought it prudent to remove his razors from his
reach.

"For God's sake do let me have a little _chasse-café_; I'm always
used to it; ask Joe if I'm not! You don't want to kill me, do you?"
And the baronet cried piteously, like a child, and, when the doctor
left him for the breakfast-table, abjectly implored Janet to get him
some curaçoa which he knew was in one of his portmanteaus. Janet,
however, was true to her master.

The doctor did give him some wine; and then, having left strict
orders as to his treatment--Bridget and Thomas being now both in the
house--went forth to some of his too much neglected patients.

Then Mary was again alone, and her mind flew away to her lover. How
should she be able to compose herself when she should first see him?
See him she must. People cannot live in the same village without
meeting. If she passed him at the church-door, as she often passed
Lady Arabella, what should she do? Lady Arabella always smiled
a peculiar, little, bitter smile, and this, with half a nod of
recognition, carried off the meeting. Should she try the bitter
smile, the half-nod with Frank? Alas! she knew it was not in her to
be so much mistress of her own heart's blood.

As she thus thought, she stood at the drawing-room window, looking
out into her garden; and, as she leant against the sill, her head was
surrounded by the sweet creepers. "At any rate, he won't come here,"
she said: and so, with a deep sigh, she turned from the window into
the room.

There he was, Frank Gresham himself standing there in her immediate
presence, beautiful as Apollo. Her next thought was how she might
escape from out of his arms. How it happened that she had fallen into
them, she never knew.

"Mary! my own, own love! my own one! sweetest! dearest! best! Mary!
dear Mary! have you not a word to say to me?"

No; she had not a word, though her life had depended on it. The
exertion necessary for not crying was quite enough for her. This,
then, was the bitter smile and the half-nod that was to pass between
them; this was the manner in which estrangement was to grow into
indifference; this was the mode of meeting by which she was to prove
that she was mistress of her conduct, if not her heart! There he held
her close bound to his breast, and she could only protect her face,
and that all ineffectually, with her hands. "He loves another,"
Beatrice had said. "At any rate, he will not love me," her own heart
had said also. Here was now the answer.

"You know you cannot marry him," Beatrice had said, also. Ah! if that
really were so, was not this embrace deplorable for them both? And
yet how could she not be happy? She endeavoured to repel him; but
with what a weak endeavour! Her pride had been wounded to the core,
not by Lady Arabella's scorn, but by the conviction which had grown
on her, that though she had given her own heart absolutely away,
had parted with it wholly and for ever, she had received nothing in
return. The world, her world, would know that she had loved, and
loved in vain. But here now was the loved one at her feet; the first
moment that his enforced banishment was over, had brought him there.
How could she not be happy?

They all said that she could not marry him. Well, perhaps it might
be so; nay, when she thought of it, must not that edict too probably
be true? But if so, it would not be his fault. He was true to her,
and that satisfied her pride. He had taken from her, by surprise,
a confession of her love. She had often regretted her weakness in
allowing him to do so; but she could not regret it now. She could
endure to suffer; nay, it would not be suffering while he suffered
with her.

"Not one word, Mary? Then after all my dreams, after all my patience,
you do not love me at last?"

Oh, Frank! notwithstanding what has been said in thy praise, what a
fool thou art! Was any word necessary for thee? Had not her heart
beat against thine? Had she not borne thy caresses? Had there been
one touch of anger when she warded off thy threatened kisses?
Bridget, in the kitchen, when Jonah became amorous, smashed his nose
with the rolling-pin. But when Thomas sinned, perhaps as deeply, she
only talked of doing so. Miss Thorne, in the drawing-room, had she
needed self-protection, could doubtless have found the means, though
the process would probably have been less violent.

At last Mary succeeded in her efforts at enfranchisement, and she and
Frank stood at some little distance from each other. She could not
but marvel at him. That long, soft beard, which just now had been so
close to her face, was all new; his whole look was altered; his mien,
and gait, and very voice were not the same. Was this, indeed, the
very Frank who had chattered of his boyish love, two years since, in
the gardens at Greshamsbury?

"Not one word of welcome, Mary?"

"Indeed, Mr Gresham, you are welcome home."

"Mr Gresham! Tell me, Mary--tell me, at once--has anything happened?
I could not ask up there."

"Frank," she said, and then stopped; not being able at the moment to
get any further.

"Speak to me honestly, Mary; honestly and bravely. I offered you my
hand once before; there it is again. Will you take it?"

She looked wistfully up in his eyes; she would fain have taken it.
But though a girl may be honest in such a case, it is so hard for her
to be brave.

He still held out his hand. "Mary," said he, "if you can value it,
it shall be yours through good fortune or ill fortune. There may be
difficulties; but if you can love me, we will get over them. I am a
free man; free to do as I please with myself, except so far as I am
bound to you. There is my hand. Will you have it?" And then he, too,
looked into her eyes, and waited composedly, as though determined to
have an answer.

She slowly raised her hand, and, as she did so, her eyes fell to the
ground. It then drooped again, and was again raised; and, at last,
her light tapering fingers rested on his broad open palm.

They were soon clutched, and the whole hand brought absolutely within
his grasp. "There, now you are my own!" he said, "and none of them
shall part us; my own Mary, my own wife."

"Oh, Frank, is not this imprudent? Is it not wrong?"

"Imprudent! I am sick of prudence. I hate prudence. And as for
wrong--no. I say it is not wrong; certainly not wrong if we love each
other. And you do love me, Mary--eh? You do! don't you?"

He would not excuse her, or allow her to escape from saying it in so
many words; and when the words did come at last, they came freely.
"Yes, Frank, I do love you; if that were all you would have no cause
for fear."

"And I will have no cause for fear."

"Ah; but your father, Frank, and my uncle. I can never bring myself
to do anything that shall bring either of them to sorrow."

Frank, of course, ran through all his arguments. He would go into a
profession, or take a farm and live in it. He would wait; that is,
for a few months. "A few months, Frank!" said Mary. "Well, perhaps
six." "Oh, Frank!" But Frank would not be stopped. He would do
anything that his father might ask him. Anything but the one thing.
He would not give up the wife he had chosen. It would not be
reasonable, or proper, or righteous that he should be asked to do so;
and here he mounted a somewhat high horse.

Mary had no arguments which she could bring from her heart to offer
in opposition to all this. She could only leave her hand in his, and
feel that she was happier than she had been at any time since the day
of that donkey-ride at Boxall Hill.

"But, Mary," continued he, becoming very grave and serious. "We must
be true to each other, and firm in this. Nothing that any of them can
say shall drive me from my purpose; will you say as much?"

Her hand was still in his, and so she stood, thinking for a moment
before she answered him. But she could not do less for him than he
was willing to do for her. "Yes," said she--said in a very low voice,
and with a manner perfectly quiet--"I will be firm. Nothing that they
can say shall shake me. But, Frank, it cannot be soon."

Nothing further occurred in this interview which needs recording.
Frank had been three times told by Mary that he had better go before
he did go; and, at last, she was obliged to take the matter into her
own hands, and lead him to the door.

"You are in a great hurry to get rid of me," said he.

"You have been here two hours, and you must go now; what will they
all think?"

"Who cares what they think? Let them think the truth: that after a
year's absence, I have much to say to you." However, at last, he did
go, and Mary was left alone.

Frank, although he had been so slow to move, had a thousand other
things to do, and went about them at once. He was very much in love,
no doubt; but that did not interfere with his interest in other
pursuits. In the first place, he had to see Harry Baker, and Harry
Baker's stud. Harry had been specially charged to look after the
black horse during Frank's absence, and the holiday doings of
that valuable animal had to be inquired into. Then the kennel of
the hounds had to be visited, and--as a matter of second-rate
importance--the master. This could not be done on the same day; but a
plan for doing so must be concocted with Harry--and then there were
two young pointer pups.

Frank, when he left his betrothed, went about these things quite as
vehemently as though he were not in love at all; quite as vehemently
as though he had said nothing as to going into some profession which
must necessarily separate him from horses and dogs. But Mary sat
there at her window, thinking of her love, and thinking of nothing
else. It was all in all to her now. She had pledged herself not to be
shaken from her troth by anything, by any person; and it would behove
her to be true to this pledge. True to it, though all the Greshams
but one should oppose her with all their power; true to it, even
though her own uncle should oppose her.

And how could she have done any other than so pledge herself, invoked
to it as she had been? How could she do less for him than he was so
anxious to do for her? They would talk to her of maiden delicacy, and
tell her that she had put a stain on that snow-white coat of proof,
in confessing her love for one whose friends were unwilling to
receive her. Let them so talk. Honour, honesty, and truth, out-spoken
truth, self-denying truth, and fealty from man to man, are worth more
than maiden delicacy; more, at any rate, than the talk of it. It
was not for herself that this pledge had been made. She knew her
position, and the difficulties of it; she knew also the value of it.
He had much to offer, much to give; she had nothing but herself. He
had name, and old repute, family, honour, and what eventually would
at least be wealth to her. She was nameless, fameless, portionless.
He had come there with all his ardour, with the impulse of his
character, and asked for her love. It was already his own. He had
then demanded her troth, and she acknowledged that he had a right to
demand it. She would be his if ever it should be in his power to take
her.

But there let the bargain end. She would always remember, that though
it was in her power to keep her pledge, it might too probably not be
in his power to keep his. That doctrine, laid down so imperatively
by the great authorities of Greshamsbury, that edict, which demanded
that Frank should marry money, had come home also to her with a
certain force. It would be sad that the fame of Greshamsbury should
perish, and that the glory should depart from the old house. It might
be, that Frank also should perceive that he must marry money. It
would be a pity that he had not seen it sooner; but she, at any rate,
would not complain.

And so she stood, leaning on the open window, with her book unnoticed
lying beside her. The sun had been in the mid-sky when Frank had left
her, but its rays were beginning to stream into the room from the
west before she moved from her position. Her first thought in the
morning had been this: Would he come to see her? Her last now was
more soothing to her, less full of absolute fear: Would it be right
that he should come again?

The first sounds she heard were the footsteps of her uncle, as he
came up to the drawing-room, three steps at a time. His step was
always heavy; but when he was disturbed in spirit, it was slow; when
merely fatigued in body by ordinary work, it was quick.

"What a broiling day!" he said, and he threw himself into a chair.
"For mercy's sake give me something to drink." Now the doctor was a
great man for summer-drinks. In his house, lemonade, currant-juice,
orange-mixtures, and raspberry-vinegar were used by the quart. He
frequently disapproved of these things for his patients, as being apt
to disarrange the digestion; but he consumed enough himself to throw
a large family into such difficulties.

"Ha--a!" he ejaculated, after a draught; "I'm better now. Well,
what's the news?"

"You've been out, uncle; you ought to have the news. How's Mrs
Green?"

"Really as bad as ennui and solitude can make her."

"And Mrs Oaklerath?"

"She's getting better, because she has ten children to look after,
and twins to suckle. What has he been doing?" And the doctor pointed
towards the room occupied by Sir Louis.

Mary's conscience struck her that she had not even asked. She had
hardly remembered, during the whole day, that the baronet was in the
house. "I do not think he has been doing much," she said. "Janet has
been with him all day."

"Has he been drinking?"

"Upon my word, I don't know, uncle. I think not, for Janet has been
with him. But, uncle--"

"Well, dear--but just give me a little more of that tipple."

Mary prepared the tumbler, and, as she handed it to him, she said,
"Frank Gresham has been here to-day."

The doctor swallowed his draught, and put down the glass before he
made any reply, and even then he said but little.

"Oh! Frank Gresham."

"Yes, uncle."

"You thought him looking pretty well?"

"Yes, uncle; he was very well, I believe."

Dr Thorne had nothing more to say, so he got up and went to his
patient in the next room.

"If he disapproves of it, why does he not say so?" said Mary to
herself. "Why does he not advise me?"

But it was not so easy to give advice while Sir Louis Scatcherd was
lying there in that state.




CHAPTER XXXVII

Sir Louis Leaves Greshamsbury


Janet had been sedulous in her attentions to Sir Louis, and had not
troubled her mistress; but she had not had an easy time of it. Her
orders had been, that either she or Thomas should remain in the room
the whole day, and those orders had been obeyed.

Immediately after breakfast, the baronet had inquired after his own
servant. "His confounded nose must be right by this time, I suppose?"

"It was very bad, Sir Louis," said the old woman, who imagined that
it might be difficult to induce Jonah to come into the house again.

"A man in such a place as his has no business to be laid up," said
the master, with a whine. "I'll see and get a man who won't break his
nose."

Thomas was sent to the inn three or four times, but in vain. The man
was sitting up, well enough, in the tap-room; but the middle of his
face was covered with streaks of plaster, and he could not bring
himself to expose his wounds before his conqueror.

Sir Louis began by ordering the woman to bring him _chasse-café_. She
offered him coffee, as much as he would; but no _chasse_. "A glass of
port wine," she said, "at twelve o'clock, and another at three had
been ordered for him."

"I don't care a ---- for the orders," said Sir Louis; "send me my
own man." The man was again sent for; but would not come. "There's
a bottle of that stuff that I take, in that portmanteau, in the
left-hand corner--just hand it to me."

But Janet was not to be done. She would give him no stuff, except
what the doctor had ordered, till the doctor came back. The doctor
would then, no doubt, give him anything that was proper.

Sir Louis swore a good deal, and stormed as much as he could. He
drank, however, his two glasses of wine, and he got no more. Once or
twice he essayed to get out of bed and dress; but, at every effort,
he found that he could not do it without Joe: and there he was, still
under the clothes when the doctor returned.

"I'll tell you what it is," said he, as soon as his guardian entered
the room, "I'm not going to be made a prisoner of here."

"A prisoner! no, surely not."

"It seems very much like it at present. Your servant here--that
old woman--takes it upon her to say she'll do nothing without your
orders."

"Well; she's right there."

"Right! I don't know what you call right; but I won't stand it. You
are not going to make a child of me, Dr Thorne; so you need not think
it."

And then there was a long quarrel between them, and but an
indifferent reconciliation. The baronet said that he would go to
Boxall Hill, and was vehement in his intention to do so because the
doctor opposed it. He had not, however, as yet ferreted out the
squire, or given a bit of his mind to Mr Gazebee, and it behoved him
to do this before he took himself off to his own country mansion. He
ended, therefore, by deciding to go on the next day but one.

"Let it be so, if you are well enough," said the doctor.

"Well enough!" said the other, with a sneer. "There's nothing to make
me ill that I know of. It certainly won't be drinking too much here."

On the next day, Sir Louis was in a different mood, and in one more
distressing for the doctor to bear. His compelled abstinence from
intemperate drinking had, no doubt, been good for him; but his mind
had so much sunk under the pain of the privation, that his state was
piteous to behold. He had cried for his servant, as a child cries
for its nurse, till at last the doctor, moved to pity, had himself
gone out and brought the man in from the public-house. But when he
did come, Joe was of but little service to his master, as he was
altogether prevented from bringing him either wine or spirits; and
when he searched for the liqueur-case, he found that even that had
been carried away.

"I believe you want me to die," he said, as the doctor, sitting
by his bedside, was trying, for the hundredth time, to make him
understand that he had but one chance of living.

The doctor was not the least irritated. It would have been as wise to
be irritated by the want of reason in a dog.

"I am doing what I can to save your life," he said calmly; "but, as
you said just now, I have no power over you. As long as you are able
to move and remain in my house, you certainly shall not have the
means of destroying yourself. You will be very wise to stay here
for a week or ten days: a week or ten days of healthy living might,
perhaps, bring you round."

Sir Louis again declared that the doctor wished him to die, and spoke
of sending for his attorney, Finnie, to come to Greshamsbury to look
after him.

"Send for him if you choose," said the doctor. "His coming will cost
you three or four pounds, but can do no other harm."

"And I will send for Fillgrave," threatened the baronet. "I'm not
going to die here like a dog."

It was certainly hard upon Dr Thorne that he should be obliged to
entertain such a guest in the house;--to entertain him, and foster
him, and care for him, almost as though he were a son. But he had no
alternative; he had accepted the charge from Sir Roger, and he must
go through with it. His conscience, moreover, allowed him no rest in
this matter: it harassed him day and night, driving him on sometimes
to great wretchedness. He could not love this incubus that was on his
shoulders; he could not do other than be very far from loving him. Of
what use or value was he to any one? What could the world make of him
that would be good, or he of the world? Was not an early death his
certain fate? The earlier it might be, would it not be the better?

Were he to linger on yet for two years longer--and such a space of
life was possible for him--how great would be the mischief that he
might do; nay, certainly would do! Farewell then to all hopes for
Greshamsbury, as far as Mary was concerned. Farewell then to that
dear scheme which lay deep in the doctor's heart, that hope that he
might, in his niece's name, give back to the son the lost property of
the father. And might not one year--six months be as fatal. Frank,
they all said, must marry money; and even he--he the doctor himself,
much as he despised the idea for money's sake--even he could not but
confess that Frank, as the heir to an old, but grievously embarrassed
property, had no right to marry, at his early age, a girl without
a shilling. Mary, his niece, his own child, would probably be the
heiress of this immense wealth; but he could not tell this to Frank;
no, nor to Frank's father while Sir Louis was yet alive. What, if by
so doing he should achieve this marriage for his niece, and that then
Sir Louis should live to dispose of his own? How then would he face
the anger of Lady Arabella?

"I will never hanker after a dead man's shoes, neither for myself nor
for another," he had said to himself a hundred times; and as often
did he accuse himself of doing so. One path, however, was plainly
open before him. He would keep his peace as to the will; and would
use such efforts as he might use for a son of his own loins to
preserve the life that was so valueless. His wishes, his hopes,
his thoughts, he could not control; but his conduct was at his own
disposal.

"I say, doctor, you don't really think that I'm going to die?" Sir
Louis said, when Dr Thorne again visited him.

"I don't think at all; I am sure you will kill yourself if you
continue to live as you have lately done."

"But suppose I go all right for a while, and live--live just as you
tell me, you know?"

"All of us are in God's hands, Sir Louis. By so doing you will, at
any rate, give yourself the best chance."

"Best chance? Why, d----n, doctor! there are fellows have done ten
times worse than I; and they are not going to kick. Come, now, I know
you are trying to frighten me; ain't you, now?"

"I am trying to do the best I can for you."

"It's very hard on a fellow like me; I have nobody to say a kind word
to me; no, not one." And Sir Louis, in his wretchedness, began to
weep. "Come, doctor; if you'll put me once more on my legs, I'll let
you draw on the estate for five hundred pounds; by G----, I will."

The doctor went away to his dinner, and the baronet also had his in
bed. He could not eat much, but he was allowed two glasses of wine,
and also a little brandy in his coffee. This somewhat invigorated
him, and when Dr Thorne again went to him, in the evening, he did not
find him so utterly prostrated in spirit. He had, indeed, made up his
mind to a great resolve; and thus unfolded his final scheme for his
own reformation:--

"Doctor," he began again, "I believe you are an honest fellow; I do
indeed."

Dr Thorne could not but thank him for his good opinion.

"You ain't annoyed at what I said this morning, are you?"

The doctor had forgotten the particular annoyance to which Sir Louis
alluded; and informed him that his mind might be at rest on any such
matter.

"I do believe you'd be glad to see me well; wouldn't you, now?"

The doctor assured him that such was in very truth the case.

"Well, now, I'll tell you what: I've been thinking about it a great
deal to-day; indeed, I have, and I want to do what's right. Mightn't
I have a little drop more of that stuff, just in a cup of coffee?"

The doctor poured him out a cup of coffee, and put about a
teaspoonful of brandy in it. Sir Louis took it with a disconsolate
face, not having been accustomed to such measures in the use of his
favourite beverage.

"I do wish to do what's right--I do, indeed; only, you see, I'm so
lonely. As to those fellows up in London, I don't think that one of
them cares a straw about me."

Dr Thorne was of the same way of thinking, and he said so. He could
not but feel some sympathy with the unfortunate man as he thus spoke
of his own lot. It was true that he had been thrown on the world
without any one to take care of him.

"My dear friend, I will do the best I can in every way; I will,
indeed. I do believe that your companions in town have been too ready
to lead you astray. Drop them, and you may yet do well."

"May I though, doctor? Well, I will drop them. There's Jenkins; he's
the best of them; but even he is always wanting to make money of me.
Not but what I'm up to the best of them in that way."

"You had better leave London, Sir Louis, and change your old mode of
life. Go to Boxall Hill for a while; for two or three years or so;
live with your mother there and take to farming."

"What! farming?"

"Yes; that's what all country gentlemen do: take the land there into
your own hand, and occupy your mind upon it."

"Well, doctor, I will--upon one condition."

Dr Thorne sat still and listened. He had no idea what the condition
might be, but he was not prepared to promise acquiescence till he
heard it.

"You know what I told you once before," said the baronet.

"I don't remember at this moment."

"About my getting married, you know."

The doctor's brow grew black, and promised no help to the poor
wretch. Bad in every way, wretched, selfish, sensual, unfeeling,
purse-proud, ignorant as Sir Louis Scatcherd was, still, there was
left to him the power of feeling something like sincere love. It may
be presumed that he did love Mary Thorne, and that he was at the time
earnest in declaring, that if she could be given to him, he would
endeavour to live according to her uncle's counsel. It was only a
trifle he asked; but, alas! that trifle could not be vouchsafed.

"I should much approve of your getting married, but I do not know how
I can help you."

"Of course, I mean to Miss Mary: I do love her; I really do, Dr
Thorne."

"It is quite impossible, Sir Louis; quite. You do my niece much
honour; but I am able to answer for her, positively, that such a
proposition is quite out of the question."

"Look here now, Dr Thorne; anything in the way of settlements--"

"I will not hear a word on the subject: you are very welcome to the
use of my house as long as it may suit you to remain here; but I must
insist that my niece shall not be troubled on this matter."

"Do you mean to say she's in love with that young Gresham?"

This was too much for the doctor's patience. "Sir Louis," said he,
"I can forgive you much for your father's sake. I can also forgive
something on the score of your own ill health. But you ought to know,
you ought by this time to have learnt, that there are some things
which a man cannot forgive. I will not talk to you about my niece;
and remember this, also, I will not have her troubled by you:" and,
so saying, the doctor left him.

On the next day the baronet was sufficiently recovered to be able to
resume his braggadocio airs. He swore at Janet; insisted on being
served by his own man; demanded in a loud voice, but in vain,
that his liqueur-case should be restored to him; and desired that
post-horses might be ready for him on the morrow. On that day he
got up and ate his dinner in his bedroom. On the next morning he
countermanded the horses, informing the doctor that he did so because
he had a little bit of business to transact with Squire Gresham
before he left the place! With some difficulty, the doctor made him
understand that the squire would not see him on business; and it was
at last decided, that Mr Gazebee should be invited to call on him at
the doctor's house; and this Mr Gazebee agreed to do, in order to
prevent the annoyance of having the baronet up at Greshamsbury.

On this day, the evening before Mr Gazebee's visit, Sir Louis
condescended to come down to dinner. He dined, however, _tête-à-tête_
with the doctor. Mary was not there, nor was anything said as to her
absence. Sir Louis Scatcherd never set eyes upon her again.

He bore himself very arrogantly on that evening, having resumed the
airs and would-be dignity which he thought belonged to him as a man
of rank and property. In his periods of low spirits, he was abject
and humble enough; abject, and fearful of the lamentable destiny
which at these moments he believed to be in store for him. But it
was one of the peculiar symptoms of his state, that as he partially
recovered his bodily health, the tone of his mind recovered itself
also, and his fears for the time were relieved.

There was very little said between him and the doctor that evening.
The doctor sat guarding the wine, and thinking when he should have
his house to himself again. Sir Louis sat moody, every now and then
uttering some impertinence as to the Greshams and the Greshamsbury
property, and, at an early hour, allowed Joe to put him to bed.

The horses were ordered on the next day for three, and, at two, Mr
Gazebee came to the house. He had never been there before, nor had he
ever met Dr Thorne except at the squire's dinner. On this occasion he
asked only for the baronet.

"Ah! ah! I'm glad you're come, Mr Gazebee; very glad," said Sir
Louis; acting the part of the rich, great man with all the power he
had. "I want to ask you a few questions so as to make it all clear
sailing between us."

"As you have asked to see me, I have come, Sir Louis," said the
other, putting on much dignity as he spoke. "But would it not be
better that any business there may be should be done among the
lawyers?"

"The lawyers are very well, I dare say; but when a man has so large a
stake at interest as I have in this Greshamsbury property, why, you
see, Mr Gazebee, he feels a little inclined to look after it himself.
Now, do you know, Mr Gazebee, how much it is that Mr Gresham owes
me?"

Mr Gazebee, of course, did know very well; but he was not going to
discuss the subject with Sir Louis, if he could help it.

"Whatever claim your father's estate may have on that of Mr Gresham
is, as far as I understand, vested in Dr Thorne's hands as trustee.
I am inclined to believe that you have not yourself at present any
claim on Greshamsbury. The interest, as it becomes due, is paid to
Dr Thorne; and if I may be allowed to make a suggestion, I would say
that it will not be expedient to make any change in that arrangement
till the property shall come into your own hands."

"I differ from you entirely, Mr Gazebee; _in toto_, as we used to say
at Eton. What you mean to say is--I can't go to law with Mr Gresham;
I'm not so sure of that; but perhaps not. But I can compel Dr Thorne
to look after my interests. I can force him to foreclose. And to tell
you the truth, Gazebee, unless some arrangement is proposed to me
which I shall think advantageous, I shall do so at once. There is
near a hundred thousand pounds owing to me; yes to me. Thorne is only
a name in the matter. The money is my money; and, by ----, I mean to
look after it."

"Have you any doubt, Sir Louis, as to the money being secure?"

"Yes, I have. It isn't so easy to have a hundred thousand pounds
secured. The squire is a poor man, and I don't choose to allow a poor
man to owe me such a sum as that. Besides, I mean to invest it in
land. I tell you fairly, therefore, I shall foreclose."

Mr Gazebee, using all the perspicuity which his professional
education had left to him, tried to make Sir Louis understand that he
had no power to do anything of the kind.

"No power! Mr Gresham shall see whether I have no power. When a man
has a hundred thousand pounds owing to him he ought to have some
power; and, as I take it, he has. But we will see. Perhaps you know
Finnie, do you?"

Mr Gazebee, with a good deal of scorn in his face, said that he had
not that pleasure. Mr Finnie was not in his line.

"Well, you will know him then, and you'll find he's sharp enough;
that is, unless I have some offer made to me that I may choose to
accept." Mr Gazebee declared that he was not instructed to make any
offer, and so he took his leave.

On that afternoon, Sir Louis went off to Boxall Hill, transferring
the miserable task of superintending his self-destruction from the
shoulders of the doctor to those of his mother. Of Lady Scatcherd,
the baronet took no account in his proposed sojourn in the country,
nor did he take much of the doctor in leaving Greshamsbury. He again
wrapped himself in his furs, and, with tottering steps, climbed up
into the barouche which was to carry him away.

"Is my man up behind?" he said to Janet, while the doctor was
standing at the little front garden-gate, making his adieux.

"No, sir, he's not up yet," said Janet, respectfully.

"Then send him out, will you? I can't lose my time waiting here all
day."

"I shall come over to Boxall Hill and see you," said the doctor,
whose heart softened towards the man, in spite of his brutality, as
the hour of his departure came.

"I shall be happy to see you if you like to come, of course; that is,
in the way of visiting, and that sort of thing. As for doctoring, if
I want any I shall send for Fillgrave." Such were his last words as
the carriage, with a rush, went off from the door.

The doctor, as he re-entered the house, could not avoid smiling, for
he thought of Dr Fillgrave's last patient at Boxall Hill. "It's a
question to me," said he to himself, "whether Dr Fillgrave will ever
be induced to make another visit to that house, even with the object
of rescuing a baronet out of my hands."

"He's gone; isn't he, uncle?" said Mary, coming out of her room.

"Yes, my dear; he's gone, poor fellow."

"He may be a poor fellow, uncle; but he's a very disagreeable inmate
in a house. I have not had any dinner these two days."

"And I haven't had what can be called a cup of tea since he's been in
the house. But I'll make up for that to-night."




CHAPTER XXXVIII

De Courcy Precepts and de Courcy Practice


There is a mode of novel-writing which used to be much in vogue, but
which has now gone out of fashion. It is, nevertheless, one which is
very expressive when in good hands, and which enables the author to
tell his story, or some portion of his story, with more natural trust
than any other, I mean that of familiar letters. I trust I shall be
excused if I attempt it as regards this one chapter; though, it may
be, that I shall break down and fall into the commonplace narrative,
even before the one chapter be completed. The correspondents are the
Lady Amelia de Courcy and Miss Gresham. I, of course, give precedence
to the higher rank, but the first epistle originated with the
latter-named young lady. Let me hope that they will explain
themselves.


   Miss Gresham to Lady Amelia de Courcy

   Greshamsbury House, June, 185--.

   MY DEAREST AMELIA,

   I wish to consult you on a subject which, as you will
   perceive, is of a most momentous nature. You know how much
   reliance I place in your judgement and knowledge of what
   is proper, and, therefore, I write to you before speaking
   to any other living person on the subject: not even to
   mamma; for, although her judgement is good too, she has so
   many cares and troubles, that it is natural that it should
   be a little warped when the interests of her children are
   concerned. Now that it is all over, I feel that it may
   possibly have been so in the case of Mr Moffat.

   You are aware that Mr Mortimer Gazebee is now staying
   here, and that he has been here for nearly two months. He
   is engaged in managing poor papa's affairs, and mamma, who
   likes him very much, says that he is a most excellent man
   of business. Of course, you know that he is the junior
   partner in the very old firm of Gumption, Gazebee, &
   Gazebee, who, I understand, do not undertake any business
   at all, except what comes to them from peers, or commoners
   of the very highest class.

   I soon perceived, dearest Amelia, that Mr Gazebee paid me
   more than ordinary attention, and I immediately became
   very guarded in my manner. I certainly liked Mr Gazebee
   from the first. His manners are quite excellent, his
   conduct to mamma is charming, and, as regards myself, I
   must say that there has been nothing in his behaviour of
   which even _you_ could complain. He has never attempted
   the slightest familiarity, and I will do him the justice
   to say, that, though he has been very attentive, he has
   also been very respectful.

   I must confess that, for the last three weeks, I have
   thought that he meant something. I might, perhaps, have
   done more to repel him; or I might have consulted you
   earlier as to the propriety of keeping altogether out of
   his way. But you know, Amelia, how often these things lead
   to nothing, and though I thought all along that Mr Gazebee
   was in earnest, I hardly liked to say anything about it
   even to you till I was quite certain. If you had advised
   me, you know, to accept his offer, and if, after that, he
   had never made it, I should have felt so foolish.

   But now he has made it. He came to me yesterday just
   before dinner, in the little drawing-room, and told me, in
   the most delicate manner, in words that even you could not
   have but approved, that his highest ambition was to be
   thought worthy of my regard, and that he felt for me the
   warmest love, and the most profound admiration, and the
   deepest respect. You may say, Amelia, that he is only an
   attorney, and I believe that he is an attorney; but I am
   sure you would have esteemed him had you heard the very
   delicate way in which he expressed his sentiments.

   Something had given me a presentiment of what he was going
   to do when I saw him come into the room, so that I was
   on my guard. I tried very hard to show no emotion; but I
   suppose I was a little flurried, as I once detected myself
   calling him Mr Mortimer: his name, you know, is Mortimer
   Gazebee. I ought not to have done so, certainly; but it
   was not so bad as if I had called him Mortimer without
   the Mr, was it? I don't think there could possibly be a
   prettier Christian name than Mortimer. Well, Amelia, I
   allowed him to express himself without interruption. He
   once attempted to take my hand; but even this was done
   without any assumption of familiarity; and when he saw
   that I would not permit it, he drew back, and fixed his
   eyes on the ground as though he were ashamed even of that.

   Of course, I had to give him an answer; and though I had
   expected that something of this sort would take place,
   I had not made up my mind on the subject. I would not,
   certainly, under any circumstances, accept him without
   consulting you. If I really disliked him, of course there
   would be no doubt; but I can't say, dearest Amelia, that
   I do absolutely dislike him; and I really think that we
   would make each other very happy, if the marriage were
   suitable as regarded both our positions.

   I collected myself as well as I could, and I really do
   think that you would have said that I did not behave
   badly, though the position was rather trying. I told him
   that, of course, I was flattered by his sentiments, though
   much surprised at hearing them; that since I knew him, I
   had esteemed and valued him as an acquaintance, but that,
   looking on him as a man of business, I had never expected
   anything more. I then endeavoured to explain to him, that
   I was not perhaps privileged, as some other girls might
   be, to indulge my own feelings altogether: perhaps that
   was saying too much, and might make him think that I was
   in love with him; but, from the way I said it, I don't
   think he would, for I was very much guarded in my manner,
   and very collected; and then I told him, that in any
   proposal of marriage that might be made to me, it would
   be my duty to consult my family as much, if not more than
   myself.

   He said, of course; and asked whether he might speak to
   papa. I tried to make him understand, that in talking of
   my family, I did not exactly mean papa, or even mamma.
   Of course I was thinking of what was due to the name of
   Gresham. I know very well what papa would say. He would
   give his consent in half a minute; he is so broken-hearted
   by these debts. And, to tell you the truth, Amelia, I
   think mamma would too. He did not seem quite to comprehend
   what I meant; but he did say that he knew it was a high
   ambition to marry into the family of the Greshams. I
   am sure you would confess that he has the most proper
   feelings; and as for expressing them no man could do it
   better.

   He owned that it was ambition to ally himself with a
   family above his own rank in life, and that he looked to
   doing so as a means of advancing himself. Now this was at
   any rate honest. That was one of his motives, he said;
   though, of course, not his first: and then he declared
   how truly attached he was to me. In answer to this, I
   remarked, that he had known me only a very short time.
   This, perhaps, was giving him too much encouragement; but,
   at that moment, I hardly knew what to say, for I did not
   wish to hurt his feelings. He then spoke of his income.
   He has fifteen hundred a year from the business, and that
   will be greatly increased when his father leaves it; and
   his father is much older than Mr Gumption, though he is
   only the second partner. Mortimer Gazebee will be the
   senior partner himself before very long; and perhaps that
   does alter his position a little.

   He has a very nice place down somewhere in Surrey; I have
   heard mamma say it is quite a gentleman's place. It is let
   now; but he will live there when he is married. And he
   has property of his own besides which he can settle. So,
   you see, he is quite as well off as Mr Oriel; better,
   indeed; and if a man is in a profession, I believe it is
   considered that it does not much matter what. Of course, a
   clergyman can be a bishop; but then, I think I have heard
   that one attorney did once become Lord Chancellor. I
   should have my carriage, you know; I remember his saying
   that, especially, though I cannot recollect how he brought
   it in.

   I told him, at last, that I was so much taken by surprise
   that I could not give him an answer then. He was going
   up to London, he said, on the next day, and might he
   be permitted to address me on the same subject when he
   returned? I could not refuse him, you know; and so now I
   have taken the opportunity of his absence to write to you
   for your advice. You understand the world so very well,
   and know so exactly what one ought to do in such a strange
   position!

   I hope I have made it intelligible, at least, as to what
   I have written about. I have said nothing as to my own
   feelings, because I wish you to think on the matter
   without consulting them. If it would be derogatory to
   accept Mr Gazebee, I certainly would not do so because I
   happen to like him. If we were to act in that way, what
   would the world come to, Amelia? Perhaps my ideas may be
   overstrained; if so, you will tell me.

   When Mr Oriel proposed for Beatrice, nobody seemed to make
   any objection. It all seemed to go as a matter of course.
   She says that his family is excellent; but as far as I can
   learn, his grandfather was a general in India, and came
   home very rich. Mr Gazebee's grandfather was a member of
   the firm, and so, I believe, was his great-grandfather.
   Don't you think this ought to count for something?
   Besides, they have no business except with the most
   aristocratic persons, such as uncle de Courcy, and the
   Marquis of Kensington Gore, and that sort. I mention the
   marquis, because Mr Mortimer Gazebee is there now. And I
   know that one of the Gumptions was once in Parliament; and
   I don't think that any of the Oriels ever were. The name
   of attorney is certainly very bad, is it not, Amelia? but
   they certainly do not seem to be all the same, and I do
   think that this ought to make a difference. To hear Mr
   Mortimer Gazebee talk of some attorney at Barchester, you
   would say that there is quite as much difference between
   them as between a bishop and a curate. And so I think
   there is.

   I don't wish at all to speak of my own feelings; but if he
   were not an attorney, he is, I think, the sort of man I
   should like. He is very nice in every way, and if you were
   not told, I don't think you'd know he was an attorney.
   But, dear Amelia, I will be guided by you altogether. He
   is certainly much nicer than Mr Moffat, and has a great
   deal more to say for himself. Of course, Mr Moffat having
   been in Parliament, and having been taken up by uncle
   de Courcy, was in a different sphere; but I really felt
   almost relieved when he behaved in that way. With Mortimer
   Gazebee, I think it would be different.

   I shall wait so impatiently for your answer, so do pray
   write at once. I hear some people say that these sort of
   things are not so much thought of now as they were once,
   and that all manner of marriages are considered to be
   _comme il faut_. I do not want, you know, to make myself
   foolish by being too particular. Perhaps all these changes
   are bad, and I rather think they are; but if the world
   changes, one must change too; one can't go against the
   world.

   So do write and tell me what you think. Do not suppose
   that I dislike the man, for I really cannot say that I do.
   But I would not for anything make an alliance for which
   any one bearing the name of de Courcy would have to blush.

   Always, dearest Amelia,

   Your most affectionate cousin,

   AUGUSTA GRESHAM.

   P.S.--I fear Frank is going to be very foolish with Mary
   Thorne. You know it is absolutely important that Frank
   should marry money.

   It strikes me as quite possible that Mortimer Gazebee may
   be in Parliament some of these days. He is just the man
   for it.


Poor Augusta prayed very hard for her husband; but she prayed to a
bosom that on this subject was as hard as a flint, and she prayed
in vain. Augusta Gresham was twenty-two, Lady Amelia de Courcy was
thirty-four; was it likely that Lady Amelia would permit Augusta
to marry, the issue having thus been left in her hands? Why should
Augusta derogate from her position by marrying beneath herself,
seeing that Lady Amelia had spent so many more years in the world
without having found it necessary to do so? Augusta's letter was
written on two sheets of note-paper, crossed all over; and Lady
Amelia's answer was almost equally formidable.


   Lady Amelia de Courcy to Miss Augusta Gresham

   Courcy Castle, June, 185--.

   MY DEAR AUGUSTA,

   I received your letter yesterday morning, but I have put
   off answering it till this evening, as I have wished to
   give it very mature consideration. The question is one
   which concerns, not only your character, but happiness
   for life, and nothing less than very mature consideration
   would justify me in giving a decided opinion on the
   subject.

   In the first place, I may tell you, that I have not a word
   to say against Mr Mortimer Gazebee. [When Augusta had read
   as far as this, her heart sank within her; the rest was
   all leather and prunella; she saw at once that the fiat
   had gone against her, and that her wish to become Mrs
   Mortimer Gazebee was not to be indulged.] I have known
   him for a long time, and I believe him to be a very
   respectable person, and I have no doubt a good man of
   business. The firm of Messrs Gumption & Gazebee stands
   probably quite among the first attorneys in London, and I
   know that papa has a very high opinion of them.

   All of these would be excellent arguments to use in favour
   of Mr Gazebee as a suitor, had his proposals been made to
   any one in his own rank of life. But you, in considering
   the matter, should, I think, look on it in a very
   different light. The very fact that you pronounce him to
   be so much superior to other attorneys, shows in how very
   low esteem you hold the profession in general. It shows
   also, dear Augusta, how well aware you are that they are a
   class of people among whom you should not seek a partner
   for life.

   My opinion is, that you should make Mr Gazebee
   understand--very courteously, of course--that you cannot
   accept his hand. You observe that he himself confesses,
   that in marrying you he would seek a wife in a rank above
   his own. Is it not, therefore, clear, that in marrying
   him, you would descend to a rank below your own?

   I shall be very sorry if this grieves you; but still
   it will be better that you should bear the grief of
   overcoming a temporary fancy, than take a step which may
   so probably make you unhappy; and which some of your
   friends would certainly regard as disgraceful.

   It is not permitted to us, my dear Augusta, to think of
   ourselves in such matters. As you truly say, if we were
   to act in that way, what would the world come to? It has
   been God's pleasure that we should be born with high blood
   in our veins. This is a great boon which we both value,
   but the boon has its responsibilities as well as its
   privileges. It is established by law, that the royal
   family shall not intermarry with subjects. In our case
   there is no law, but the necessity is not the less felt;
   we should not intermarry with those who are probably
   of a lower rank. Mr Mortimer Gazebee is, after all,
   only an attorney; and, although you speak of his
   great-grandfather, he is a man of no blood whatsoever. You
   must acknowledge that such an admixture should be looked
   on by a de Courcy, or even by a Gresham, as a pollution.
   [Here Augusta got very red, and she felt almost inclined
   to be angry with her cousin.] Beatrice's marriage with Mr
   Oriel is different; though, remember, I am by no means
   defending that; it may be good or bad, and I have had no
   opportunity of inquiring respecting Mr Oriel's family.
   Beatrice, moreover, has never appeared to me to feel
   what was due to herself in such matters; but, as I
   said, her marriage with Mr Oriel is very different.
   Clergymen--particularly the rectors and vicars of country
   parishes--do become privileged above other professional
   men. I could explain why, but it would be too long in a
   letter.

   Your feelings on the subject altogether do you great
   credit. I have no doubt that Mr Gresham, if asked, would
   accede to the match; but that is just the reason why he
   should not be asked. It would not be right that I should
   say anything against your father to you; but it is
   impossible for any of us not to see that all through life
   he has thrown away every advantage, and sacrificed his
   family. Why is he now in debt, as you say? Why is he not
   holding the family seat in Parliament? Even though you are
   his daughter, you cannot but feel that you would not do
   right to consult him on such a subject.

   As to dear aunt, I feel sure, that were she in good
   health, and left to exercise her own judgement, she would
   not wish to see you married to the agent for the family
   estate. For, dear Augusta, that is the real truth. Mr
   Gazebee often comes here in the way of business; and
   though papa always receives him as a gentleman--that is,
   he dines at table and all that--he is not on the same
   footing in the house as the ordinary guests and friends of
   the family. How would you like to be received at Courcy
   Castle in the same way?

   You will say, perhaps, that you would still be papa's
   niece; so you would. But you know how strict in such
   matters papa is, and you must remember, that the wife
   always follows the rank of the husband. Papa is accustomed
   to the strict etiquette of a court, and I am sure that no
   consideration would induce him to receive the estate-agent
   in the light of a nephew. Indeed, were you to marry Mr
   Gazebee, the house to which he belongs would, I imagine,
   have to give up the management of this property.

   Even were Mr Gazebee in Parliament--and I do not see how
   it is probable that he should get there--it would not make
   any difference. You must remember, dearest, that I never
   was an advocate for the Moffat match. I acquiesced in it,
   because mamma did so. If I could have had my own way,
   I would adhere to all our old prescriptive principles.
   Neither money nor position can atone to me for low birth.
   But the world, alas! is retrograding; and, according to
   the new-fangled doctrines of the day, a lady of blood is
   not disgraced by allying herself to a man of wealth, and
   what may be called quasi-aristocratic position. I wish it
   were otherwise; but so it is. And, therefore, the match
   with Mr Moffat was not disgraceful, though it could not be
   regarded as altogether satisfactory.

   But with Mr Gazebee the matter would be altogether
   different. He is a man earning his bread; honestly, I
   dare say, but in a humble position. You say he is very
   respectable: I do not doubt it; and so is Mr Scraggs,
   the butcher at Courcy. You see, Augusta, to what such
   arguments reduce you.

   I dare say he may be nicer than Mr Moffat, in one way.
   That is, he may have more small-talk at his command, and
   be more clever in all those little pursuits and amusements
   which are valued by ordinary young ladies. But my
   opinion is, that neither I nor you would be justified in
   sacrificing ourselves for such amusements. We have high
   duties before us. It may be that the performance of those
   duties will prohibit us from taking a part in the ordinary
   arena of the feminine world. It is natural that girls
   should wish to marry; and, therefore, those who are weak,
   take the first that come. Those who have more judgement,
   make some sort of selection. But the strongest-minded are,
   perhaps, those who are able to forgo themselves and their
   own fancies, and to refrain from any alliance that does
   not tend to the maintenance of high principles. Of course,
   I speak of those who have blood in their veins. You and I
   need not dilate as to the conduct of others.

   I hope what I have said will convince you. Indeed, I know
   that it only requires that you and I should have a little
   cousinly talk on this matter to be quite in accord. You
   must now remain at Greshamsbury till Mr Gazebee shall
   return. Immediately that he does so, seek an interview
   with him; do not wait till he asks for it; then tell him,
   that when he addressed you, the matter had taken you so
   much by surprise, that you were not at the moment able to
   answer him with that decision that the subject demanded.
   Tell him, that you are flattered--in saying this, however,
   you must keep a collected countenance, and be very cold
   in your manner--but that family reasons would forbid you
   to avail yourself of his offer, even did no other cause
   prevent it.

   And then, dear Augusta, come to us here. I know you
   will be a little down-hearted after going through this
   struggle; but I will endeavour to inspirit you. When we
   are both together, you will feel more sensibly the value
   of that high position which you will preserve by rejecting
   Mr Gazebee, and will regret less acutely whatever you may
   lose.

   Your very affectionate cousin,

   AMELIA DE COURCY.

   P.S.--I am greatly grieved about Frank; but I have long
   feared that he would do some very silly thing. I have
   heard lately that Miss Mary Thorne is not even the
   legitimate niece of your Dr Thorne, but is the daughter
   of some poor creature who was seduced by the doctor, in
   Barchester. I do not know how true this may be, but I
   think your brother should be put on his guard: it might do
   good.


Poor Augusta! She was in truth to be pitied, for her efforts were
made with the intention of doing right according to her lights. For
Mr Moffat she had never cared a straw; and when, therefore, she lost
the piece of gilding for which she had been instructed by her mother
to sell herself, it was impossible to pity her. But Mr Gazebee she
would have loved with that sort of love which it was in her power
to bestow. With him she would have been happy, respectable, and
contented.

She had written her letter with great care. When the offer was made
to her, she could not bring herself to throw Lady Amelia to the winds
and marry the man, as it were, out of her own head. Lady Amelia had
been the tyrant of her life, and so she strove hard to obtain her
tyrant's permission. She used all her little cunning in showing
that, after all, Mr Gazebee was not so very plebeian. All her little
cunning was utterly worthless. Lady Amelia's mind was too strong to
be caught with such chaff. Augusta could not serve God and Mammon.
She must either be true to the god of her cousin's idolatry, and
remain single, or serve the Mammon of her own inclinations, and marry
Mr Gazebee.

When refolding her cousin's letter, after the first perusal, she did
for a moment think of rebellion. Could she not be happy at the nice
place in Surrey, having, as she would have, a carriage, even though
all the de Courcys should drop her? It had been put to her that
she would not like to be received at Courcy Castle with the scant
civility which would be considered due to a Mrs Mortimer Gazebee; but
what if she could put up without being received at Courcy Castle at
all? Such ideas did float through her mind, dimly.

But her courage failed her. It is so hard to throw off a tyrant; so
much easier to yield, when we have been in the habit of yielding.
This third letter, therefore, was written; and it is the end of the
correspondence.


   Miss Augusta Gresham to Lady Amelia de Courcy

   Greshamsbury House, July, 185--.

   MY DEAREST AMELIA,

   I did not answer your letter before, because I thought it
   better to delay doing so till Mr Gazebee had been here.
   He came the day before yesterday, and yesterday I did,
   as nearly as possible, what you advised. Perhaps, on
   the whole, it will be better. As you say, rank has its
   responsibilities as well as its privileges.

   I don't quite understand what you mean about clergymen,
   but we can talk that over when we meet. Indeed, it seems
   to me that if one is to be particular about family--and
   I am sure I think we ought--one ought to be so without
   exception. If Mr Oriel be a _parvenu_, Beatrice's
   children won't be well born merely because their father
   was a clergyman, even though he is a rector. Since
   my former letter, I have heard that Mr Gazebee's
   great-great-great-grandfather established the firm; and
   there are many people who were nobodies then who are
   thought to have good blood in their veins now.

   But I do not say this because I differ from you. I agree
   with you so fully, that I at once made up my mind to
   reject the man; and, consequently, I have done so.

   When I told him I could not accept him from family
   considerations, he asked me whether I had spoken to papa.
   I told him, no; and that it would be no good, as I had
   made up my own mind. I don't think he quite understood me;
   but it did not perhaps much matter. You told me to be very
   cold, and I think that perhaps he thought me less gracious
   than before. Indeed, I fear that when he first spoke,
   I may seem to have given him too much encouragement.
   However, it is all over now; quite over! [As Augusta wrote
   this, she barely managed to save the paper beneath her
   hand from being moistened with the tear which escaped from
   her eye.]

   I do not mind confessing now, [she continued] at any rate
   to you, that I did like Mr Gazebee a little. I think his
   temper and disposition would have suited me. But I am
   quite satisfied that I have done right. He tried very hard
   to make me change my mind. That is, he said a great many
   things as to whether I would not put off my decision. But
   I was quite firm. I must say that he behaved very well,
   and that I really do think he liked me honestly and truly;
   but, of course, I could not sacrifice family
   considerations on that account.

   Yes, rank has its responsibilities as well as its
   privileges. I will remember that. It is necessary to do
   so, as otherwise one would be without consolation for what
   one has to suffer. For I find that one has to suffer,
   Amelia. I know papa would have advised me to marry this
   man; and so, I dare say, mamma would, and Frank, and
   Beatrice, if they knew that I liked him. It would not be
   so bad if we all thought alike about it; but it is hard to
   have the responsibilities all on one's own shoulder; is it
   not?

   But I will go over to you, and you will comfort me. I
   always feel stronger on this subject at Courcy than at
   Greshamsbury. We will have a long talk about it, and then
   I shall be happy again. I purpose going on next Friday, if
   that will suit you and dear aunt. I have told mamma that
   you all wanted me, and she made no objection. Do write at
   once, dearest Amelia, for to hear from you now will be my
   only comfort.

   Yours, ever most affectionately and obliged,

   AUGUSTA GRESHAM.

   P.S.--I told mamma what you said about Mary Thorne, and
   she said, "Yes; I suppose all the world knows it now; and
   if all the world did know it, it makes no difference to
   Frank." She seemed very angry; so you see it was true.


Though, by so doing, we shall somewhat anticipate the end of our
story, it may be desirable that the full tale of Mr Gazebee's loves
should be told here. When Mary is breaking her heart on her death-bed
in the last chapter, or otherwise accomplishing her destiny, we shall
hardly find a fit opportunity of saying much about Mr Gazebee and his
aristocratic bride.

For he did succeed at last in obtaining a bride in whose veins ran
the noble ichor of de Courcy blood, in spite of the high doctrine
preached so eloquently by the Lady Amelia. As Augusta had truly said,
he had failed to understand her. He was led to think, by her manner
of receiving his first proposal--and justly so, enough--that she
liked him, and would accept him; and he was, therefore, rather
perplexed by his second interview. He tried again and again, and
begged permission to mention the matter to Mr Gresham; but Augusta
was very firm, and he at last retired in disgust. Augusta went to
Courcy Castle, and received from her cousin that consolation and
re-strengthening which she so much required.

Four years afterwards--long after the fate of Mary Thorne had fallen,
like a thunderbolt, on the inhabitants of Greshamsbury; when Beatrice
was preparing for her second baby, and each of the twins had her
accepted lover--Mr Mortimer Gazebee went down to Courcy Castle; of
course, on matters of business. No doubt he dined at the table, and
all that. We have the word of Lady Amelia, that the earl, with his
usual good-nature, allowed him such privileges. Let us hope that he
never encroached on them.

But on this occasion, Mr Gazebee stayed a long time at the castle,
and singular rumours as to the cause of his prolonged visit became
current in the little town. No female scion of the present family of
Courcy had, as yet, found a mate. We may imagine that eagles find it
difficult to pair when they become scarce in their localities; and
we all know how hard it has sometimes been to get _comme il faut_
husbands when there has been any number of Protestant princesses on
hand.

Some such difficulty had, doubtless, brought it about that the
countess was still surrounded by her full bevy of maidens. Rank has
its responsibilities as well as its privileges, and these young
ladies' responsibilities seemed to have consisted in rejecting any
suitor who may have hitherto kneeled to them. But now it was told
through Courcy, that one suitor had kneeled, and not in vain; from
Courcy the rumour flew to Barchester, and thence came down to
Greshamsbury, startling the inhabitants, and making one poor heart
throb with a violence that would have been piteous had it been known.
The suitor, so named, was Mr Mortimer Gazebee.

Yes; Mr Mortimer Gazebee had now awarded to him many other privileges
than those of dining at the table, and all that. He rode with the
young ladies in the park, and they all talked to him very familiarly
before company; all except the Lady Amelia. The countess even called
him Mortimer, and treated him quite as one of the family.

At last came a letter from the countess to her dear sister Arabella.
It should be given at length, but that I fear to introduce another
epistle. It is such an easy mode of writing, and facility is always
dangerous. In this letter it was announced with much preliminary
ambiguity, that Mortimer Gazebee--who had been found to be a treasure
in every way; quite a paragon of men--was about to be taken into the
de Courcy bosom as a child of that house. On that day fortnight, he
was destined to lead to the altar--the Lady Amelia.

The countess then went on to say, that dear Amelia did not
write herself, being so much engaged by her coming duties--the
responsibilities of which she doubtless fully realised, as well as
the privileges; but she had begged her mother to request that the
twins should come and act as bridesmaids on the occasion. Dear
Augusta, she knew, was too much occupied in the coming event in Mr
Oriel's family to be able to attend.

Mr Mortimer Gazebee was taken into the de Courcy family, and did lead
the Lady Amelia to the altar; and the Gresham twins did go there and
act as bridesmaids. And, which is much more to say for human nature,
Augusta did forgive her cousin, and, after a certain interval, went
on a visit to that nice place in Surrey which she had once hoped
would be her own home. It would have been a very nice place, Augusta
thought, had not Lady Amelia Gazebee been so very economical.

We must presume that there was some explanation between them. If so,
Augusta yielded to it, and confessed it to be satisfactory. She had
always yielded to her cousin, and loved her with that sort of love
which is begotten between fear and respect. Anything was better than
quarrelling with her cousin Amelia.

And Mr Mortimer Gazebee did not altogether make a bad bargain. He
never received a shilling of dowry, but that he had not expected.
Nor did he want it. His troubles arose from the overstrained economy
of his noble wife. She would have it, that as she had married a
poor man--Mr Gazebee, however, was not a poor man--it behoved
her to manage her house with great care. Such a match as that
she had made--this she told in confidence to Augusta--had its
responsibilities as well as its privileges.

But, on the whole, Mr Gazebee did not repent his bargain; when he
asked his friends to dine, he could tell them that Lady Amelia would
be very glad to see them; his marriage gave him some éclat at his
club, and some additional weight in the firm to which he belonged;
he gets his share of the Courcy shooting, and is asked about to
Greshamsbury and other Barsetshire houses, not only "to dine at table
and all that," but to take his part in whatever delights country
society there has to offer. He lives with the great hope that
his noble father-in-law may some day be able to bring him into
Parliament.




CHAPTER XXXIX

What the World Says about Blood


"Beatrice," said Frank, rushing suddenly into his sister's room, "I
want you to do me one especial favour." This was three or four days
after Frank had seen Mary Thorne. Since that time he had spoken to
none of his family on the subject; but he was only postponing from
day to day the task of telling his father. He had now completed his
round of visits to the kennel, master huntsman, and stables of the
county hunt, and was at liberty to attend to his own affairs. So he
had decided on speaking to the squire that very day; but he first
made his request to his sister.

"I want you to do me one especial favour." The day for Beatrice's
marriage had now been fixed, and it was not to be very distant.
Mr Oriel had urged that their honeymoon trip would lose half its
delights if they did not take advantage of the fine weather; and
Beatrice had nothing to allege in answer. The day had just been
fixed, and when Frank ran into her room with his special request,
she was not in a humour to refuse him anything.

"If you wish me to be at your wedding, you must do it," said he.

"Wish you to be there! You must be there, of course. Oh, Frank! what
do you mean? I'll do anything you ask; if it is not to go to the
moon, or anything of that sort."

Frank was too much in earnest to joke. "You must have Mary for one of
your bridesmaids," he said. "Now, mind; there may be some difficulty,
but you must insist on it. I know what has been going on; but it is
not to be borne that she should be excluded on such a day as that.
You that have been like sisters all your lives till a year ago!"

"But, Frank--"

"Now, Beatrice, don't have any buts; say that you will do it, and it
will be done: I am sure Oriel will approve, and so will my father."

"But, Frank, you won't hear me."

"Not if you make objections; I have set my heart on your doing it."

"But I had set my heart on the same thing."

"Well?"

"And I went to Mary on purpose; and told her just as you tell me now,
that she must come. I meant to make mamma understand that I could not
be happy unless it were so; but Mary positively refused."

"Refused! What did she say?"

"I could not tell you what she said; indeed, it would not be right if
I could; but she positively declined. She seemed to feel, that after
all that had happened, she never could come to Greshamsbury again."

"Fiddlestick!"

"But, Frank, those are her feelings; and, to tell the truth, I could
not combat them. I know she is not happy; but time will cure that.
And, to tell you the truth, Frank--"

"It was before I came back that you asked her, was it not?"

"Yes; just the day before you came, I think."

"Well, it's all altered now. I have seen her since that."

"Have you Frank?"

"What do you take me for? Of course, I have. The very first day I
went to her. And now, Beatrice, you may believe me or not, as you
like; but if I ever marry, I shall marry Mary Thorne; and if ever she
marries, I think I may say, she will marry me. At any rate, I have
her promise. And now, you cannot be surprised that I should wish
her to be at your wedding; or that I should declare, that if she is
absent, I will be absent. I don't want any secrets, and you may tell
my mother if you like it--and all the de Courcys too, for anything I
care."

Frank had ever been used to command his sisters: and they, especially
Beatrice, had ever been used to obey. On this occasion, she was well
inclined to do so, if she only knew how. She again remembered how
Mary had once sworn to be at her wedding, to be near her, and to
touch her--even though all the blood of the de Courcys should be
crowded before the altar railings.

"I should be so happy that she should be there; but what am I to do,
Frank, if she refuses? I have asked her, and she has refused."

"Go to her again; you need not have any scruples with her. Do
not I tell you she will be your sister? Not come here again to
Greshamsbury! Why, I tell you that she will be living here while you
are living there at the parsonage, for years and years to come."

Beatrice promised that she would go to Mary again, and that she would
endeavour to talk her mother over if Mary would consent to come. But
she could not yet make herself believe that Mary Thorne would ever
be mistress of Greshamsbury. It was so indispensably necessary that
Frank should marry money! Besides, what were those horrid rumours
which were now becoming rife as to Mary's birth; rumours more horrid
than any which had yet been heard?

Augusta had said hardly more than the truth when she spoke of her
father being broken-hearted by his debts. His troubles were becoming
almost too many for him; and Mr Gazebee, though no doubt he was an
excellent man of business, did not seem to lessen them. Mr Gazebee,
indeed, was continually pointing out how much he owed, and in what
a quagmire of difficulties he had entangled himself. Now, to do Mr
Yates Umbleby justice, he had never made himself disagreeable in this
manner.

Mr Gazebee had been doubtless right, when he declared that Sir Louis
Scatcherd had not himself the power to take any steps hostile to the
squire; but Sir Louis had also been right, when he boasted that,
in spite of his father's will, he could cause others to move in
the matter. Others did move, and were moving, and it began to be
understood that a moiety, at least, of the remaining Greshamsbury
property must be sold. Even this, however, would by no means leave
the squire in undisturbed possession of the other moiety. And thus,
Mr Gresham was nearly broken-hearted.

Frank had now been at home a week, and his father had not as yet
spoken to him about the family troubles; nor had a word as yet been
said between them as to Mary Thorne. It had been agreed that Frank
should go away for twelve months, in order that he might forget her.
He had been away the twelvemonth, and had now returned, not having
forgotten her.

It generally happens, that in every household, one subject of
importance occupies it at a time. The subject of importance now
mostly thought of in the Greshamsbury household, was the marriage of
Beatrice. Lady Arabella had to supply the trousseau for her daughter;
the squire had to supply the money for the trousseau; Mr Gazebee had
the task of obtaining the money for the squire. While this was going
on, Mr Gresham was not anxious to talk to his son, either about his
own debts or his son's love. There would be time for these things
when the marriage-feast should be over.

So thought the father, but the matter was precipitated by Frank. He
also had put off the declaration which he had to make, partly from
a wish to spare the squire, but partly also with a view to spare
himself. We have all some of that cowardice which induces us to
postpone an inevitably evil day. At this time the discussions as
to Beatrice's wedding were frequent in the house, and at one of
them Frank had heard his mother repeat the names of the proposed
bridesmaids. Mary's name was not among them, and hence had arisen his
attack on his sister.

Lady Arabella had had her reason for naming the list before her son;
but she overshot her mark. She wished to show him how totally Mary
was forgotten at Greshamsbury; but she only inspired him with a
resolve that she should not be forgotten. He accordingly went to his
sister; and then, the subject being full on his mind, he resolved at
once to discuss it with his father.

"Sir, are you at leisure for five minutes?" he said, entering the
room in which the squire was accustomed to sit majestically, to
receive his tenants, scold his dependants, and in which, in former
happy days, he had always arranged the meets of the Barsetshire hunt.

Mr Gresham was quite at leisure: when was he not so? But had he been
immersed in the deepest business of which he was capable, he would
gladly have put it aside at his son's instance.

"I don't like to have any secret from you, sir," said Frank; "nor,
for the matter of that, from anybody else"--the anybody else was
intended to have reference to his mother--"and, therefore, I would
rather tell you at once what I have made up my mind to do."

Frank's address was very abrupt, and he felt it was so. He was rather
red in the face, and his manner was fluttered. He had quite made up
his mind to break the whole affair to his father; but he had hardly
made up his mind as to the best mode of doing so.

"Good heavens, Frank! what do you mean? you are not going to do
anything rash? What is it you mean, Frank?"

"I don't think it is rash," said Frank.

"Sit down, my boy; sit down. What is it that you say you are going to
do?"

"Nothing immediately, sir," said he, rather abashed; "but as I have
made up my mind about Mary Thorne,--quite made up my mind, I think it
right to tell you."

"Oh, about Mary," said the squire, almost relieved.

And then Frank, in voluble language, which he hardly, however, had
quite under his command, told his father all that had passed between
him and Mary. "You see, sir," said he, "that it is fixed now, and
cannot be altered. Nor must it be altered. You asked me to go away
for twelve months, and I have done so. It has made no difference, you
see. As to our means of living, I am quite willing to do anything
that may be best and most prudent. I was thinking, sir, of taking a
farm somewhere near here, and living on that."

The squire sat quite silent for some moments after this communication
had been made to him. Frank's conduct, as a son, had been such that
he could not find fault with it; and, in this special matter of his
love, how was it possible for him to find fault? He himself was
almost as fond of Mary as of a daughter; and, though he too would
have been desirous that his son should relieve the estate from its
embarrassments by a rich marriage, he did not at all share Lady
Arabella's feelings on the subject. No Countess de Courcy had ever
engraved it on the tablets of his mind that the world would come to
ruin if Frank did not marry money. Ruin there was, and would be, but
it had been brought about by no sin of Frank's.

"Do you remember about her birth, Frank?" he said, at last.

"Yes, sir; everything. She told me all she knew; and Dr Thorne
finished the story."

"And what do you think of it?"

"It is a pity, and a misfortune. It might, perhaps, have been a
reason why you or my mother should not have had Mary in the house
many years ago; but it cannot make any difference now."

Frank had not meant to lean so heavily on his father; but he did do
so. The story had never been told to Lady Arabella; was not even
known to her now, positively, and on good authority. But Mr Gresham
had always known it. If Mary's birth was so great a stain upon her,
why had he brought her into his house among his children?

"It is a misfortune, Frank; a very great misfortune. It will not
do for you and me to ignore birth; too much of the value of one's
position depends upon it."

"But what was Mr Moffat's birth?" said Frank, almost with scorn; "or
what Miss Dunstable's?" he would have added, had it not been that his
father had not been concerned in that sin of wedding him to the oil
of Lebanon.

"True, Frank. But yet, what you would mean to say is not true. We
must take the world as we find it. Were you to marry a rich heiress,
were her birth even as low as that of poor Mary--"

"Don't call her poor Mary, father; she is not poor. My wife will have
a right to take rank in the world, however she was born."

"Well,--poor in that way. But were she an heiress, the world would
forgive her birth on account of her wealth."

"The world is very complaisant, sir."

"You must take it as you find it, Frank. I only say that such is the
fact. If Porlock were to marry the daughter of a shoeblack, without a
farthing, he would make a _mésalliance_; but if the daughter of the
shoeblack had half a million of money, nobody would dream of saying
so. I am stating no opinion of my own: I am only giving you the
world's opinion."

"I don't give a straw for the world."

"That is a mistake, my boy; you do care for it, and would be very
foolish if you did not. What you mean is, that, on this particular
point, you value your love more than the world's opinion."

"Well, yes, that is what I mean."

But the squire, though he had been very lucid in his definition, had
got no nearer to his object; had not even yet ascertained what his
own object was. This marriage would be ruinous to Greshamsbury; and
yet, what was he to say against it, seeing that the ruin had been
his fault, and not his son's?

"You could let me have a farm; could you not, sir? I was thinking
of about six or seven hundred acres. I suppose it could be managed
somehow?"

"A farm?" said the father, abstractedly.

"Yes, sir. I must do something for my living. I should make less of
a mess of that than of anything else. Besides, it would take such a
time to be an attorney, or a doctor, or anything of that sort."

Do something for his living! And was the heir of Greshamsbury come to
this--the heir and only son? Whereas, he, the squire, had succeeded
at an earlier age than Frank's to an unembarrassed income of fourteen
thousand pounds a year! The reflection was very hard to bear.

"Yes: I dare say you could have a farm:" and then he threw himself
back in his chair, closing his eyes. Then, after a while, rose again,
and walked hurriedly about the room. "Frank," he said, at last,
standing opposite to his son, "I wonder what you think of me?"

"Think of you, sir?" ejaculated Frank.

"Yes; what do you think of me, for having thus ruined you. I wonder
whether you hate me?"

Frank, jumping up from his chair, threw his arms round his father's
neck. "Hate you, sir? How can you speak so cruelly? You know well
that I love you. And, father, do not trouble yourself about the
estate for my sake. I do not care for it; I can be just as happy
without it. Let the girls have what is left, and I will make my own
way in the world, somehow. I will go to Australia; yes, sir, that
will be best. I and Mary will both go. Nobody will care about her
birth there. But, father, never say, never think, that I do not love
you!"

The squire was too much moved to speak at once, so he sat down again,
and covered his face with his hands. Frank went on pacing the room,
till, gradually, his first idea recovered possession of his mind, and
the remembrance of his father's grief faded away. "May I tell Mary,"
he said at last, "that you consent to our marriage? It will make her
so happy."

But the squire was not prepared to say this. He was pledged to his
wife to do all that he could to oppose it; and he himself thought,
that if anything could consummate the family ruin, it would be this
marriage.

"I cannot say that, Frank; I cannot say that. What would you both
live on? It would be madness."

"We would go to Australia," answered he, bitterly. "I have just said
so."

"Oh, no, my boy; you cannot do that. You must not throw the old place
up altogether. There is no other one but you, Frank; and we have
lived here now for so many, many years."

"But if we cannot live here any longer, father?"

"But for this scheme of yours, we might do so. I will give up
everything to you, the management of the estate, the park, all the
land we have in hand, if you will give up this fatal scheme. For,
Frank, it is fatal. You are only twenty-three; why should you be in
such a hurry to marry?"

"You married at twenty-one, sir."

Frank was again severe on his father, but unwittingly. "Yes, I did,"
said Mr Gresham; "and see what has come of it! Had I waited ten years
longer, how different would everything have been! No, Frank, I cannot
consent to such a marriage; nor will your mother."

"It is your consent I ask, sir; and I am asking for nothing but your
consent."

"It would be sheer madness; madness for you both. My own Frank, my
dear, dear boy, do not drive me to distraction! Give it up for four
years."

"Four years!"

"Yes; for four years. I ask it as a personal favour; as an obligation
to myself, in order that we may be saved from ruin; you, your mother,
and sisters, your family name, and the old house. I do not talk about
myself; but were such a marriage to take place, I should be driven to
despair."

Frank found it very hard to resist his father, who now had hold of
his hand and arm, and was thus half retaining him, and half embracing
him. "Frank, say that you will forget this for four years--say for
three years."

But Frank would not say so. To postpone his marriage for four years,
or for three, seemed to him to be tantamount to giving up Mary
altogether; and he would not acknowledge that any one had the right
to demand of him to do that.

"My word is pledged, sir," he said.

"Pledged! Pledged to whom?"

"To Miss Thorne."

"But I will see her, Frank;--and her uncle. She was always
reasonable. I am sure she will not wish to bring ruin on her old
friends at Greshamsbury."

"Her old friends at Greshamsbury have done but little lately to
deserve her consideration. She has been treated shamefully. I know
it has not been by you, sir; but I must say so. She has already been
treated shamefully; but I will not treat her falsely."

"Well, Frank, I can say no more to you. I have destroyed the estate
which should have been yours, and I have no right to expect you
should regard what I say."

Frank was greatly distressed. He had not any feeling of animosity
against his father with reference to the property, and would have
done anything to make the squire understand this, short of giving up
his engagement to Mary. His feeling rather was, that, as each had a
case against the other, they should cry quits; that he should forgive
his father for his bad management, on condition that he himself was
to be forgiven with regard to his determined marriage. Not that he
put it exactly in that shape, even to himself; but could he have
unravelled his own thoughts, he would have found that such was the
web on which they were based.

"Father, I do regard what you say; but you would not have me be
false. Had you doubled the property instead of lessening it, I could
not regard what you say any more."

"I should be able to speak in a very different tone; I feel that,
Frank."

"Do not feel it any more, sir; say what you wish, as you would have
said it under any other circumstances; and pray believe this, the
idea never occurs to me, that I have ground of complaint as regards
the property; never. Whatever troubles we may have, do not let that
trouble you."

Soon after this Frank left him. What more was there that could be
said between them? They could not be of one accord; but even yet it
might not be necessary that they should quarrel. He went out, and
roamed by himself through the grounds, rather more in meditation than
was his wont.

If he did marry, how was he to live? He talked of a profession; but
had he meant to do as others do, who make their way in professions,
he should have thought of that a year or two ago!--or, rather, have
done more than think of it. He spoke also of a farm, but even that
could not be had in a moment; nor, if it could, would it produce a
living. Where was his capital? Where his skill? and he might have
asked also, where the industry so necessary for such a trade? He
might set his father at defiance, and if Mary were equally headstrong
with himself, he might marry her. But, what then?

As he walked slowly about, cutting off the daisies with his stick, he
met Mr Oriel, going up to the house, as was now his custom, to dine
there and spend the evening, close to Beatrice.

"How I envy you, Oriel!" he said. "What would I not give to have such
a position in the world as yours!"

"Thou shalt not covet a man's house, nor his wife," said Mr Oriel;
"perhaps it ought to have been added, nor his position."

"It wouldn't have made much difference. When a man is tempted, the
Commandments, I believe, do not go for much."

"Do they not, Frank? That's a dangerous doctrine; and one which, if
you had my position, you would hardly admit. But what makes you so
much out of sorts? Your own position is generally considered about
the best which the world has to give."

"Is it? Then let me tell you that the world has very little to give.
What can I do? Where can I turn? Oriel, if there be an empty, lying
humbug in the world, it is the theory of high birth and pure blood
which some of us endeavour to maintain. Blood, indeed! If my father
had been a baker, I should know by this time where to look for my
livelihood. As it is, I am told of nothing but my blood. Will my
blood ever get me half a crown?"

And then the young democrat walked on again in solitude, leaving Mr
Oriel in doubt as to the exact line of argument which he had meant to
inculcate.




CHAPTER XL

The Two Doctors Change Patients


Dr Fillgrave still continued his visits to Greshamsbury, for Lady
Arabella had not yet mustered the courage necessary for swallowing
her pride and sending once more for Dr Thorne. Nothing pleased Dr
Fillgrave more than those visits.

He habitually attended grander families, and richer people; but then,
he had attended them habitually. Greshamsbury was a prize taken from
the enemy; it was his rock of Gibraltar, of which he thought much
more than of any ordinary Hampshire or Wiltshire which had always
been within his own kingdom.

He was just starting one morning with his post-horses for
Greshamsbury, when an impudent-looking groom, with a crooked nose,
trotted up to his door. For Joe still had a crooked nose, all the
doctor's care having been inefficacious to remedy the evil effects
of Bridget's little tap with the rolling-pin. Joe had no written
credentials, for his master was hardly equal to writing, and
Lady Scatcherd had declined to put herself into further personal
communication with Dr Fillgrave; but he had effrontery enough to
deliver any message.

"Be you Dr Fillgrave?" said Joe, with one finger just raised to his
cocked hat.

"Yes," said Dr Fillgrave, with one foot on the step of the carriage,
but pausing at the sight of so well-turned-out a servant. "Yes; I am
Dr Fillgrave."

"Then you be to go to Boxall Hill immediately; before anywhere else."

"Boxall Hill!" said the doctor, with a very angry frown.

"Yes; Boxall Hill: my master's place--my master is Sir Louis
Scatcherd, baronet. You've heard of him, I suppose?"

Dr Fillgrave had not his mind quite ready for such an occasion. So he
withdrew his foot from the carriage step, and rubbing his hands one
over another, looked at his own hall door for inspiration. A single
glance at his face was sufficient to show that no ordinary thoughts
were being turned over within his breast.

"Well!" said Joe, thinking that his master's name had not altogether
produced the magic effect which he had expected; remembering, also,
how submissive Greyson had always been, who, being a London doctor,
must be supposed to be a bigger man than this provincial fellow.
"Do you know as how my master is dying, very like, while you stand
there?"

"What is your master's disease?" said the doctor, facing Joe, slowly,
and still rubbing his hands. "What ails him? What is the matter with
him?"

"Oh; the matter with him? Well, to say it out at once then, he do
take a drop too much at times, and then he has the horrors--what is
it they call it? delicious beam-ends, or something of that sort."

"Oh, ah, yes; I know; and tell me, my man, who is attending him?"

"Attending him? why, I do, and his mother, that is, her ladyship."

"Yes; but what medical attendant: what doctor?"

"Why, there was Greyson, in London, and--"

"Greyson!" and the doctor looked as though a name so medicinally
humble had never before struck the tympanum of his ear.

"Yes; Greyson. And then, down at what's the name of the place, there
was Thorne."

"Greshamsbury?"

"Yes; Greshamsbury. But he and Thorne didn't hit it off; and so since
that he has had no one but myself."

"I will be at Boxall Hill in the course of the morning," said Dr
Fillgrave; "or, rather, you may say, that I will be there at once: I
will take it in my way." And having thus resolved, he gave his orders
that the post-horses should make such a detour as would enable him
to visit Boxall Hill on his road. "It is impossible," said he to
himself, "that I should be twice treated in such a manner in the same
house."

He was not, however, altogether in a comfortable frame of mind as he
was driven up to the hall door. He could not but remember the smile
of triumph with which his enemy had regarded him in that hall; he
could not but think how he had returned fee-less to Barchester, and
how little he had gained in the medical world by rejecting Lady
Scatcherd's bank-note. However, he also had had his triumphs since
that. He had smiled scornfully at Dr Thorne when he had seen him in
the Greshamsbury street; and had been able to tell, at twenty houses
through the county, how Lady Arabella had at last been obliged to
place herself in his hands. And he triumphed again when he found
himself really standing by Sir Louis Scatcherd's bedside. As for Lady
Scatcherd, she did not even show herself. She kept in her own little
room, sending out Hannah to ask him up the stairs; and she only just
got a peep at him through the door as she heard the medical creak of
his shoes as he again descended.

We need say but little of his visit to Sir Louis. It mattered
nothing now, whether it was Thorne, or Greyson, or Fillgrave. And Dr
Fillgrave knew that it mattered nothing: he had skill at least for
that--and heart enough also to feel that he would fain have been
relieved from this task; would fain have left this patient in the
hands even of Dr Thorne.

The name which Joe had given to his master's illness was certainly
not a false one. He did find Sir Louis "in the horrors." If any
father have a son whose besetting sin is a passion for alcohol, let
him take his child to the room of a drunkard when possessed by "the
horrors." Nothing will cure him if not that.

I will not disgust my reader by attempting to describe the poor
wretch in his misery: the sunken, but yet glaring eyes; the emaciated
cheeks; the fallen mouth; the parched, sore lips; the face, now dry
and hot, and then suddenly clammy with drops of perspiration; the
shaking hand, and all but palsied limbs; and worse than this, the
fearful mental efforts, and the struggles for drink; struggles to
which it is often necessary to give way.

Dr Fillgrave soon knew what was to be the man's fate; but he did what
he might to relieve it. There, in one big, best bedroom, looking out
to the north, lay Sir Louis Scatcherd, dying wretchedly. There, in
the other big, best bedroom, looking out to the south, had died the
other baronet about a twelvemonth since, and each a victim to the
same sin. To this had come the prosperity of the house of Scatcherd!

And then Dr Fillgrave went on to Greshamsbury. It was a long day's
work, both for himself and the horses; but then, the triumph of being
dragged up that avenue compensated for both the expense and the
labour. He always put on his sweetest smile as he came near the hall
door, and rubbed his hands in the most complaisant manner of which he
knew. It was seldom that he saw any of the family but Lady Arabella;
but then he desired to see none other, and when he left her in a good
humour, was quite content to take his glass of sherry and eat his
lunch by himself.

On this occasion, however, the servant at once asked him to go into
the dining-room, and there he found himself in the presence of Frank
Gresham. The fact was, that Lady Arabella, having at last decided,
had sent for Dr Thorne; and it had become necessary that some one
should be entrusted with the duty of informing Dr Fillgrave. That
some one must be the squire, or Frank. Lady Arabella would doubtless
have preferred a messenger more absolutely friendly to her own side
of the house; but such messenger there was none: she could not send
Mr Gazebee to see her doctor, and so, of the two evils, she chose the
least.

"Dr Fillgrave," said Frank, shaking hands with him very cordially as
he came up, "my mother is so much obliged to you for all your care
and anxiety on her behalf! and, so indeed, are we all."

The doctor shook hands with him very warmly. This little expression
of a family feeling on his behalf was the more gratifying, as he had
always thought that the males of the Greshamsbury family were still
wedded to that pseudo-doctor, that half-apothecary who lived in the
village.

"It has been awfully troublesome to you, coming over all this way, I
am sure. Indeed, money could not pay for it; my mother feels that. It
must cut up your time so much."

"Not at all, Mr Gresham; not at all," said the Barchester doctor,
rising up on his toes proudly as he spoke. "A person of your mother's
importance, you know! I should be happy to go any distance to see
her."

"Ah! but, Dr Fillgrave, we cannot allow that."

"Mr Gresham, don't mention it."

"Oh, yes; but I must," said Frank, who thought that he had done
enough for civility, and was now anxious to come to the point. "The
fact is, doctor, that we are very much obliged for what you have
done; but, for the future, my mother thinks she can trust to such
assistance as she can get here in the village."

Frank had been particularly instructed to be very careful how he
mentioned Dr Thorne's name, and, therefore, cleverly avoided it.

Get what assistance she wanted in the village! What words were those
that he heard? "Mr Gresham, eh--hem--perhaps I do not completely--"
Yes, alas! he had completely understood what Frank had meant that he
should understand. Frank desired to be civil, but he had no idea of
beating unnecessarily about the bush on such an occasion as this.

"It's by Sir Omicron's advice, Dr Fillgrave. You see, this man
here"--and he nodded his head towards the doctor's house, being still
anxious not to pronounce the hideous name--"has known my mother's
constitution for so many years."

"Oh, Mr Gresham; of course, if it is wished."

"Yes, Dr Fillgrave, it is wished. Lunch is coming directly:" and
Frank rang the bell.

"Nothing, I thank you, Mr Gresham."

"Do take a glass of sherry."

"Nothing at all, I am very much obliged to you."

"Won't you let the horses get some oats?"

"I will return at once, if you please, Mr Gresham." And the doctor
did return, taking with him, on this occasion, the fee that was
offered to him. His experience had at any rate taught him so much.

But though Frank could do this for Lady Arabella, he could not
receive Dr Thorne on her behalf. The bitterness of that interview had
to be borne by herself. A messenger had been sent for him, and he was
upstairs with her ladyship while his rival was receiving his _congé_
downstairs. She had two objects to accomplish, if it might be
possible: she had found that high words with the doctor were of
no avail; but it might be possible that Frank could be saved by
humiliation on her part. If she humbled herself before this man,
would he consent to acknowledge that his niece was not the fit bride
for the heir of Greshamsbury?

The doctor entered the room where she was lying on her sofa, and
walking up to her with a gentle, but yet not constrained step,
took the seat beside her little table, just as he had always been
accustomed to do, and as though there had been no break in their
intercourse.

"Well, doctor, you see that I have come back to you," she said, with
a faint smile.

"Or, rather I have come back to you. And, believe me, Lady Arabella,
I am very happy to do so. There need be no excuses. You were,
doubtless, right to try what other skill could do; and I hope it has
not been tried in vain."

She had meant to have been so condescending; but now all that was put
quite beyond her power. It was not easy to be condescending to the
doctor: she had been trying all her life, and had never succeeded.

"I have had Sir Omicron Pie," she said.

"So I was glad to hear. Sir Omicron is a clever man, and has a good
name. I always recommend Sir Omicron myself."

"And Sir Omicron returns the compliment," said she, smiling
gracefully, "for he recommends you. He told Mr Gresham that I was
very foolish to quarrel with my best friend. So now we are friends
again, are we not? You see how selfish I am." And she put out her
hand to him.

The doctor took her hand cordially, and assured her that he bore her
no ill-will; that he fully understood her conduct--and that he had
never accused her of selfishness. This was all very well and very
gracious; but, nevertheless, Lady Arabella felt that the doctor
kept the upper hand in those sweet forgivenesses. Whereas, she had
intended to keep the upper hand, at least for a while, so that her
humiliation might be more effective when it did come.

And then the doctor used his surgical lore, as he well knew how to
use it. There was an assured confidence about him, an air which
seemed to declare that he really knew what he was doing. These
were very comfortable to his patients, but they were wanting in Dr
Fillgrave. When he had completed his examinations and questions,
and she had completed her little details and made her answer, she
certainly was more at ease than she had been since the doctor had
last left her.

"Don't go yet for a moment," she said. "I have one word to say to
you."

He declared that he was not the least in a hurry. He desired nothing
better, he said, than to sit there and talk to her. "And I owe you a
most sincere apology, Lady Arabella."

"A sincere apology!" said she, becoming a little red. Was he going to
say anything about Mary? Was he going to own that he, and Mary, and
Frank had all been wrong?

"Yes, indeed. I ought not to have brought Sir Louis Scatcherd here: I
ought to have known that he would have disgraced himself."

"Oh! it does not signify," said her ladyship in a tone almost of
disappointment. "I had forgotten it. Mr Gresham and you had more
inconvenience than we had."

"He is an unfortunate, wretched man--most unfortunate; with an
immense fortune which he can never live to possess."

"And who will the money go to, doctor?"

This was a question for which Dr Thorne was hardly prepared. "Go to?"
he repeated. "Oh, some member of the family, I believe. There are
plenty of nephews and nieces."

"Yes; but will it be divided, or all go to one?"

"Probably to one, I think. Sir Roger had a strong idea of leaving
it all in one hand." If it should happen to be a girl, thought Lady
Arabella, what an excellent opportunity would that be for Frank to
marry money!

"And now, doctor, I want to say one word to you; considering the very
long time that we have known each other, it is better that I should
be open with you. This estrangement between us and dear Mary has
given us all so much pain. Cannot we do anything to put an end to
it?"

"Well, what can I say, Lady Arabella? That depends so wholly on
yourself."

"If it depends on me, it shall be done at once."

The doctor bowed. And though he could hardly be said to do so
stiffly, he did it coldly. His bow seemed to say, "Certainly; if you
choose to make a proper _amende_ it can be done. But I think it is
very unlikely that you will do so."

"Beatrice is just going to be married, you know that, doctor." The
doctor said that he did know it. "And it will be so pleasant that
Mary should make one of us. Poor Beatrice; you don't know what she
has suffered."

"Yes," said the doctor, "there has been suffering, I am sure;
suffering on both sides."

"You cannot wonder that we should be so anxious about Frank, Dr
Thorne; an only son, and the heir to an estate that has been so very
long in the family:" and Lady Arabella put her handkerchief to her
eyes, as though these facts were in themselves melancholy, and not
to be thought of by a mother without some soft tears. "Now I wish
you could tell me what your views are, in a friendly manner, between
ourselves. You won't find me unreasonable."

"My views, Lady Arabella?"

"Yes, doctor; about your niece, you know: you must have views of some
sort; that's of course. It occurs to me, that perhaps we are all in
the dark together. If so, a little candid speaking between you and me
may set it all right."

Lady Arabella's career had not hitherto been conspicuous for candour,
as far as Dr Thorne had been able to judge of it; but that was no
reason why he should not respond to so very becoming an invitation
on her part. He had no objection to a little candid speaking; at
least, so he declared. As to his views with regard to Mary, they were
merely these: that he would make her as happy and comfortable as he
could while she remained with him; and that he would give her his
blessing--for he had nothing else to give her--when she left him;--if
ever she should do so.

Now, it will be said that the doctor was not very candid in this;
not more so, perhaps, than was Lady Arabella herself. But when one
is specially invited to be candid, one is naturally set upon one's
guard. Those who by disposition are most open, are apt to become
crafty when so admonished. When a man says to you, "Let us be candid
with each other," you feel instinctively that he desires to squeeze
you without giving a drop of water himself.

"Yes; but about Frank," said Lady Arabella.

"About Frank!" said the doctor, with an innocent look, which her
ladyship could hardly interpret.

"What I mean is this: can you give me your word that these young
people do not intend to do anything rash? One word like that from
you will set my mind quite at rest. And then we could be so happy
together again."

"Ah! who is to answer for what rash things a young man will do?" said
the doctor, smiling.

Lady Arabella got up from the sofa, and pushed away the little table.
The man was false, hypocritical, and cunning. Nothing could be made
of him. They were all in a conspiracy together to rob her of her son;
to make him marry without money! What should she do? Where should
she turn for advice or counsel? She had nothing more to say to the
doctor; and he, perceiving that this was the case, took his leave.
This little attempt to achieve candour had not succeeded.

Dr Thorne had answered Lady Arabella as had seemed best to him on the
spur of the moment; but he was by no means satisfied with himself.
As he walked away through the gardens, he bethought himself whether
it would be better for all parties if he could bring himself to be
really candid. Would it not be better for him at once to tell the
squire what were the future prospects of his niece, and let the
father agree to the marriage, or not agree to it, as he might think
fit. But then, if so, if he did do this, would he not in fact say,
"There is my niece, there is this girl of whom you have been talking
for the last twelvemonth, indifferent to what agony of mind you may
have occasioned to her; there she is, a probable heiress! It may be
worth your son's while to wait a little time, and not cast her off
till he shall know whether she be an heiress or no. If it shall turn
out that she is rich, let him take her; if not, why, he can desert
her then as well as now." He could not bring himself to put his niece
into such a position as this. He was anxious enough that she should
be Frank Gresham's wife, for he loved Frank Gresham; he was anxious
enough, also, that she should give to her husband the means of saving
the property of his family. But Frank, though he might find her rich,
was bound to take her while she was poor.

Then, also, he doubted whether he would be justified in speaking
of this will at all. He almost hated the will for the trouble and
vexation it had given him, and the constant stress it had laid on his
conscience. He had spoken of it as yet to no one, and he thought that
he was resolved not to do so while Sir Louis should yet be in the
land of the living.

On reaching home, he found a note from Lady Scatcherd, informing him
that Dr Fillgrave had once more been at Boxall Hill, and that, on
this occasion, he had left the house without anger.

"I don't know what he has said about Louis," she added, "for, to
tell the truth, doctor, I was afraid to see him. But he comes again
to-morrow, and then I shall be braver. But I fear that my poor boy is
in a bad way."




CHAPTER XLI

Doctor Thorne Won't Interfere


At this period there was, as it were, a truce to the ordinary little
skirmishes which had been so customary between Lady Arabella and
the squire. Things had so fallen out, that they neither of them had
much spirit for a contest; and, moreover, on that point which at
the present moment was most thought of by both of them, they were
strangely in unison. For each of them was anxious to prevent the
threatened marriage of their only son.

It must, moreover, be remembered, that Lady Arabella had carried a
great point in ousting Mr Yates Umbleby and putting the management of
the estate into the hands of her own partisan. But then the squire
had not done less in getting rid of Fillgrave and reinstating Dr
Thorne in possession of the family invalids. The losses, therefore,
had been equal; the victories equal; and there was a mutual object.

And it must be confessed, also, that Lady Arabella's taste for
grandeur was on the decline. Misfortune was coming too near to her to
leave her much anxiety for the gaieties of a London season. Things
were not faring well with her. When her eldest daughter was going to
marry a man of fortune, and a member of Parliament, she had thought
nothing of demanding a thousand pounds or so for the extraordinary
expenses incident to such an occasion. But now, Beatrice was to
become the wife of a parish parson, and even that was thought to be
a fortunate event; she had, therefore, no heart for splendour.

"The quieter we can do it the better," she wrote to her
countess-sister. "Her father wanted to give him at least a thousand
pounds; but Mr Gazebee has told me confidentially that it literally
cannot be done at the present moment! Ah, my dear Rosina! how things
have been managed! If one or two of the girls will come over, we
shall all take it as a favour. Beatrice would think it very kind of
them. But I don't think of asking you or Amelia." Amelia was always
the grandest of the de Courcy family, being almost on an equality
with--nay, in some respect superior to--the countess herself. But
this, of course, was before the days of the nice place in Surrey.

Such, and so humble being the present temper of the lady of
Greshamsbury, it will not be thought surprising that she and Mr
Gresham should at last come together in their efforts to reclaim
their son.

At first Lady Arabella urged upon the squire the duty of being very
peremptory and very angry. "Do as other fathers do in such cases.
Make him understand that he will have no allowance to live on." "He
understands that well enough," said Mr Gresham.

"Threaten to cut him off with a shilling," said her ladyship, with
spirit. "I haven't a shilling to cut him off with," answered the
squire, bitterly.

But Lady Arabella herself soon perceived, that this line would not
do. As Mr Gresham himself confessed, his own sins against his son had
been too great to allow of his taking a high hand with him. Besides,
Mr Gresham was not a man who could ever be severe with a son whose
individual conduct had been so good as Frank's. This marriage was, in
his view, a misfortune to be averted if possible,--to be averted by
any possible means; but, as far as Frank was concerned, it was to be
regarded rather as a monomania than a crime.

"I did feel so certain that he would have succeeded with Miss
Dunstable," said the mother, almost crying.

"I thought it impossible but that at his age a twelvemonth's knocking
about the world would cure him," said the father.

"I never heard of a boy being so obstinate about a girl," said the
mother. "I'm sure he didn't get it from the de Courcys:" and then,
again, they talked it over in all its bearings.

"But what are they to live upon?" said Lady Arabella, appealing, as
it were, to some impersonation of reason. "That's what I want him to
tell me. What are they to live upon?"

"I wonder whether de Courcy could get him into some embassy?" said
the father. "He does talk of a profession."

"What! with the girl and all?" asked Lady Arabella with horror,
alarmed at the idea of such an appeal being made to her noble
brother.

"No; but before he marries. He might be broken of it that way."

"Nothing will break him," said the wretched mother;
"nothing--nothing. For my part, I think that he is possessed. Why was
she brought here? Oh, dear! oh, dear! Why was she ever brought into
this house?"

This last question Mr Gresham did not think it necessary to answer.
That evil had been done, and it would be useless to dispute it. "I'll
tell you what I'll do," said he. "I'll speak to the doctor himself."

"It's not the slightest use," said Lady Arabella. "He will not assist
us. Indeed, I firmly believe it's all his own doing."

"Oh, nonsense! that really is nonsense, my love."

"Very well, Mr Gresham. What I say is always nonsense, I know; you
have always told me so. But yet, see how things have turned out. I
knew how it would be when she was first brought into the house." This
assertion was rather a stretch on the part of Lady Arabella.

"Well, it is nonsense to say that Frank is in love with the girl at
the doctor's bidding."

"I think you know, Mr Gresham, that I don't mean that. What I say is
this, that Dr Thorne, finding what an easy fool Frank is--"

"I don't think he's at all easy, my love; and certainly is not a
fool."

"Very well, have it your own way. I'll not say a word more. I'm
struggling to do my best, and I'm browbeaten on every side. God knows
I am not in a state of health to bear it!" And Lady Arabella bowed
her head into her pocket-handkerchief.

"I think, my dear, if you were to see Mary herself it might do some
good," said the squire, when the violence of his wife's grief had
somewhat subsided.

"What! go and call upon this girl?"

"Yes; you can send Beatrice to give her notice, you know. She never
was unreasonable, and I do not think that you would find her so. You
should tell her, you know--"

"Oh, I should know very well what to tell her, Mr Gresham."

"Yes, my love; I'm sure you would; nobody better. But what I mean is,
that if you are to do any good, you should be kind in your manner.
Mary Thorne has a spirit that you cannot break. You may perhaps lead,
but nobody can drive her."

As this scheme originated with her husband, Lady Arabella could not,
of course, confess that there was much in it. But, nevertheless,
she determined to attempt it, thinking that if anything could be
efficacious for good in their present misfortunes, it would be her
own diplomatic powers. It was, therefore, at last settled between
them, that he should endeavour to talk over the doctor, and that she
would do the same with Mary.

"And then I will speak to Frank," said Lady Arabella. "As yet he has
never had the audacity to open his mouth to me about Mary Thorne,
though I believe he declares his love openly to every one else in the
house."

"And I will get Oriel to speak to him," said the squire.

"I think Patience might do more good. I did once think he was getting
fond of Patience, and I was quite unhappy about it then. Ah, dear! I
should be almost pleased at that now."

And thus it was arranged that all the artillery of Greshamsbury was
to be brought to bear at once on Frank's love, so as to crush it, as
it were, by the very weight of metal.

It may be imagined that the squire would have less scruple in
addressing the doctor on this matter than his wife would feel; and
that his part of their present joint undertaking was less difficult
than hers. For he and the doctor had ever been friends at heart. But,
nevertheless, he did feel much scruple, as, with his stick in hand,
he walked down to the little gate which opened out near the doctor's
house.

This feeling was so strong, that he walked on beyond this door to the
entrance, thinking of what he was going to do, and then back again.
It seemed to be his fate to be depending always on the clemency or
consideration of Dr Thorne. At this moment the doctor was imposing
the only obstacle which was offered to the sale of a great part of
his estate. Sir Louis, through his lawyer, was pressing the doctor to
sell, and the lawyer was loudly accusing the doctor of delaying to do
so. "He has the management of your property," said Mr Finnie; "but he
manages it in the interest of his own friend. It is quite clear, and
we will expose it." "By all means," said Sir Louis. "It is a d----d
shame, and it shall be exposed." Of all this the squire was aware.

When he reached the doctor's house, he was shown into the
drawing-room, and found Mary there alone. It had always been his
habit to kiss her forehead when he chanced to meet her about the
house at Greshamsbury. She had been younger and more childish then;
but even now she was but a child to him, so he kissed her as he had
been wont to do. She blushed slightly as she looked up into his face,
and said: "Oh, Mr Gresham, I am so glad to see you here again."

As he looked at her he could not but acknowledge that it was natural
that Frank should love her. He had never before seen that she was
attractive;--had never had an opinion about it. She had grown up
as a child under his eye; and as she had not had the name of being
especially a pretty child, he had never thought on the subject. Now
he saw before him a woman whose every feature was full of spirit and
animation; whose eye sparkled with more than mere brilliancy; whose
face was full of intelligence; whose very smile was eloquent. Was it
to be wondered at that Frank should have learned to love her?

Miss Thorne wanted but one attribute which many consider essential
to feminine beauty. She had no brilliancy of complexion, no pearly
whiteness, no vivid carnation; nor, indeed, did she possess the dark
brilliance of a brunette. But there was a speaking earnestness in her
face; an expression of mental faculty which the squire now for the
first time perceived to be charming.

And then he knew how good she was. He knew well what was her nature;
how generous, how open, how affectionate, and yet how proud! Her
pride was her fault; but even that was not a fault in his eyes. Out
of his own family there was no one whom he had loved, and could love,
as he loved her. He felt, and acknowledged that no man could have a
better wife. And yet he was there with the express object of rescuing
his son from such a marriage!

"You are looking very well, Mary," he said, almost involuntarily.
"Am I?" she answered, smiling. "It's very nice at any rate to be
complimented. Uncle never pays me any compliments of that sort."

In truth, she was looking well. She would say to herself over
and over again, from morning to night, that Frank's love for her
would be, must be, unfortunate; could not lead to happiness. But,
nevertheless, it did make her happy. She had before his return made
up her mind to be forgotten, and it was so sweet to find that he had
been so far from forgetting her. A girl may scold a man in words for
rashness in his love, but her heart never scolds him for such an
offence as that. She had not been slighted, and her heart, therefore,
still rose buoyant within her breast.

The doctor entered the room. As the squire's visit had been expected
by him, he had of course not been out of the house. "And now I
suppose I must go," said Mary; "for I know you are going to talk
about business. But, uncle, Mr Gresham says I'm looking very well.
Why have you not been able to find that out?"

"She's a dear, good girl," said the squire, as the door shut behind
her; "a dear good girl;" and the doctor could not fail to see that
his eyes were filled with tears.

"I think she is," said he, quietly. And then they both sat silent, as
though each was waiting to hear whether the other had anything more
to say on that subject. The doctor, at any rate, had nothing more to
say.

"I have come here specially to speak to you about her," said the
squire.

"About Mary?"

"Yes, doctor; about her and Frank: something must be done, some
arrangement made: if not for our sakes, at least for theirs."

"What arrangement, squire?"

"Ah! that is the question. I take it for granted that either Frank or
Mary has told you that they have engaged themselves to each other."

"Frank told me so twelve months since."

"And has not Mary told you?"

"Not exactly that. But, never mind; she has, I believe, no secret
from me. Though I have said but little to her, I think I know it
all."

"Well, what then?"

The doctor shook his head and put up his hands. He had nothing to
say; no proposition to make; no arrangement to suggest. The thing was
so, and he seemed to say that, as far as he was concerned, there was
an end of it.

The squire sat looking at him, hardly knowing how to proceed. It
seemed to him, that the fact of a young man and a young lady being in
love with each other was not a thing to be left to arrange itself,
particularly, seeing the rank of life in which they were placed. But
the doctor seemed to be of a different opinion.

"But, Dr Thorne, there is no man on God's earth who knows my affairs
as well as you do; and in knowing mine, you know Frank's. Do you
think it possible that they should marry each other?"

"Possible; yes, it is possible. You mean, will it be prudent?"

"Well, take it in that way; would it not be most imprudent?"

"At present, it certainly would be. I have never spoken to either of
them on the subject; but I presume they do not think of such a thing
for the present."

"But, doctor--" The squire was certainly taken aback by the coolness
of the doctor's manner. After all, he, the squire, was Mr Gresham
of Greshamsbury, generally acknowledged to be the first commoner in
Barsetshire; after all, Frank was his heir, and, in process of time,
he would be Mr Gresham of Greshamsbury. Crippled as the estate was,
there would be something left, and the rank at any rate remained. But
as to Mary, she was not even the doctor's daughter. She was not only
penniless, but nameless, fatherless, worse than motherless! It was
incredible that Dr Thorne, with his generally exalted ideas as to
family, should speak in this cold way as to a projected marriage
between the heir of Greshamsbury and his brother's bastard child!

"But, doctor," repeated the squire.

The doctor put one leg over the other, and began to rub his calf.
"Squire," said he. "I think I know all that you would say, all that
you mean. And you don't like to say it, because you would not wish to
pain me by alluding to Mary's birth."

"But, independently of that, what would they live on?" said the
squire, energetically. "Birth is a great thing, a very great thing.
You and I think exactly alike about that, so we need have no dispute.
You are quite as proud of Ullathorne as I am of Greshamsbury."

"I might be if it belonged to me."

"But you are. It is no use arguing. But, putting that aside
altogether, what would they live on? If they were to marry, what
would they do? Where would they go? You know what Lady Arabella
thinks of such things; would it be possible that they should live up
at the house with her? Besides, what a life would that be for both of
them! Could they live here? Would that be well for them?"

The squire looked at the doctor for an answer; but he still went on
rubbing his calf. Mr Gresham, therefore, was constrained to continue
his expostulation.

"When I am dead there will still, I hope, be something;--something
left for the poor fellow. Lady Arabella and the girls would be better
off, perhaps, than now, and I sometimes wish, for Frank's sake, that
the time had come."

The doctor could not now go on rubbing his leg. He was moved to
speak, and declared that, of all events, that was the one which would
be furthest from Frank's heart. "I know no son," said he, "who loves
his father more dearly than he does."

"I do believe it," said the squire; "I do believe it. But yet, I
cannot but feel that I am in his way."

"No, squire, no; you are in no one's way. You will find yourself
happy with your son yet, and proud of him. And proud of his wife,
too. I hope so, and I think so: I do, indeed, or I should not say so,
squire; we will have many a happy day yet together, when we shall
talk of all these things over the dining-room fire at Greshamsbury."

The squire felt it kind in the doctor that he should thus endeavour
to comfort him; but he could not understand, and did not inquire, on
what basis these golden hopes was founded. It was necessary, however,
to return to the subject which he had come to discuss. Would the
doctor assist him in preventing this marriage? That was now the one
thing necessary to be kept in view.

"But, doctor, about the young people; of course they cannot marry,
you are aware of that."

"I don't know that exactly."

"Well, doctor, I must say I thought you would feel it."

"Feel what, squire?"

"That, situated as they are, they ought not to marry."

"That is quite another question. I have said nothing about that
either to you or to anybody else. The truth is, squire, I have never
interfered in this matter one way or the other; and I have no wish to
do so now."

"But should you not interfere? Is not Mary the same to you as your
own child?"

Dr Thorne hardly knew how to answer this. He was aware that his
argument about not interfering was in fact absurd. Mary could not
marry without his interference; and had it been the case that she
was in danger of making an improper marriage, of course he would
interfere. His meaning was, that he would not at the present moment
express any opinion; he would not declare against a match which
might turn out to be in every way desirable; nor, if he spoke in
favour of it, could he give his reasons for doing so. Under these
circumstances, he would have wished to say nothing, could that only
have been possible.

But as it was not possible, and as he must say something, he answered
the squire's last question by asking another. "What is your
objection, squire?"

"Objection! Why, what on earth would they live on?"

"Then I understand, that if that difficulty were over, you would not
refuse your consent merely because of Mary's birth?"

This was a manner in which the squire had by no means expected to
have the affair presented to him. It seemed so impossible that any
sound-minded man should take any but his view of the case, that he
had not prepared himself for argument. There was every objection to
his son marrying Miss Thorne; but the fact of their having no income
between them, did certainly justify him in alleging that first.

"But that difficulty can't be got over, doctor. You know, however,
that it would be cause of grief to us all to see Frank marry much
beneath his station; that is, I mean, in family. You should not press
me to say this, for you know that I love Mary dearly."

"But, my dear friend, it is necessary. Wounds sometimes must be
opened in order that they may be healed. What I mean is this;--and,
squire, I'm sure I need not say to you that I hope for an honest
answer,--were Mary Thorne an heiress; had she, for instance, such
wealth as that Miss Dunstable that we hear of; in that case would you
object to the match?"

When the doctor declared that he expected an honest answer the squire
listened with all his ears; but the question, when finished, seemed
to have no bearing on the present case.

"Come, squire, speak your mind faithfully. There was some talk once
of Frank's marrying Miss Dunstable; did you mean to object to that
match?"

"Miss Dunstable was legitimate; at least, I presume so."

"Oh, Mr Gresham! has it come to that? Miss Dunstable, then, would
have satisfied your ideas of high birth?"

Mr Gresham was rather posed, and regretted, at the moment, his
allusion to Miss Dunstable's presumed legitimacy. But he soon
recovered himself. "No," said he, "it would not. And I am willing
to admit, as I have admitted before, that the undoubted advantages
arising from wealth are taken by the world as atoning for what
otherwise would be a _mésalliance_. But--"

"You admit that, do you? You acknowledge that as your conviction on
the subject?"

"Yes. But--" The squire was going on to explain the propriety of this
opinion, but the doctor uncivilly would not hear him.

"Then squire, I will not interfere in this matter one way or the
other."

"How on earth can such an opinion--"

"Pray excuse me, Mr Gresham; but my mind is now quite made up. It was
very nearly so before. I will do nothing to encourage Frank, nor will
I say anything to discourage Mary."

"That is the most singular resolution that a man of sense like you
ever came to."

"I can't help it, squire; it is my resolution."

"But what has Miss Dunstable's fortune to do with it?"

"I cannot say that it has anything; but, in this matter, I will not
interfere."

The squire went on for some time, but it was all to no purpose;
and at last he left the house, considerably in dudgeon. The only
conclusion to which he could come was, that Dr Thorne had thought the
chance on his niece's behalf too good to be thrown away, and had,
therefore, resolved to act in this very singular way.

"I would not have believed it of him, though all Barsetshire had told
me," he said to himself as he entered the great gates; and he went on
repeating the same words till he found himself in his own room. "No,
not if all Barsetshire had told me!"

He did not, however, communicate the ill result of his visit to the
Lady Arabella.




CHAPTER XLII

What Can You Give in Return?


In spite of the family troubles, these were happy days for Beatrice.
It so seldom happens that young ladies on the eve of their marriage
have their future husbands living near them. This happiness was hers,
and Mr Oriel made the most of it. She was constantly being coaxed
down to the parsonage by Patience, in order that she might give her
opinion, in private, as to some domestic arrangement, some piece of
furniture, or some new carpet; but this privacy was always invaded.
What Mr Oriel's parishioners did in these halcyon days, I will not
ask. His morning services, however, had been altogether given up, and
he had provided himself with a very excellent curate.

But one grief did weigh heavily on Beatrice. She continually heard
her mother say things which made her feel that it would be more than
ever impossible that Mary should be at her wedding; and yet she had
promised her brother to ask her. Frank had also repeated his threat,
that if Mary were not present, he would absent himself.

Beatrice did what most girls do in such a case; what all would do who
are worth anything; she asked her lover's advice.

"Oh! but Frank can't be in earnest," said the lover. "Of course he'll
be at our wedding."

"You don't know him, Caleb. He is so changed that no one hardly
would know him. You can't conceive how much in earnest he is, how
determined and resolute. And then, I should like to have Mary so much
if mamma would let her come."

"Ask Lady Arabella," said Caleb.

"Well, I suppose I must do that; but I know what she'll say, and
Frank will never believe that I have done my best." Mr Oriel
comforted her with such little whispered consolations as he was able
to afford, and then she went away on her errand to her mother.

She was indeed surprised at the manner in which her prayer was
received. She could hardly falter forth her petition; but when she
had done so, Lady Arabella answered in this wise:--

"Well my dear, I have no objection, none the least; that is, of
course, if Mary is disposed to behave herself properly."

"Oh, mamma! of course she will," said Beatrice; "she always did and
always does."

"I hope she will, my love. But, Beatrice, when I say that I shall be
glad to see her, of course I mean under certain conditions. I never
disliked Mary Thorne, and if she would only let Frank understand that
she will not listen to his mad proposals, I should be delighted to
see her at Greshamsbury just as she used to be."

Beatrice could say nothing in answer to this; but she felt very sure
that Mary, let her intention be what it might, would not undertake to
make Frank understand anything at anybody's bidding.

"I will tell you what I will do, my dear," continued Lady Arabella;
"I will call on Mary myself."

"What! at Dr Thorne's house?"

"Yes; why not? I have been at Dr Thorne's house before now." And
Lady Arabella could not but think of her last visit thither, and the
strong feeling she had, as she came out, that she would never again
enter those doors. She was, however, prepared to do anything on
behalf of her rebellious son.

"Oh, yes! I know that, mamma."

"I will call upon her, and if I can possibly manage it, I will ask her
myself to make one of your party. If so, you can go to her afterwards
and make your own arrangements. Just write her a note, my dear, and
say that I will call to-morrow at twelve. It might fluster her if I
were to go in without notice."

Beatrice did as she was bid, but with a presentiment that no good
would come of it. The note was certainly unnecessary for the purpose
assigned by Lady Arabella, as Mary was not given to be flustered by
such occurrences; but, perhaps, it was as well that it was written,
as it enabled her to make up her mind steadily as to what information
should be given, and what should not be given to her coming visitor.

On the next morning, at the appointed hour, Lady Arabella walked down
to the doctor's house. She never walked about the village without
making some little disturbance among the inhabitants. With the
squire, himself, they were quite familiar, and he could appear and
reappear without creating any sensation; but her ladyship had not
made herself equally common in men's sight. Therefore, when she
went in at the doctor's little gate, the fact was known through all
Greshamsbury in ten minutes, and before she had left the house, Mrs
Umbleby and Miss Gushing had quite settled between them what was the
exact cause of the very singular event.

The doctor, when he had heard what was going to happen, carefully
kept out of the way: Mary, therefore, had the pleasure of
receiving Lady Arabella alone. Nothing could exceed her ladyship's
affability. Mary thought that it perhaps might have savoured less
of condescension; but then, on this subject, Mary was probably
prejudiced. Lady Arabella smiled and simpered, and asked after the
doctor, and the cat, and Janet, and said everything that could have
been desired by any one less unreasonable than Mary Thorne.

"And now, Mary, I'll tell you why I have called." Mary bowed her
head slightly, as much to say, that she would be glad to receive any
information that Lady Arabella could give her on that subject. "Of
course you know that Beatrice is going to be married very shortly."

Mary acknowledged that she had heard so much.

"Yes: we think it will be in September--early in September--and that
is coming very soon now. The poor girl is anxious that you should be
at her wedding." Mary turned slightly red; but she merely said, and
that somewhat too coldly, that she was much indebted to Beatrice for
her kindness.

"I can assure you, Mary, that she is very fond of you, as much so as
ever; and so, indeed, am I, and all of us are so. You know that Mr
Gresham was always your friend."

"Yes, he always was, and I am grateful to Mr Gresham," answered Mary.
It was well for Lady Arabella that she had her temper under command,
for had she spoken her mind out there would have been very little
chance left for reconciliation between her and Mary.

"Yes, indeed he was; and I think we all did what little we could
to make you welcome at Greshamsbury, Mary, till those unpleasant
occurrences took place."

"What occurrences, Lady Arabella?"

"And Beatrice is so very anxious on this point," said her ladyship,
ignoring for the moment Mary's question. "You two have been so much
together, that she feels she cannot be quite happy if you are not
near her when she is being married."

"Dear Beatrice!" said Mary, warmed for the moment to an expression of
genuine feeling.

"She came to me yesterday, begging that I would waive any objection I
might have to your being there. I have made her no answer yet. What
answer do you think I ought to make her?"

Mary was astounded at this question, and hesitated in her reply.
"What answer ought you to make her?" she said.

"Yes, Mary. What answer do you think I ought to give? I wish to ask
you the question, as you are the person the most concerned."

Mary considered for a while, and then did give her opinion on the
matter in a firm voice. "I think you should tell Beatrice, that as
you cannot at present receive me cordially in your house, it will be
better that you should not be called on to receive me at all."

This was certainly not the sort of answer that Lady Arabella
expected, and she was now somewhat astounded in her turn. "But,
Mary," she said, "I should be delighted to receive you cordially if
I could do so."

"But it seems you cannot, Lady Arabella; and so there must be an end
of it."

"Oh, but I do not know that:" and she smiled her sweetest smile. "I
do not know that. I want to put an end to all this ill-feeling if I
can. It all depends upon one thing, you know."

"Does it, Lady Arabella?"

"Yes, upon one thing. You won't be angry if I ask you another
question--eh, Mary?"

"No; at least I don't think I will."

"Is there any truth in what we hear about your being engaged to
Frank?"

Mary made no immediate answer to this, but sat quite silent, looking
Lady Arabella in the face; not but that she had made up her mind as
to what answer she would give, but the exact words failed her at the
moment.

"Of course you must have heard of such a rumour," continued Lady
Arabella.

"Oh, yes, I have heard of it."

"Yes, and you have noticed it, and I must say very properly. When you
went to Boxall Hill, and before that with Miss Oriel's to her aunt's,
I thought you behaved extremely well." Mary felt herself glow with
indignation, and began to prepare words that should be sharp and
decisive. "But, nevertheless, people talk; and Frank, who is still
quite a boy" (Mary's indignation was not softened by this allusion
to Frank's folly), "seems to have got some nonsense in his head. I
grieve to say it, but I feel myself in justice bound to do so, that
in this matter he has not acted as well as you have done. Now,
therefore, I merely ask you whether there is any truth in the report.
If you tell me that there is none, I shall be quite contented."

"But it is altogether true, Lady Arabella; I am engaged to Frank
Gresham."

"Engaged to be married to him?"

"Yes; engaged to be married to him."

What was to say or do now? Nothing could be more plain, more decided,
or less embarrassed with doubt than Mary's declaration. And as she
made it she looked her visitor full in the face, blushing indeed, for
her cheeks were now suffused as well as her forehead; but boldly,
and, as it were, with defiance.

"And you tell me so to my face, Miss Thorne?"

"And why not? Did you not ask me the question; and would you have me
answer you with a falsehood? I am engaged to him. As you would put
the question to me, what other answer could I make? The truth is,
that I am engaged to him."

The decisive abruptness with which Mary declared her own iniquity
almost took away her ladyship's breath. She had certainly believed
that they were engaged, and had hardly hoped that Mary would deny it;
but she had not expected that the crime would be acknowledged, or, at
any rate, if acknowledged, that the confession would be made without
some show of shame. On this Lady Arabella could have worked; but
there was no such expression, nor was there the slightest hesitation.
"I am engaged to Frank Gresham," and having so said, Mary looked her
visitor full in the face.

"Then it is indeed impossible that you should be received at
Greshamsbury."

"At present, quite so, no doubt: in saying so, Lady Arabella, you
only repeat the answer I made to your first question. I can now go
to Greshamsbury only in one light: that of Mr Gresham's accepted
daughter-in-law."

"And that is perfectly out of the question; altogether out of the
question, now and for ever."

"I will not dispute with you about that; but, as I said before, my
being at Beatrice's wedding is not to be thought of."

Lady Arabella sat for a while silent, that she might meditate, if
possible, calmly as to what line of argument she had now better take.
It would be foolish in her, she thought, to return home, having
merely expressed her anger. She had now an opportunity of talking to
Mary which might not again occur: the difficulty was in deciding in
what special way she should use the opportunity. Should she threaten,
or should she entreat? To do her justice, it should be stated, that
she did actually believe that the marriage was all but impossible;
she did not think that it could take place. But the engagement might
be the ruin of her son's prospects, seeing how he had before him one
imperative, one immediate duty--that of marrying money.

Having considered all this as well as her hurry would allow her,
she determined first to reason, then to entreat, and lastly, if
necessary, to threaten.

"I am astonished! you cannot be surprised at that, Miss Thorne: I am
astonished at hearing so singular a confession made."

"Do you think my confession singular, or is it the fact of my being
engaged to your son?"

"We will pass over that for the present. But do let me ask you, do
you think it possible, I say possible, that you and Frank should be
married?"

"Oh, certainly; quite possible."

"Of course you know that he has not a shilling in the world."

"Nor have I, Lady Arabella."

"Nor will he have were he to do anything so utterly hostile to his
father's wishes. The property, you are aware, is altogether at Mr
Gresham's disposal."

"I am aware of nothing about the property, and can say nothing about
it except this, that it has not been, and will not be inquired after
by me in this matter. If I marry Frank Gresham, it will not be for
the property. I am sorry to make such an apparent boast, but you
force me to do it."

"On what then are you to live? You are too old for love in a cottage,
I suppose?"

"Not at all too old; Frank, you know is 'still quite a boy.'"

Impudent hussy! forward, ill-conditioned saucy minx! such were
the epithets which rose to Lady Arabella's mind; but she politely
suppressed them.

"Miss Thorne, this subject is of course to me very serious; very
ill-adapted for jesting. I look upon such a marriage as absolutely
impossible."

"I do not know what you mean by impossible, Lady Arabella."

"I mean, in the first place, that you two could not get yourselves
married."

"Oh, yes; Mr Oriel would manage that for us. We are his parishioners,
and he would be bound to do it."

"I beg your pardon; I believe that under all the circumstances it
would be illegal."

Mary smiled; but she said nothing. "You may laugh, Miss Thorne, but I
think you will find that I am right. There are still laws to prevent
such fearful distress as would be brought about by such a marriage."

"I hope that nothing I shall do will bring distress on the family."

"Ah, but it would; don't you know that it would? Think of it, Miss
Thorne. Think of Frank's state, and of his father's state. You know
enough of that, I am sure, to be well aware that Frank is not in a
condition to marry without money. Think of the position which Mr
Gresham's only son should hold in the county; think of the old name,
and the pride we have in it; you have lived among us enough to
understand all this; think of these things, and then say whether it
is possible such a marriage should take place without family distress
of the deepest kind. Think of Mr Gresham; if you truly love my son,
you could not wish to bring on him all this misery and ruin."

Mary now was touched, for there was truth in what Lady Arabella said.
But she had no power of going back; her troth was plighted, and
nothing that any human being could say should shake her from it. If
he, indeed, chose to repent, that would be another thing.

"Lady Arabella," she said, "I have nothing to say in favour of this
engagement, except that he wishes it."

"And is that a reason, Mary?"

"To me it is; not only a reason, but a law. I have given him my
promise."

"And you will keep your promise even to his own ruin?"

"I hope not. Our engagement, unless he shall choose to break it off,
must necessarily be a long one; but the time will come--"

"What! when Mr Gresham is dead?"

"Before that, I hope."

"There is no probability of it. And because he is headstrong, you,
who have always had credit for so much sense, will hold him to this
mad engagement?"

"No, Lady Arabella; I will not hold him to anything to which he does
not wish to be held. Nothing that you can say shall move me: nothing
that anybody can say shall induce me to break my promise to him. But
a word from himself will do it. One look will be sufficient. Let him
give me to understand, in any way, that his love for me is injurious
to him--that he has learnt to think so--and then I will renounce my
part in this engagement as quickly as you could wish it."

There was much in this promise, but still not so much as Lady
Arabella wished to get. Mary, she knew, was obstinate, but yet
reasonable; Frank, she thought, was both obstinate and unreasonable.
It might be possible to work on Mary's reason, but quite impossible
to touch Frank's irrationality. So she persevered--foolishly.

"Miss Thorne--that, is, Mary, for I still wish to be thought your
friend--"

"I will tell you the truth, Lady Arabella: for some considerable time
past I have not thought you so."

"Then you have wronged me. But I will go on with what I was saying.
You quite acknowledge that this is a foolish affair?"

"I acknowledge no such thing."

"Something very much like it. You have not a word in its defence."

"Not to you: I do not choose to be put on my defence by you."

"I don't know who has more right; however, you promise that if Frank
wishes it, you will release him from his engagement."

"Release him! It is for him to release me, that is, if he wishes it."

"Very well; at any rate, you give him permission to do so. But will
it not be more honourable for you to begin?"

"No; I think not."

"Ah, but it would. If he, in his position, should be the first to
speak, the first to suggest that this affair between you is a foolish
one, what would people say?"

"They would say the truth."

"And what would you yourself say?"

"Nothing."

"What would he think of himself?"

"Ah, that I do not know. It is according as that may be, that he will
or will not act at your bidding."

"Exactly; and because you know him to be high-minded, because you
think that he, having so much to give, will not break his word to
you--to you who have nothing to give in return--it is, therefore,
that you say that the first step must be taken by him. Is that
noble?"

Then Mary rose from her seat, for it was no longer possible for her
to speak what it was in her to say, sitting there leisurely on her
sofa. Lady Arabella's worship of money had not hitherto been so
brought forward in the conversation as to give her unpardonable
offence; but now she felt that she could no longer restrain her
indignation. "To you who have nothing to give in return!" Had she not
given all that she possessed? Had she not emptied his store into his
lap? that heart of hers, beating with such genuine life, capable of
such perfect love, throbbing with so grand a pride; had she not given
that? And was it not that, between him and her, more than twenty
Greshamsburys, nobler than any pedigree? "To you who have nothing to
give," indeed! This to her who was so ready to give everything!

"Lady Arabella," she said, "I think that you do not understand me,
and that it is not likely that you should. If so, our further talking
will be worse than useless. I have taken no account of what will be
given between your son and me in your sense of the word giving. But
he has professed to--to love me"--as she spoke, she still looked on
the lady's face, but her eyelashes for a moment screened her eyes,
and her colour was a little heightened--"and I have acknowledged that
I also love him, and so we are engaged. To me my promise is sacred. I
will not be threatened into breaking it. If, however, he shall wish
to change his mind, he can do so. I will not upbraid him; will not,
if I can help it, think harshly of him. So much you may tell him if
it suits you; but I will not listen to your calculations as to how
much or how little each of us may have to give to the other."

She was still standing when she finished speaking, and so she
continued to stand. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Arabella, and her
position seemed to say that sufficient words had been spoken, and
that it was time that her ladyship should go; and so Lady Arabella
felt it. Gradually she also rose; slowly, but tacitly, she
acknowledged that she was in the presence of a spirit superior to her
own; and so she took her leave.

"Very well," she said, in a tone that was intended to be
grandiloquent, but which failed grievously; "I will tell him that he
has your permission to think a second time on this matter. I do not
doubt but that he will do so." Mary would not condescend to answer,
but curtsied low as her visitor left the room. And so the interview
was over.

The interview was over, and Mary was alone. She remained standing as
long as she heard the footsteps of Frank's mother on the stairs; not
immediately thinking of what had passed, but still buoying herself up
with her hot indignation, as though her work with Lady Arabella was
not yet finished; but when the footfall was no longer heard, and the
sound of the closing door told her that she was in truth alone, she
sank back in her seat, and, covering her face with her hands, burst
into bitter tears.

All that doctrine about money was horrible to her; that insolent
pretence, that she had caught at Frank because of his worldly
position, made her all but ferocious; but Lady Arabella had not the
less spoken much that was true. She did think of the position which
the heir of Greshamsbury should hold in the county, and of the fact
that a marriage would mar that position so vitally; she did think of
the old name, and the old Gresham pride; she did think of the squire
and his deep distress: it was true that she had lived among them
long enough to understand these things, and to know that it was not
possible that this marriage should take place without deep family
sorrow.

And then she asked herself whether, in consenting to accept Frank's
hand, she had adequately considered this; and she was forced to
acknowledge that she had not considered it. She had ridiculed Lady
Arabella for saying that Frank was still a boy; but was it not true
that his offer had been made with a boy's energy, rather than a man's
forethought? If so, if she had been wrong to accede to that offer
when made, would she not be doubly wrong to hold him to it now that
she saw their error?

It was doubtless true that Frank himself could not be the first to
draw back. What would people say of him? She could now calmly ask
herself the question that had so angered her when asked by Lady
Arabella. If he could not do it, and if, nevertheless, it behoved
them to break off this match, by whom was it to be done if not
by her? Was not Lady Arabella right throughout, right in her
conclusions, though so foully wrong in her manner of drawing them?

And then she did think for one moment of herself. "You who have
nothing to give in return!" Such had been Lady Arabella's main
accusation against her. Was it in fact true that she had nothing to
give? Her maiden love, her feminine pride, her very life, and spirit,
and being--were these things nothing? Were they to be weighed against
pounds sterling per annum? and, when so weighed, were they ever to
kick the beam like feathers? All these things had been nothing to
her when, without reflection, governed wholly by the impulse of the
moment, she had first allowed his daring hand to lie for an instant
in her own. She had thought nothing of these things when that other
suitor came, richer far than Frank, to love whom it was as impossible
to her as it was not to love him.

Her love had been pure from all such thoughts; she was conscious
that it ever would be pure from them. Lady Arabella was unable to
comprehend this, and, therefore, was Lady Arabella so utterly
distasteful to her.

Frank had once held her close to his warm breast; and her very soul
had thrilled with joy to feel that he so loved her,--with a joy which
she had hardly dared to acknowledge. At that moment, her maidenly
efforts had been made to push him off, but her heart had grown to
his. She had acknowledged him to be master of her spirit; her bosom's
lord; the man whom she had been born to worship; the human being to
whom it was for her to link her destiny. Frank's acres had been of no
account; nor had his want of acres. God had brought them two together
that they should love each other; that conviction had satisfied her,
and she had made it a duty to herself that she would love him with
her very soul. And now she was called upon to wrench herself asunder
from him because she had nothing to give in return!

Well, she would wrench herself asunder, as far as such wrenching
might be done compatibly with her solemn promise. It might be right
that Frank should have an opportunity offered him, so that he might
escape from his position without disgrace. She would endeavour to
give him this opportunity. So, with one deep sigh, she arose, took
herself pen, ink, and paper, and sat herself down again so that the
wrenching might begin.

And then, for a moment, she thought of her uncle. Why had he not
spoken to her of all this? Why had he not warned her? He who had ever
been so good to her, why had he now failed her so grievously? She had
told him everything, had had no secret from him; but he had never
answered her a word. "He also must have known," she said to herself,
piteously, "he also must have known that I could give nothing in
return." Such accusation, however, availed her not at all, so she sat
down and slowly wrote her letter.

"Dearest Frank," she began. She had at first written "dear Mr
Gresham;" but her heart revolted against such useless coldness. She
was not going to pretend she did not love him.


   DEAREST FRANK,

   Your mother has been here talking to me about our
   engagement. I do not generally agree with her about such
   matters; but she has said some things to-day which I
   cannot but acknowledge to be true. She says, that our
   marriage would be distressing to your father, injurious to
   all your family, and ruinous to yourself. If this be so,
   how can I, who love you, wish for such a marriage?

   I remember my promise, and have kept it. I would not
   yield to your mother when she desired me to disclaim our
   engagement. But I do think it will be more prudent if
   you will consent to forget all that has passed between
   us--not, perhaps, to forget it; that may not be possible
   for us--but to let it pass by as though it had never
   been. If so, if you think so, dear Frank, do not have any
   scruples on my account. What will be best for you, must be
   best for me. Think what a reflection it would ever be to
   me, to have been the ruin of one that I love so well.

   Let me have but one word to say that I am released from my
   promise, and I will tell my uncle that the matter between
   us is over. It will be painful for us at first; those
   occasional meetings which must take place will distress
   us, but that will wear off. We shall always think well
   of each other, and why should we not be friends? This,
   doubtless, cannot be done without inward wounds; but such
   wounds are in God's hands, and He can cure them.

   I know what your first feelings will be on reading this
   letter; but do not answer it in obedience to first
   feelings. Think over it, think of your father, and all you
   owe him, of your old name, your old family, and of what
   the world expects from you. [Mary was forced to put her
   hand to her eyes, to save her paper from her falling
   tears, as she found herself thus repeating, nearly word
   for word, the arguments that had been used by Lady
   Arabella.] Think of these things, coolly, if you can, but,
   at any rate, without passion: and then let me have one
   word in answer. One word will suffice.

   I have but to add this: do not allow yourself to think
   that my heart will ever reproach you. It cannot reproach
   you for doing that which I myself suggest. [Mary's logic
   in this was very false; but she was not herself aware of
   it.] I will never reproach you either in word or thought;
   and as for all others, it seems to me that the world
   agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. The world, I
   hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it.

   God bless you, dearest Frank! I shall never call you
   so again; but it would be a pretence were I to write
   otherwise in this letter. Think of this, and then let me
   have one line.

   Your affectionate friend,

   MARY THORNE.

   P.S.--Of course I cannot be at dear Beatrice's marriage;
   but when they come back to the parsonage, I shall see her.
   I am sure they will both be happy, because they are so
   good. I need hardly say that I shall think of them on
   their wedding day.


When she had finished her letter, she addressed it plainly, in her
own somewhat bold handwriting, to Francis N. Gresham, Jun., Esq., and
then took it herself to the little village post-office. There should
be nothing underhand about her correspondence: all the Greshamsbury
world should know of it--that world of which she had spoken in her
letter--if that world so pleased. Having put her penny label on it,
she handed it, with an open brow and an unembarrassed face, to the
baker's wife, who was Her Majesty's postmistress at Greshamsbury;
and, having so finished her work, she returned to see the table
prepared for her uncle's dinner. "I will say nothing to him," said
she to herself, "till I get the answer. He will not talk to me about
it, so why should I trouble him?"




CHAPTER XLIII

The Race of Scatcherd Becomes Extinct


It will not be imagined, at any rate by feminine readers, that Mary's
letter was written off at once, without alterations and changes, or
the necessity for a fair copy. Letters from one young lady to another
are doubtless written in this manner, and even with them it might
sometimes be better if more patience had been taken; but with Mary's
first letter to her lover--her first love-letter, if love-letter it
can be called--much more care was used. It was copied and re-copied,
and when she returned from posting it, it was read and re-read.

"It is very cold," she said to herself; "he will think I have no
heart, that I have never loved him!" And then she all but resolved to
run down to the baker's wife, and get back her letter, that she might
alter it. "But it will be better so," she said again. "If I touched
his feelings now, he would never bring himself to leave me. It is
right that I should be cold to him. I should be false to myself if
I tried to move his love--I, who have nothing to give him in return
for it." And so she made no further visit to the post-office, and the
letter went on its way.

We will now follow its fortunes for a short while, and explain how
it was that Mary received no answer for a week; a week, it may well
be imagined, of terrible suspense to her. When she took it to the
post-office, she doubtless thought that the baker's wife had nothing
to do but to send it up to the house at Greshamsbury, and that Frank
would receive it that evening, or, at latest, early on the following
morning. But this was by no means so. The epistle was posted on a
Friday afternoon, and it behoved the baker's wife to send it into
Silverbridge--Silverbridge being the post-town--so that all due
formalities, as ordered by the Queen's Government, might there be
perfected. Now, unfortunately, the post-boy had taken his departure
before Mary reached the shop, and it was not, therefore, dispatched
till Saturday. Sunday was always a _dies non_ with the Greshamsbury
Mercury, and, consequently, Frank's letter was not delivered at the
house till Monday morning; at which time Mary had for two long days
been waiting with weary heart for the expected answer.

Now Frank had on that morning gone up to London by the early train,
with his future brother-in-law, Mr Oriel. In order to accomplish
this, they had left Greshamsbury for Barchester exactly as the
postboy was leaving Silverbridge for Greshamsbury.

"I should like to wait for my letters," Mr Oriel had said, when the
journey was being discussed.

"Nonsense," Frank had answered. "Who ever got a letter that was worth
waiting for?" and so Mary was doomed to a week of misery.

When the post-bag arrived at the house on Monday morning, it was
opened as usual by the squire himself at the breakfast-table. "Here
is a letter for Frank," said he, "posted in the village. You had
better send it to him:" and he threw the letter across the table to
Beatrice.

"It's from Mary," said Beatrice, out loud, taking the letter up and
examining the address. And having said so, she repented what she had
done, as she looked first at her father and then at her mother.

A cloud came over the squire's brow as for a minute he went on
turning over the letters and newspapers. "Oh, from Mary Thorne, is
it?" he said. "Well, you had better send it to him."

"Frank said that if any letters came they were to be kept," said his
sister Sophy. "He told me so particularly. I don't think he likes
having letters sent after him."

"You had better send that one," said the squire.

"Mr Oriel is to have all his letters addressed to Long's Hotel, Bond
Street, and this one can very well be sent with them," said Beatrice,
who knew all about it, and intended herself to make a free use of the
address.

"Yes, you had better send it," said the squire; and then nothing
further was said at the table. But Lady Arabella, though she said
nothing, had not failed to mark what had passed. Had she asked for
the letter before the squire, he would probably have taken possession
of it himself; but as soon as she was alone with Beatrice, she did
demand it. "I shall be writing to Frank myself," she said, "and will
send it to him." And so, Beatrice, with a heavy heart, gave it up.

The letter lay before Lady Arabella's eyes all that day, and many a
wistful glance was cast at it. She turned it over and over, and much
she desired to know its contents; but she did not dare to break the
seal of her son's letter. All that day it lay upon her desk, and all
the next, for she could hardly bring herself to part with it; but on
the Wednesday it was sent--sent with these lines from herself:--

"Dearest, dearest Frank, I send you a letter which has come by the
post from Mary Thorne. I do not know what it may contain; but before
you correspond with her, pray, pray think of what I said to you. For
my sake, for your father's, for your own, pray think of it."

That was all, but it was enough to make her word to Beatrice true.
She did send it to Frank enclosed in a letter from herself. We must
reserve to the next chapter what had taken place between Frank and
his mother; but, for the present, we will return to the doctor's
house.

Mary said not a word to him about the letter; but, keeping silent on
the subject, she felt wretchedly estranged from him. "Is anything the
matter, Mary?" he said to her on the Sunday afternoon.

"No, uncle," she answered, turning away her head to hide her tears.

"Ah, but there is something; what is it, dearest?"

"Nothing--that is, nothing that one can talk about."

"What Mary! Be unhappy and not to talk about it to me? That's
something new, is it not?"

"One has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why.
Besides, you know--"

"I know! What do I know? Do I know anything that will make my pet
happier?" and he took her in his arms as they sat together on the
sofa. Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made an
effort to hide them. "Speak to me, Mary; this is more than a
presentiment. What is it?"

"Oh, uncle--"

"Come, love, speak to me; tell me why you are grieving."

"Oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me? Why have you not told
me what to do? Why have you not advised me? Why are you always so
silent?"

"Silent about what?"

"You know, uncle, you know; silent about him; silent about Frank."

Why, indeed? What was he to say to this? It was true that he had
never counselled her; never shown her what course she should take;
had never even spoken to her about her lover. And it was equally true
that he was not now prepared to do so, even in answer to such an
appeal as this. He had a hope, a strong hope, more than a hope, that
Mary's love would yet be happy; but he could not express or explain
his hope; nor could he even acknowledge to himself a wish that would
seem to be based on the death of him whose life he was bound, if
possible, to preserve.

"My love," he said, "it is a matter in which you must judge for
yourself. Did I doubt your conduct, I should interfere; but I do
not."

"Conduct! Is conduct everything? One may conduct oneself excellently,
and yet break one's heart."

This was too much for the doctor; his sternness and firmness
instantly deserted him. "Mary," he said, "I will do anything that you
would have me. If you wish it, I will make arrangements for leaving
this place at once."

"Oh, no," she said, plaintively.

"When you tell me of a broken heart, you almost break my own. Come
to me, darling; do not leave me so. I will say all that I can say. I
have thought, do still think, that circumstances will admit of your
marriage with Frank if you both love each other, and can both be
patient."

"You think so," said she, unconsciously sliding her hand into his,
as though to thank him by its pressure for the comfort he was giving
her.

"I do think so now more than ever. But I only think so; I have been
unable to assure you. There, darling, I must not say more; only that
I cannot bear to see you grieving, I would not have said this:" and
then he left her, and nothing more was spoken on the subject.

If you can be patient! Why, a patience of ten years would be as
nothing to her. Could she but live with the knowledge that she was
first in his estimation, dearest in his heart; could it be also
granted to her to feel that she was regarded as his equal, she could
be patient for ever. What more did she want than to know and feel
this? Patient, indeed!

But what could these circumstances be to which her uncle had alluded?
"I do think that circumstances will admit of your marriage." Such was
his opinion, and she had never known him to be wrong. Circumstances!
What circumstances? Did he perhaps mean that Mr Gresham's affairs
were not so bad as they had been thought to be? If so, that alone
would hardly alter the matter, for what could she give in return? "I
would give him the world for one word of love," she said to herself,
"and never think that he was my debtor. Ah! how beggarly the heart
must be that speculates on such gifts as those!"

But there was her uncle's opinion: he still thought that they might
be married. Oh, why had she sent her letter? and why had she made it
so cold? With such a letter as that before him, Frank could not do
other than consent to her proposal. And then, why did he not at least
answer it?

On the Sunday afternoon there arrived at Greshamsbury a man and a
horse from Boxall Hill, bearing a letter from Lady Scatcherd to Dr
Thorne, earnestly requesting the doctor's immediate attendance. "I
fear everything is over with poor Louis," wrote the unhappy mother.
"It has been very dreadful. Do come to me; I have no other friend,
and I am nearly worn through with it. The man from the city"--she
meant Dr Fillgrave--"comes every day, and I dare say he is all very
well, but he has never done much good. He has not had spirit enough
to keep the bottle from him; and it was that, and that only, that
most behoved to be done. I doubt you won't find him in this world
when you arrive here."

Dr Thorne started immediately. Even though he might have to meet Dr
Fillgrave, he could not hesitate, for he went not as a doctor to the
dying man, but as the trustee under Sir Roger's will. Moreover, as
Lady Scatcherd had said, he was her only friend, and he could not
desert her at such a moment for an army of Fillgraves. He told
Mary he should not return that night; and taking with him a small
saddle-bag, he started at once for Boxall Hill.

As he rode up to the hall door, Dr Fillgrave was getting into his
carriage. They had never met so as to speak to each other since that
memorable day, when they had their famous passage of arms in the hall
of that very house before which they both now stood. But, at the
present moment, neither of them was disposed to renew the fight.

"What news of your patient, Dr Fillgrave?" said our doctor, still
seated on his sweating horse, and putting his hand lightly to his
hat.

Dr Fillgrave could not refrain from one moment of supercilious
disdain: he gave one little chuck to his head, one little twist to
his neck, one little squeeze to his lips, and then the man within him
overcame the doctor. "Sir Louis is no more," he said.

"God's will be done!" said Dr Thorne.

"His death is a release; for his last days have been very frightful.
Your coming, Dr Thorne, will be a comfort to Lady Scatcherd." And
then Dr Fillgrave, thinking that even the present circumstances
required no further condescension, ensconced himself in the carriage.

"His last days have been very dreadful! Ah, me, poor fellow! Dr
Fillgrave, before you go, allow me to say this: I am quite aware that
when he fell into your hands, no medical skill in the world could
save him."

Dr Fillgrave bowed low from the carriage, and after this unwonted
exchange of courtesies, the two doctors parted, not to meet again--at
any rate, in the pages of this novel. Of Dr Fillgrave, let it now be
said, that he grows in dignity as he grows in years, and that he is
universally regarded as one of the celebrities of the city of
Barchester.

Lady Scatcherd was found sitting alone in her little room on the
ground-floor. Even Hannah was not with her, for Hannah was now
occupied upstairs. When the doctor entered the room, which he did
unannounced, he found her seated on a chair, with her back against
one of the presses, her hands clasped together over her knees, gazing
into vacancy. She did not ever hear him or see him as he approached,
and his hand had slightly touched her shoulder before she knew that
she was not alone. Then, she looked up at him with a face so full of
sorrow, so worn with suffering, that his own heart was racked to see
her.

"It is all over, my friend," said he. "It is better so; much better
so."

She seemed at first hardly to understand him, but still regarding him
with that wan face, shook her head slowly and sadly. One might have
thought that she was twenty years older than when Dr Thorne last saw
her.

He drew a chair to her side, and sitting by her, took her hand in
his. "It is better so, Lady Scatcherd; better so," he repeated. "The
poor lad's doom had been spoken, and it is well for him, and for you,
that it should be over."

"They are both gone now," said she, speaking very low; "both gone
now. Oh, doctor! To be left alone here, all alone!"

He said some few words trying to comfort her; but who can comfort
a widow bereaved of her child? Who can console a heart that has
lost all that it possessed? Sir Roger had not been to her a tender
husband; but still he had been the husband of her love. Sir Louis had
not been to her an affectionate son; but still he had been her child,
her only child. Now they were both gone. Who can wonder that the
world should be a blank to her?

Still the doctor spoke soothing words, and still he held her hand.
He knew that his words could not console her; but the sounds of his
kindness at such desolate moments are, to such minds as hers, some
alleviation of grief. She hardly answered him, but sat there staring
out before her, leaving her hand passively to him, and swaying her
head backwards and forwards as though her grief were too heavy to be
borne.

At last, her eye rested on an article which stood upon the table, and
she started up impetuously from her chair. She did this so suddenly,
that the doctor's hand fell beside him before he knew that she had
risen. The table was covered with all those implements which become
so frequent about a house when severe illness is an inhabitant there.
There were little boxes and apothecaries' bottles, cups and saucers
standing separate, and bowls, in which messes have been prepared with
the hope of suiting a sick man's failing appetite. There was a small
saucepan standing on a plate, a curiously shaped glass utensil left
by the doctor, and sundry pieces of flannel, which had been used in
rubbing the sufferer's limbs. But in the middle of the débris stood
one black bottle, with head erect, unsuited to the companionship in
which it was found.

"There," she said, rising up, and seizing this in a manner that
would have been ridiculous had it not been so truly tragic. "There,
that has robbed me of everything--of all that I ever possessed; of
husband and child; of the father and son; that has swallowed them
both--murdered them both! Oh, doctor! that such a thing as that
should cause such bitter sorrow! I have hated it always, but now--Oh,
woe is me! weary me!" And then she let the bottle drop from her hand
as though it were too heavy for her.

"This comes of their barro-niting," she continued. "If they had let
him alone, he would have been here now, and so would the other one.
Why did they do it? why did they do it? Ah, doctor! people such as us
should never meddle with them above us. See what has come of it; see
what has come of it!"

The doctor could not remain with her long, as it was necessary that
he should take upon himself the direction of the household, and give
orders for the funeral. First of all, he had to undergo the sad duty
of seeing the corpse of the deceased baronet. This, at any rate,
may be spared to my readers. It was found to be necessary that the
interment should be made very quickly, as the body was already nearly
destroyed by alcohol. Having done all this, and sent back his horse
to Greshamsbury, with directions that clothes for a journey might be
sent to him, and a notice that he should not be home for some days,
he again returned to Lady Scatcherd.

Of course he could not but think much of the immense property
which was now, for a short time, altogether in his own hands. His
resolution was soon made to go at once to London and consult the
best lawyer he could find--or the best dozen lawyers should such be
necessary--as to the validity of Mary's claims. This must be done
before he said a word to her or to any of the Gresham family; but it
must be done instantly, so that all suspense might be at an end as
soon as possible. He must, of course, remain with Lady Scatcherd till
the funeral should be over; but when that office should be complete,
he would start instantly for London.

In resolving to tell no one as to Mary's fortune till after he had
fortified himself with legal warranty, he made one exception. He
thought it rational that he should explain to Lady Scatcherd who was
now the heir under her husband's will; and he was the more inclined
to do so, from feeling that the news would probably be gratifying to
her. With this view, he had once or twice endeavoured to induce her
to talk about the property, but she had been unwilling to do so. She
seemed to dislike all allusions to it, and it was not till she had
incidentally mentioned the fact that she would have to look for a
home, that he was able to fix her to the subject. This was on the
evening before the funeral; on the afternoon of which day he intended
to proceed to London.

"It may probably be arranged that you may continue to live here,"
said the doctor.

"I don't wish it at all," said she, rather sharply. "I don't wish to
have any arrangements made. I would not be indebted to any of them
for anything. Oh, dear! if money could make it all right, I should
have enough of that."

"Indebted to whom, Lady Scatcherd? Who do you think will be the owner
of Boxall Hill?"

"Indeed, then, Dr Thorne, I don't much care: unless it be yourself,
it won't be any friend of mine, or any one I shall care to make a
friend of. It isn't so easy for an old woman like me to make new
friends."

"Well, it certainly won't belong to me."

"I wish it did, with all my heart. But even then, I would not live
here. I have had too many troubles here to wish to see more."

"That shall be just as you like, Lady Scatcherd; but you will
be surprised to hear that the place will--at least I think it
will--belong to a friend of yours: to one to whom you have been very
kind."

"And who is he, doctor? Won't it go to some of those Americans? I am
sure I never did anything kind to them; though, indeed, I did love
poor Mary Scatcherd. But that's years upon years ago, and she is dead
and gone now. Well, I begrudge nothing to Mary's children. As I have
none of my own, it is right they should have the money. It has not
made me happy; I hope it may do so to them."

"The property will, I think, go to Mary Scatcherd's eldest child. It
is she whom you have known as Mary Thorne."

"Doctor!" And then Lady Scatcherd, as she made the exclamation, put
both her hands down to hold her chair, as though she feared the
weight of her surprise would topple her off her seat.

"Yes; Mary Thorne--my Mary--to whom you have been so good, who loves
you so well; she, I believe, will be Sir Roger's heiress. And it was
so that Sir Roger intended on his deathbed, in the event of poor
Louis's life being cut short. If this be so, will you be ashamed to
stay here as the guest of Mary Thorne? She has not been ashamed to be
your guest."

But Lady Scatcherd was now too much interested in the general tenor
of the news which she had heard to care much about the house which
she was to inhabit in future. Mary Thorne, the heiress of Boxall
Hill! Mary Thorne, the still living child of that poor creature who
had so nearly died when they were all afflicted with their early
grief! Well; there was consolation, there was comfort in this. There
were but three people left in the world that she could love: her
foster-child, Frank Gresham--Mary Thorne, and the doctor. If the
money went to Mary, it would of course go to Frank, for she now knew
that they loved each other; and if it went to them, would not the
doctor have his share also; such share as he might want? Could she
have governed the matter, she would have given it all to Frank; and
now it would be as well bestowed.

Yes; there was consolation in this. They both sat up more than half
the night talking over it, and giving and receiving explanations. If
only the council of lawyers would not be adverse! That was now the
point of suspense.

The doctor, before he left her, bade her hold her peace, and say
nothing of Mary's fortune to any one till her rights had been
absolutely acknowledged. "It will be nothing not to have it," said
the doctor; "but it would be very bad to hear it was hers, and then
to lose it."

On the next morning, Dr Thorne deposited the remains of Sir Louis in
the vault prepared for the family in the parish church. He laid the
son where a few months ago he had laid the father,--and so the title
of Scatcherd became extinct. Their race of honour had not been long.

After the funeral, the doctor hurried up to London, and there we will
leave him.




CHAPTER XLIV

Saturday Evening and Sunday Morning


We must now go back a little and describe how Frank had been sent off
on special business to London. The household at Greshamsbury was at
this time in but a doleful state. It seemed to be pervaded, from the
squire down to the scullery-maid, with a feeling that things were
not going well; and men and women, in spite of Beatrice's coming
marriage, were grim-visaged, and dolorous. Mr Mortimer Gazebee,
rejected though he had been, still went and came, talking much to the
squire, much also to her ladyship, as to the ill-doings which were in
the course of projection by Sir Louis; and Frank went about the house
with clouded brow, as though finally resolved to neglect his one
great duty.

Poor Beatrice was robbed of half her joy: over and over again her
brother asked her whether she had yet seen Mary, and she was obliged
as often to answer that she had not. Indeed, she did not dare to
visit her friend, for it was hardly possible that they should
sympathise with each other. Mary was, to say the least, stubborn in
her pride; and Beatrice, though she could forgive her friend for
loving her brother, could not forgive the obstinacy with which Mary
persisted in a course which, as Beatrice thought, she herself knew to
be wrong.

And then Mr Gazebee came down from town, with an intimation that it
behoved the squire himself to go up that he might see certain learned
pundits, and be badgered in his own person at various dingy, dismal
chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields, the Temple, and Gray's Inn Lane. It
was an invitation exactly of that sort which a good many years ago
was given to a certain duck.

"Will you, will you--will you, will you--come and be killed?"
Although Mr Gazebee urged the matter with such eloquence, the squire
remained steady to his objection, and swam obstinately about his
Greshamsbury pond in any direction save that which seemed to lead
towards London.

This occurred on the very evening of that Friday which had witnessed
the Lady Arabella's last visit to Dr Thorne's house. The question of
the squire's necessary journey to the great fountains of justice was,
of course, discussed between Lady Arabella and Mr Gazebee; and it
occurred to the former, full as she was of Frank's iniquity and of
Mary's obstinacy, that if Frank were sent up in lieu of his father,
it would separate them at least for a while. If she could only get
Frank away without seeing his love, she might yet so work upon him,
by means of the message which Mary had sent, as to postpone, if not
break off, this hateful match. It was inconceivable that a youth
of twenty-three, and such a youth as Frank, should be obstinately
constant to a girl possessed of no great beauty--so argued Lady
Arabella to herself--and who had neither wealth, birth, nor fashion
to recommend her.

And thus it was at last settled--the squire being a willing party
to the agreement--that Frank should go up and be badgered in lieu
of his father. At his age it was possible to make it appear a
thing desirable, if not necessary--on account of the importance
conveyed--to sit day after day in the chambers of Messrs Slow &
Bideawhile, and hear musty law talk, and finger dusty law parchments.
The squire had made many visits to Messrs Slow & Bideawhile, and he
knew better. Frank had not hitherto been there on his own bottom, and
thus he fell easily into the trap.

Mr Oriel was also going to London, and this was another reason for
sending Frank. Mr Oriel had business of great importance, which it
was quite necessary that he should execute before his marriage. How
much of this business consisted in going to his tailor, buying a
wedding-ring, and purchasing some other more costly present for
Beatrice, we need not here inquire. But Mr Oriel was quite on Lady
Arabella's side with reference to this mad engagement, and as Frank
and he were now fast friends, some good might be done in that way.
"If we all caution him against it, he can hardly withstand us all!"
said Lady Arabella to herself.

The matter was broached to Frank on the Saturday evening, and settled
between them all the same night. Nothing, of course, was at that
moment said about Mary; but Lady Arabella was too full of the subject
to let him go to London without telling him that Mary was ready to
recede if only he would allow her to do so. About eleven o'clock,
Frank was sitting in his own room, conning over the difficulties
of the situation--thinking of his father's troubles, and his own
position--when he was roused from his reverie by a slight tap at the
door.

"Come in," said he, somewhat loudly. He thought it was one of his
sisters, who were apt to visit him at all hours and for all manner
of reasons; and he, though he was usually gentle to them, was not at
present exactly in a humour to be disturbed.

The door gently opened, and he saw his mother standing hesitating in
the passage.

"Can I come in, Frank?" said she.

"Oh, yes, mother; by all means:" and then, with some surprise marked
in his countenance, he prepared a seat for her. Such a visit as this
from Lady Arabella was very unusual; so much so, that he had probably
not seen her in his own room since the day when he first left school.
He had nothing, however, to be ashamed of; nothing to conceal, unless
it were an open letter from Miss Dunstable which he had in his hand
when she entered, and which he somewhat hurriedly thrust into his
pocket.

"I wanted to say a few words to you, Frank, before you start for
London about this business." Frank signified by a gesture, that he
was quite ready to listen to her.

"I am so glad to see your father putting the matter into your hands.
You are younger than he is; and then--I don't know why, but somehow
your father has never been a good man of business--everything has
gone wrong with him."

"Oh, mother! do not say anything against him."

"No, Frank, I will not; I do not wish it. Things have been
unfortunate, certainly. Ah me! I little thought when I married--but I
don't mean to complain--I have excellent children, and I ought to be
thankful for that."

Frank began to fear that no good could be coming when his mother
spoke in that strain. "I will do the best I can," said he, "up in
town. I can't help thinking myself that Mr Gazebee might have done as
well, but--"

"Oh, dear no; by no means. In such cases the principal must show
himself. Besides, it is right you should know how matters stand. Who
is so much interested in it as you are? Poor Frank! I so often feel
for you when I think how the property has dwindled."

"Pray do not mind me, mother. Why should you talk of it as my matter
while my father is not yet forty-five? His life, so to speak, is as
good as mine. I can do very well without it; all I want is to be
allowed to settle to something."

"You mean a profession."

"Yes; something of that sort."

"They are so slow, dear Frank. You, who speak French so well--I
should think my brother might get you in as attaché to some embassy."

"That wouldn't suit me at all," said Frank.

"Well, we'll talk about that some other time. But I came about
something else, and I do hope you will hear me."

Frank's brow again grew black, for he knew that his mother was about
to say something which it would be disagreeable for him to hear.

"I was with Mary, yesterday."

"Well, mother?"

"Don't be angry with me, Frank; you can't but know that the fate
of an only son must be a subject of anxiety to a mother." Ah! how
singularly altered was Lady Arabella's tone since first she had taken
upon herself to discuss the marriage prospects of her son! Then how
autocratic had she been as she sent him away, bidding him, with full
command, to throw himself into the golden embraces of Miss Dunstable!
But now, how humble, as she came suppliantly to his room, craving
that she might have leave to whisper into his ears a mother's anxious
fears! Frank had laughed at her stern behests, though he had half
obeyed them; but he was touched to the heart by her humility.

He drew his chair nearer to her, and took her by the hand. But she,
disengaging hers, parted the hair from off his forehead, and kissed
his brow. "Oh, Frank," she said, "I have been so proud of you, am
still so proud of you. It will send me to my grave if I see you sink
below your proper position. Not that it will be your fault. I am sure
it will not be your fault. Only circumstanced as you are, you should
be doubly, trebly, careful. If your father had not--"

"Do not speak against my father."

"No, Frank; I will not--no, I will not; not another word. And now,
Frank--"

Before we go on we must say one word further as to Lady Arabella's
character. It will probably be said that she was a consummate
hypocrite; but at the present moment she was not hypocritical. She
did love her son; was anxious--very, very anxious for him; was proud
of him, and almost admired the very obstinacy which so vexed her to
her inmost soul. No grief would be to her so great as that of seeing
him sink below what she conceived to be his position. She was as
genuinely motherly, in wishing that he should marry money, as another
woman might be in wishing to see her son a bishop; or as the Spartan
matron, who preferred that her offspring should return on his shield,
to hearing that he had come back whole in limb but tainted in honour.
When Frank spoke of a profession, she instantly thought of what Lord
de Courcy might do for him. If he would not marry money, he might, at
any rate, be an attaché at an embassy. A profession--hard work, as
a doctor, or as an engineer--would, according to her ideas, degrade
him; cause him to sink below his proper position; but to dangle at
a foreign court, to make small talk at the evening parties of a
lady ambassadress, and occasionally, perhaps, to write demi-official
notes containing demi-official tittle-tattle; this would be in proper
accordance with the high honour of a Gresham of Greshamsbury.

We may not admire the direction taken by Lady Arabella's energy on
behalf of her son, but that energy was not hypocritical.

"And now, Frank--" She looked wistfully into his face as she
addressed him, as though half afraid to go on, and begging that he
would receive with complaisance whatever she found herself forced to
say.

"Well, mother?"

"I was with Mary, yesterday."

"Yes, yes; what then? I know what your feelings are with regard to
her."

"No, Frank; you wrong me. I have no feelings against her--none,
indeed; none but this: that she is not fit to be your wife."

"I think her fit."

"Ah, yes; but how fit? Think of your position, Frank, and what means
you have of keeping her. Think what you are. Your father's only son;
the heir to Greshamsbury. If Greshamsbury be ever again more than a
name, it is you that must redeem it. Of all men living you are the
least able to marry a girl like Mary Thorne."

"Mother, I will not sell myself for what you call my position."

"Who asks you? I do not ask you; nobody asks you. I do not want you
to marry any one. I did think once--but let that pass. You are now
twenty-three. In ten years' time you will still be a young man. I
only ask you to wait. If you marry now, that is, marry such a girl as
Mary Thorne--"

"Such a girl! Where shall I find such another?"

"I mean as regards money, Frank; you know I mean that; how are you to
live? Where are you to go? And then, her birth. Oh, Frank, Frank!"

"Birth! I hate such pretence. What was--but I won't talk about it.
Mother, I tell you my word is pledged, and on no account will I be
induced to break it."

"Ah, that's just it; that's just the point. Now, Frank, listen to me.
Pray listen to me patiently for one minute. I do not ask much of
you."

Frank promised that he would listen patiently; but he looked anything
but patient as he said so.

"I have seen Mary, as it was certainly my duty to do. You cannot be
angry with me for that."

"Who said that I was angry, mother?"

"Well, I have seen her, and I must own, that though she was not
disposed to be courteous to me, personally, she said much that marked
her excellent good sense. But the gist of it was this; that as she
had made you a promise, nothing should turn her from that promise but
your permission."

"And do you think--"

"Wait a moment, Frank, and listen to me. She confessed that this
marriage was one which would necessarily bring distress on all your
family; that it was one which would probably be ruinous to yourself;
that it was a match which could not be approved of: she did, indeed;
she confessed all that. 'I have nothing', she said--those were her
own words--'I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement,
except that he wishes it.' That is what she thinks of it herself.
'His wishes are not a reason; but a law,' she said--"

"And, mother, would you have me desert such a girl as that?"

"It is not deserting, Frank: it would not be deserting: you would be
doing that which she herself approves of. She feels the impropriety
of going on; but she cannot draw back because of her promise to you.
She thinks that she cannot do it, even though she wishes it."

"Wishes it! Oh, mother!"

"I do believe she does, because she has sense to feel the truth of
all that your friends say. Oh, Frank, I will go on my knees to you if
you will listen to me."

"Oh, mother! mother! mother!"

"You should think twice, Frank, before you refuse the only request
your mother ever made you. And why do I ask you? why do I come to you
thus? Is it for my own sake? Oh, my boy! my darling boy! will you
lose everything in life, because you love the child with whom you
have played as a child?"

"Whose fault is it that we were together as children? She is now more
than a child. I look on her already as my wife."

"But she is not your wife, Frank; and she knows that she ought not to
be. It is only because you hold her to it that she consents to be
so."

"Do you mean to say that she does not love me?"

Lady Arabella would probably have said this, also, had she dared;
but she felt, that in doing so, she would be going too far. It was
useless for her to say anything that would be utterly contradicted by
an appeal to Mary herself.

"No, Frank; I do not mean to say that you do not love her. What
I do mean is this: that it is not becoming in you to give up
everything--not only yourself, but all your family--for such a love
as this; and that she, Mary herself, acknowledges this. Every one is
of the same opinion. Ask your father: I need not say that he would
agree with you about everything if he could. I will not say the de
Courcys."

"Oh, the de Courcys!"

"Yes, they are my relations; I know that." Lady Arabella could not
quite drop the tone of bitterness which was natural to her in saying
this. "But ask your sisters; ask Mr Oriel, whom you esteem so much;
ask your friend Harry Baker."

Frank sat silent for a moment or two while his mother, with a look
almost of agony, gazed into his face. "I will ask no one," at last he
said.

"Oh, my boy! my boy!"

"No one but myself can know my own heart."

"And you will sacrifice all to such a love as that, all; her, also,
whom you say that you so love? What happiness can you give her as
your wife? Oh, Frank! is that the only answer you will make your
mother on her knees?

"Oh, mother! mother!"

"No, Frank, I will not let you ruin yourself; I will not let you
destroy yourself. Promise this, at least, that you will think of what
I have said."

"Think of it! I do think of it."

"Ah, but think of it in earnest. You will be absent now in London;
you will have the business of the estate to manage; you will have
heavy cares upon your hands. Think of it as a man, and not as a boy."

"I will see her to-morrow before I go."

"No, Frank, no; grant me that trifle, at any rate. Think upon this
without seeing her. Do not proclaim yourself so weak that you cannot
trust yourself to think over what your mother says to you without
asking her leave. Though you be in love, do not be childish with it.
What I have told you as coming from her is true, word for word; if it
were not, you would soon learn so. Think now of what I have said, and
of what she says, and when you come back from London, then you can
decide."

To so much Frank consented after some further parley; namely, that he
would proceed to London on the following Monday morning without again
seeing Mary. And in the meantime, she was waiting with sore heart for
his answer to that letter that was lying, and was still to lie for so
many hours, in the safe protection of the Silverbridge postmistress.

It may seem strange; but, in truth, his mother's eloquence had more
effect on Frank than that of his father: and yet, with his father he
had always sympathised. But his mother had been energetic; whereas,
his father, if not lukewarm, had, at any rate, been timid. "I will
ask no one," Frank had said in the strong determination of his heart;
and yet the words were hardly out of his mouth before he bethought
himself that he would talk the thing over with Harry Baker. "Not,"
said he to himself, "that I have any doubt; I have no doubt; but I
hate to have all the world against me. My mother wishes me to ask
Harry Baker. Harry is a good fellow, and I will ask him." And with
this resolve he betook himself to bed.

The following day was Sunday. After breakfast Frank went with the
family to church, as was usual; and there, as usual, he saw Mary in
Dr Thorne's pew. She, as she looked at him, could not but wonder why
he had not answered the letter which was still at Silverbridge; and
he endeavoured to read in her face whether it was true, as his mother
had told him, that she was quite ready to give him up. The prayers of
both of them were disturbed, as is so often the case with the prayers
of other anxious people.

There was a separate door opening from the Greshamsbury pew out into
the Greshamsbury grounds, so that the family were not forced into
unseemly community with the village multitude in going to and from
their prayers; for the front door of the church led out into a road
which had no connexion with the private path. It was not unusual with
Frank and his father to go round, after the service, to the chief
entrance, so that they might speak to their neighbours, and get rid
of some of the exclusiveness which was intended for them. On this
morning the squire did so; but Frank walked home with his mother and
sisters, so that Mary saw no more of him.

I have said that he walked home with his mother and his sisters;
but he rather followed in their path. He was not inclined to talk
much, at least, not to them; and he continued asking himself the
question--whether it could be possible that he was wrong in remaining
true to his promise? Could it be that he owed more to his father and
his mother, and what they chose to call his position, than he did to
Mary?

After church, Mr Gazebee tried to get hold of him, for there was much
still to be said, and many hints to be given, as to how Frank should
speak, and, more especially, as to how he should hold his tongue
among the learned pundits in and about Chancery Lane. "You must be
very wide awake with Messrs Slow & Bideawhile," said Mr Gazebee. But
Frank would not hearken to him just at that moment. He was going to
ride over to Harry Baker, so he put Mr Gazebee off till the half-hour
before dinner,--or else the half-hour after tea.

On the previous day he had received a letter from Miss Dunstable,
which he had hitherto read but once. His mother had interrupted him
as he was about to refer to it; and now, as his father's nag was
being saddled--he was still prudent in saving the black horse--he
again took it out.

Miss Dunstable had written in an excellent humour. She was in great
distress about the oil of Lebanon, she said. "I have been trying to
get a purchaser for the last two years; but my lawyer won't let me
sell it, because the would-be purchasers offer a thousand pounds or
so less than the value. I would give ten to be rid of the bore; but I
am as little able to act myself as Sancho was in his government. The
oil of Lebanon! Did you hear anything of it when you were in those
parts? I thought of changing the name to 'London particular;' but my
lawyer says the brewers would bring an action against me.

"I was going down to your neighbourhood--to your friend the duke's,
at least. But I am prevented by my poor doctor, who is so weak that
I must take him to Malvern. It is a great bore; but I have the
satisfaction that I do my duty by him!

"Your cousin George is to be married at last. So I hear, at least.
He loves wisely, if not well; for his widow has the name of being
prudent and fairly well to do in the world. She has got over the
caprices of her youth. Dear Aunt de Courcy will be so delighted. I
might perhaps have met her at Gatherum Castle. I do so regret it.

"Mr Moffat has turned up again. We all thought you had finally
extinguished him. He left a card the other day, and I have told the
servant always to say that I am at home, and that you are with me. He
is going to stand for some borough in the west of Ireland. He's used
to shillelaghs by this time.

"By the by, I have a _cadeau_ for a friend of yours. I won't tell you
what it is, nor permit you to communicate the fact. But when you tell
me that in sending it I may fairly congratulate her on having so
devoted a slave as you, it shall be sent.

"If you have nothing better to do at present, do come and see my
invalid at Malvern. Perhaps you might have a mind to treat for the
oil of Lebanon. I'll give you all the assistance I can in cheating my
lawyers."

There was not much about Mary in this; but still, the little that was
said made him again declare that neither father nor mother should
move him from his resolution. "I will write to her and say that she
may send her present when she pleases. Or I will run down to Malvern
for a day. It will do me good to see her." And so resolved, he rode
away to Mill Hill, thinking, as he went, how he would put the matter
to Harry Baker.

Harry was at home; but we need not describe the whole interview. Had
Frank been asked beforehand, he would have declared, that on no
possible subject could he have had the slightest hesitation in asking
Harry any question, or communicating to him any tidings. But when the
time came, he found that he did hesitate much. He did not want to ask
his friend if he should be wise to marry Mary Thorne. Wise or not, he
was determined to do that. But he wished to be quite sure that his
mother was wrong in saying that all the world would dissuade him from
it. Miss Dunstable, at any rate, did not do so.

At last, seated on a stile at the back of the Mill Hill stables,
while Harry stood close before him with both his hands in his
pockets, he did get his story told. It was by no means the first
time that Harry Baker had heard about Mary Thorne, and he was not,
therefore, so surprised as he might have been, had the affair
been new to him. And thus, standing there in the position we have
described, did Mr Baker, junior, give utterance to such wisdom as was
in him on this subject.

"You see, Frank, there are two sides to every question; and, as I
take it, fellows are so apt to go wrong because they are so fond of
one side, they won't look at the other. There's no doubt about it,
Lady Arabella is a very clever woman, and knows what's what; and
there's no doubt about this either, that you have a very ticklish
hand of cards to play."

"I'll play it straightforward; that's my game" said Frank.

"Well and good, my dear fellow. That's the best game always. But what
is straightforward? Between you and me, I fear there's no doubt that
your father's property has got into a deuce of a mess."

"I don't see that that has anything to do with it."

"Yes, but it has. If the estate was all right, and your father could
give you a thousand a year to live on without feeling it, and if your
eldest child would be cock-sure of Greshamsbury, it might be very
well that you should please yourself as to marrying at once. But
that's not the case; and yet Greshamsbury is too good a card to be
flung away."

"I could fling it away to-morrow," said Frank.

"Ah! you think so," said Harry the Wise. "But if you were to hear
to-morrow that Sir Louis Scatcherd were master of the whole place,
and be d---- to him, you would feel very uncomfortable." Had Harry
known how near Sir Louis was to his last struggle, he would not have
spoken of him in this manner. "That's all very fine talk, but it
won't bear wear and tear. You do care for Greshamsbury if you are the
fellow I take you to be: care for it very much; and you care too for
your father being Gresham of Greshamsbury."

"This won't affect my father at all."

"Ah, but it will affect him very much. If you were to marry Miss
Thorne to-morrow, there would at once be an end to any hope of your
saving the property."

"And do you mean to say I'm to be a liar to her for such reasons as
that? Why, Harry, I should be as bad as Moffat. Only it would be ten
times more cowardly, as she has no brother."

"I must differ from you there altogether; but mind, I don't mean to
say anything. Tell me that you have made up your mind to marry her,
and I'll stick to you through thick and thin. But if you ask my
advice, why, I must give it. It is quite a different affair to that
of Moffat's. He had lots of tin, everything he could want, and there
could be no reason why he should not marry,--except that he was a
snob, of whom your sister was well quit. But this is very different.
If I, as your friend, were to put it to Miss Thorne, what do you
think she would say herself?"

"She would say whatever she thought best for me."

"Exactly: because she is a trump. And I say the same. There can be no
doubt about it, Frank, my boy: such a marriage would be very foolish
for you both; very foolish. Nobody can admire Miss Thorne more than
I do; but you oughtn't to be a marrying man for the next ten years,
unless you get a fortune. If you tell her the truth, and if she's the
girl I take her to be, she'll not accuse you of being false. She'll
peak for a while; and so will you, old chap. But others have had to
do that before you. They have got over it, and so will you."

Such was the spoken wisdom of Harry Baker, and who can say that he
was wrong? Frank sat a while on his rustle seat, paring his nails
with his penknife, and then looking up, he thus thanked his friend:--

"I'm sure you mean well, Harry; and I'm much obliged to you. I dare
say you're right too. But, somehow, it doesn't come home to me. And
what is more, after what has passed, I could not tell her that I wish
to part from her. I could not do it. And besides, I have that sort of
feeling, that if I heard she was to marry any one else, I am sure I
should blow his brains out. Either his or my own."

"Well, Frank, you may count on me for anything, except the last
proposition:" and so they shook hands, and Frank rode back to
Greshamsbury.




CHAPTER XLV

Law Business in London


On the Monday morning at six o'clock, Mr Oriel and Frank started
together; but early as it was, Beatrice was up to give them a cup of
coffee, Mr Oriel having slept that night in the house. Whether Frank
would have received his coffee from his sister's fair hands had not
Mr Oriel been there, may be doubted. He, however, loudly asserted
that he should not have done so, when she laid claim to great merit
for rising in his behalf.

Mr Oriel had been specially instigated by Lady Arabella to use the
opportunity of their joint journey, for pointing out to Frank the
iniquity as well as madness of the course he was pursuing; and he had
promised to obey her ladyship's behests. But Mr Oriel was perhaps not
an enterprising man, and was certainly not a presumptuous one. He did
intend to do as he was bid; but when he began, with the object of
leading up to the subject of Frank's engagement, he always softened
down into some much easier enthusiasm in the matter of his own
engagement with Beatrice. He had not that perspicuous, but not
over-sensitive strength of mind which had enabled Harry Baker to
express his opinion out at once; and boldly as he did it, yet to do
so without offence.

Four times before the train arrived in London, he made some little
attempt; but four times he failed. As the subject was matrimony, it
was his easiest course to begin about himself; but he never could get
any further.

"No man was ever more fortunate in a wife than I shall be," he said,
with a soft, euphuistic self-complacency, which would have been silly
had it been adopted to any other person than the bride's brother. His
intention, however, was very good, for he meant to show, that in his
case marriage was prudent and wise, because his case differed so
widely from that of Frank.

"Yes," said Frank. "She is an excellent good girl:" he had said it
three times before, and was not very energetic.

"Yes, and so exactly suited to me; indeed, all that I could have
dreamed of. How very well she looked this morning! Some girls only
look well at night. I should not like that at all."

"You mustn't expect her to look like that always at six o'clock
a.m.," said Frank, laughing. "Young ladies only take that trouble on
very particular occasions. She wouldn't have come down like that if
my father or I had been going alone. No, and she won't do so for you
in a couple of years' time."

"Oh, but she's always nice. I have seen her at home as much almost as
you could do; and then she's so sincerely religious."

"Oh, yes, of course; that is, I am sure she is," said Frank, looking
solemn as became him.

"She's made to be a clergyman's wife."

"Well, so it seems," said Frank.

"A married life is, I'm sure, the happiest in the world--if people
are only in a position to marry," said Mr Oriel, gradually drawing
near to the accomplishment of his design.

"Yes; quite so. Do you know, Oriel, I never was so sleepy in my life.
What with all that fuss of Gazebee's, and one thing and another, I
could not get to bed till one o'clock; and then I couldn't sleep.
I'll take a snooze now, if you won't think it uncivil." And then,
putting his feet upon the opposite seat, he settled himself
comfortably to his rest. And so Mr Oriel's last attempt for lecturing
Frank in the railway-carriage faded away and was annihilated.

By twelve o'clock Frank was with Messrs Slow & Bideawhile. Mr
Bideawhile was engaged at the moment, but he found the managing
Chancery clerk to be a very chatty gentleman. Judging from what he
saw, he would have said that the work to be done at Messrs Slow &
Bideawhile's was not very heavy.

"A singular man that Sir Louis," said the Chancery clerk.

"Yes; very singular," said Frank.

"Excellent security, excellent; no better; and yet he will foreclose;
but you see he has no power himself. But the question is, can the
trustee refuse? Then, again, trustees are so circumscribed nowadays
that they are afraid to do anything. There has been so much said
lately, Mr Gresham, that a man doesn't know where he is, or what he
is doing. Nobody trusts anybody. There have been such terrible things
that we can't wonder at it. Only think of the case of those Hills!
How can any one expect that any one else will ever trust a lawyer
again after that? But that's Mr Bideawhile's bell. How can any one
expect it? He will see you now, I dare say, Mr Gresham."

So it turned out, and Frank was ushered into the presence of Mr
Bideawhile. He had got his lesson by heart, and was going to rush
into the middle of his subject; such a course, however, was not in
accordance with Mr Bideawhile's usual practice. Mr Bideawhile got up
from his large wooden-seated Windsor chair, and, with a soft smile,
in which, however, was mingled some slight dash of the attorney's
acuteness, put out his hand to his young client; not, indeed, as
though he were going to shake hands with him, but as though the hand
were some ripe fruit all but falling, which his visitor might take
and pluck if he thought proper. Frank took hold of the hand, which
returned him no pressure, and then let it go again, not making any
attempt to gather the fruit.

"I have come up to town, Mr Bideawhile, about this mortgage,"
commenced Frank.

"Mortgage--ah, sit down, Mr Gresham; sit down. I hope your father is
quite well?"

"Quite well, thank you."

"I have a great regard for your father. So I had for your
grandfather; a very good man indeed. You, perhaps, don't remember
him, Mr Gresham?"

"He died when I was only a year old."

"Oh, yes; no, you of course, can't remember him; but I do, well: he
used to be very fond of some port wine I had. I think it was '11;'
and if I don't mistake, I have a bottle or two of it yet; but it is
not worth drinking now. Port wine, you know, won't keep beyond a
certain time. That was very good wine. I don't exactly remember what
it stood me a dozen then; but such wine can't be had now. As for the
Madeira, you know there's an end of that. Do you drink Madeira, Mr
Gresham?"

"No," said Frank, "not very often."

"I'm sorry for that, for it's a fine wine; but then there's none
of it left, you know. I have a few dozen, I'm told they're growing
pumpkins where the vineyards were. I wonder what they do with all the
pumpkins they grow in Switzerland! You've been in Switzerland, Mr
Gresham?"

Frank said he had been in Switzerland.

"It's a beautiful country; my girls made me go there last year. They
said it would do me good; but then you know, they wanted to see it
themselves; ha! ha! ha! However, I believe I shall go again this
autumn. That is to Aix, or some of those places; just for three
weeks. I can't spare any more time, Mr Gresham. Do you like that
dining at the _tables d'hôte_?"

"Pretty well, sometimes."

"One would get tired of it--eh! But they gave us capital dinners at
Zurich. I don't think much of their soup. But they had fish, and
about seven kinds of meats and poultry, and three or four puddings,
and things of that sort. Upon my word, I thought we did very well,
and so did my girls, too. You see a great many ladies travelling
now."

"Yes," said Frank; "a great many."

"Upon my word, I think they are right; that is, if they can afford
time. I can't afford time. I'm here every day till five, Mr Gresham;
then I go out and dine in Fleet Street, and then back to work till
nine."

"Dear me! that's very hard."

"Well, yes it is hard work. My boys don't like it; but I manage it
somehow. I get down to my little place in the country on Saturday. I
shall be most happy to see you there next Saturday."

Frank, thinking it would be outrageous on his part to take up much of
the time of the gentleman who was constrained to work so unreasonably
hard, began again to talk about his mortgages, and, in so doing, had
to mention the name of Mr Yates Umbleby.

"Ah, poor Umbleby!" said Mr Bideawhile; "what is he doing now? I am
quite sure your father was right, or he wouldn't have done it; but I
used to think that Umbleby was a decent sort of man enough. Not so
grand, you know, as your Gazebees and Gumptions--eh, Mr Gresham? They
do say young Gazebee is thinking of getting into Parliament. Let me
see: Umbleby married--who was it he married? That was the way your
father got hold of him; not your father, but your grandfather. I
used to know all about it. Well, I was sorry for Umbleby. He has got
something, I suppose--eh?"

Frank said that he believed Mr Yates Umbleby had something wherewith
to keep the wolf from the door.

"So you have got Gazebee down there now? Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee:
very good people, I'm sure; only, perhaps, they have a little too
much on hand to do your father justice."

"But about Sir Louis, Mr Bideawhile."

"Well, about Sir Louis; a very bad sort of fellow, isn't he?
Drinks--eh? I knew his father a little. He was a rough diamond, too.
I was once down in Northamptonshire, about some railway business; let
me see; I almost forget whether I was with him, or against him. But I
know he made sixty thousand pounds by one hour's work; sixty thousand
pounds! And then he got so mad with drinking that we all thought--"

And so Mr Bideawhile went on for two hours, and Frank found no
opportunity of saying one word about the business which had brought
him up to town. What wonder that such a man as this should be obliged
to stay at his office every night till nine o'clock?

During these two hours, a clerk had come in three or four times,
whispering something to the lawyer, who, on the last of such
occasions, turned to Frank, saying, "Well, perhaps that will do for
to-day. If you'll manage to call to-morrow, say about two, I will
have the whole thing looked up; or, perhaps Wednesday or Thursday
would suit you better." Frank, declaring that the morrow would suit
him very well, took his departure, wondering much at the manner in
which business was done at the house of Messrs Slow & Bideawhile.

When he called the next day, the office seemed to be rather
disturbed, and he was shown quickly into Mr Bideawhile's room. "Have
you heard this?" said that gentleman, putting a telegram into his
hands. It contained tidings of the death of Sir Louis Scatcherd.
Frank immediately knew that these tidings must be of importance to
his father; but he had no idea how vitally they concerned his own
more immediate interests.

"Dr Thorne will be up in town on Thursday evening after the funeral,"
said the talkative clerk. "And nothing of course can be done till he
comes," said Mr Bideawhile. And so Frank, pondering on the mutability
of human affairs, again took his departure.

He could do nothing now but wait for Dr Thorne's arrival, and so
he amused himself in the interval by running down to Malvern, and
treating with Miss Dunstable in person for the oil of Lebanon. He
went down on the Wednesday, and thus, failed to receive, on the
Thursday morning, Mary's letter, which reached London on that day.
He returned, however, on the Friday, and then got it; and perhaps
it was well for Mary's happiness that he had seen Miss Dunstable in
the interval. "I don't care what your mother says," said she, with
emphasis. "I don't care for any Harry, whether it be Harry Baker, or
old Harry himself. You made her a promise, and you are bound to keep
it; if not on one day, then on another. What! because you cannot draw
back yourself, get out of it by inducing her to do so! Aunt de Courcy
herself could not improve upon that." Fortified in this manner, he
returned to town on the Friday morning, and then got Mary's letter.
Frank also got a note from Dr Thorne, stating that he had taken up
his temporary domicile at the Gray's Inn Coffee-house, so as to be
near the lawyers.

It has been suggested that the modern English writers of fiction
should among them keep a barrister, in order that they may be set
right on such legal points as will arise in their little narratives,
and thus avoid that exposure of their own ignorance of the laws,
which, now, alas! they too often make. The idea is worthy of
consideration, and I can only say, that if such an arrangement can be
made, and if a counsellor adequately skilful can be found to accept
the office, I shall be happy to subscribe my quota; it would be but a
modest tribute towards the cost.

But as the suggestion has not yet been carried out, and as there is
at present no learned gentleman whose duty would induce him to set
me right, I can only plead for mercy if I be wrong allotting all Sir
Roger's vast possessions in perpetuity to Miss Thorne, alleging also,
in excuse, that the course of my narrative absolutely demands that
she shall be ultimately recognised as Sir Roger's undoubted heiress.

Such, after a not immoderate delay, was the opinion expressed to Dr
Thorne by his law advisers; and such, in fact, turned out to be the
case. I will leave the matter so, hoping that my very absence of
defence may serve to protect me from severe attack. If under such
a will as that described as having been made by Sir Roger, Mary
would not have been the heiress, that will must have been described
wrongly.

But it was not quite at once that those tidings made themselves
absolutely certain to Dr Thorne's mind; nor was he able to express
any such opinion when he first met Frank in London. At that time
Mary's letter was in Frank's pocket; and Frank, though his real
business appertained much more to the fact of Sir Louis's death, and
the effect that would immediately have on his father's affairs, was
much more full of what so much more nearly concerned himself. "I will
show it Dr Thorne himself," said he, "and ask him what he thinks."

Dr Thorne was stretched fast asleep on the comfortless horse-hair
sofa in the dingy sitting-room at the Gray's Inn Coffee-house when
Frank found him. The funeral, and his journey to London, and the
lawyers had together conquered his energies, and he lay and snored,
with nose upright, while heavy London summer flies settled on his
head and face, and robbed his slumbers of half their charms.

"I beg your pardon," said he, jumping up as though he had been
detected in some disgraceful act. "Upon my word, Frank, I beg your
pardon; but--well, my dear fellow, all well at Greshamsbury--eh?" and
as he shook himself, he made a lunge at one uncommonly disagreeable
fly that had been at him for the last ten minutes. It is hardly
necessary to say that he missed his enemy.

"I should have been with you before, doctor, but I was down at
Malvern."

"At Malvern, eh? Ah! so Oriel told me. The death of poor Sir Louis
was very sudden--was it not?"

"Very."

"Poor fellow--poor fellow! His fate has for some time been past
hope. It is a madness, Frank; the worst of madness. Only think of
it--father and son! And such a career as the father had--such a
career as the son might have had!"

"It has been very quickly run," said Frank.

"May it be all forgiven him! I sometimes cannot but believe in a
special Providence. That poor fellow was not able, never would have
been able, to make proper use of the means which fortune had given
him. I hope they may fall into better hands. There is no use in
denying it, his death will be an immense relief to me, and a relief
also to your father. All this law business will now, of course, be
stopped. As for me, I hope I may never be a trustee again."

Frank had put his hand four or five times into his breast-pocket, and
had as often taken out and put back again Mary's letter before he
could find himself able to bring Dr Thorne to the subject. At last
there was a lull in the purely legal discussion, caused by the doctor
intimating that he supposed Frank would now soon return to
Greshamsbury.

"Yes; I shall go to-morrow morning."

"What! so soon as that? I counted on having you one day in London
with me."

"No, I shall go to-morrow. I'm not fit for company for any one. Nor
am I fit for anything. Read that, doctor. It's no use putting it off
any longer. I must get you to talk this over with me. Just read that,
and tell me what you think about it. It was written a week ago, when
I was there, but somehow I have only got it to-day." And putting the
letter into the doctor's hands, he turned away to the window, and
looked out among the Holborn omnibuses. Dr Thorne took the letter and
read it. Mary, after she had written it, had bewailed to herself that
the letter was cold; but it had not seemed cold to her lover, nor did
it appear so to her uncle. When Frank turned round from the window,
the doctor's handkerchief was up to his eyes; who, in order to hide
the tears that were there, was obliged to go through a rather violent
process of blowing his nose.

"Well," he said, as he gave back the letter to Frank.

Well! what did well mean? Was it well? or would it be well were he,
Frank, to comply with the suggestion made to him by Mary?

"It is impossible," he said, "that matters should go on like that.
Think what her sufferings must have been before she wrote that. I am
sure she loves me."

"I think she does," said the doctor.

"And it is out of the question that she should be sacrificed; nor
will I consent to sacrifice my own happiness. I am quite willing to
work for my bread, and I am sure that I am able. I will not submit
to-- Doctor, what answer do you think I ought to give to that
letter? There can be no person so anxious for her happiness as you
are--except myself." And as he asked the question, he again put into
the doctor's hand, almost unconsciously, the letter which he had
still been holding in his own.

The doctor turned it over and over, and then opened it again.

"What answer ought I to make to it?" demanded Frank, with energy.

"You see, Frank, I have never interfered in this matter, otherwise
than to tell you the whole truth about Mary's birth."

"Oh, but you must interfere: you should say what you think."

"Circumstanced as you are now--that is, just at the present
moment--you could hardly marry immediately."

"Why not let me take a farm? My father could, at any rate, manage a
couple of thousand pounds or so for me to stock it. That would not
be asking much. If he could not give it me, I would not scruple
to borrow so much elsewhere." And Frank bethought him of all Miss
Dunstable's offers.

"Oh, yes; that could be managed."

"Then why not marry immediately; say in six months or so? I am not
unreasonable; though, Heaven knows, I have been kept in suspense long
enough. As for her, I am sure she must be suffering frightfully. You
know her best, and, therefore, I ask you what answer I ought to make:
as for myself, I have made up my own mind; I am not a child, nor will
I let them treat me as such."

Frank, as he spoke, was walking rapidly about the room; and he
brought out his different positions, one after the other, with a
little pause, while waiting for the doctor's answer. The doctor was
sitting, with the letter still in his hands, on the head of the sofa,
turning over in his mind the apparent absurdity of Frank's desire to
borrow two thousand pounds for a farm, when, in all human
probability, he might in a few months be in possession of almost any
sum he should choose to name. And yet he would not tell him of Sir
Roger's will. "If it should turn out to be all wrong?" said he to
himself.

"Do you wish me to give her up?" said Frank, at last.

"No. How can I wish it? How can I expect a better match for her?
Besides, Frank, I love no man in the world so well as I do you."

"Then you will help me?"

"What! against your father?"

"Against! no, not against anybody. But will you tell Mary that she
has your consent?"

"I think she knows that."

"But you have never said anything to her."

"Look here, Frank; you ask me for my advice, and I will give it you:
go home; though, indeed, I would rather you went anywhere else."

"No, I must go home; and I must see her."

"Very well, go home: as for seeing Mary, I think you had better put
it off for a fortnight."

"Quite impossible."

"Well, that's my advice. But, at any rate, make up your mind to
nothing for a fortnight. Wait for one fortnight, and I then will tell
you plainly--you and her too--what I think you ought to do. At the
end of a fortnight come to me, and tell the squire that I will take
it as a great kindness if he will come with you. She has suffered,
terribly, terribly; and it is necessary that something should be
settled. But a fortnight more can make no great difference."

"And the letter?"

"Oh! there's the letter."

"But what shall I say? Of course I shall write to-night."

"Tell her to wait a fortnight. And, Frank, mind you bring your father
with you."

Frank could draw nothing further from his friend save constant
repetitions of this charge to him to wait a fortnight,--just one
other fortnight.

"Well, I will come to you at any rate," said Frank; "and, if
possible, I will bring my father. But I shall write to Mary
to-night."

On the Saturday morning, Mary, who was then nearly broken-hearted at
her lover's silence, received a short note:--


   MY OWN MARY,

   I shall be home to-morrow. I will by no means release you
   from your promise. Of course you will perceive that I only
   got your letter to-day.

   Your own dearest,

   FRANK.

   P.S.--You will have to call me so hundreds and hundreds of
   times yet.


Short as it was, this sufficed Mary. It is one thing for a young lady
to make prudent, heart-breaking suggestions, but quite another to
have them accepted. She did call him dearest Frank, even on that one
day, almost as often as he had desired her.




CHAPTER XLVI

Our Pet Fox Finds a Tail


Frank returned home, and his immediate business was of course with
his father, and with Mr Gazebee, who was still at Greshamsbury.

"But who is the heir?" asked Mr Gazebee, when Frank had explained
that the death of Sir Louis rendered unnecessary any immediate legal
steps.

"Upon my word I don't know," said Frank.

"You saw Dr Thorne," said the squire. "He must have known."

"I never thought of asking him," said Frank, naïvely.

Mr Gazebee looked rather solemn. "I wonder at that," said he; "for
everything now depends on the hands the property will go into. Let
me see; I think Sir Roger had a married sister. Was not that so, Mr
Gresham?" And then it occurred for the first time, both to the squire
and to his son, that Mary Thorne was the eldest child of this sister.
But it never occurred to either of them that Mary could be the
baronet's heir.

Dr Thorne came down for a couple of days before the fortnight was
over to see his patients, and then returned again to London. But
during this short visit he was utterly dumb on the subject of the
heir. He called at Greshamsbury to see Lady Arabella, and was even
questioned by the squire on the subject. But he obstinately refused
to say more than that nothing certain could be known for yet a few
days.

Immediately after his return, Frank saw Mary, and told her all that
had happened. "I cannot understand my uncle," said she, almost
trembling as she stood close to him in her own drawing-room. "He
usually hates mysteries, and yet now he is so mysterious. He told me,
Frank--that was after I had written that unfortunate letter--"

"Unfortunate, indeed! I wonder what you really thought of me when you
were writing it?"

"If you had heard what your mother said, you would not be surprised.
But, after that, uncle said--"

"Said what?"

"He seemed to think--I don't remember what it was he said. But he
said, he hoped that things might yet turn out well; and then I was
almost sorry that I had written the letter."

"Of course you were sorry, and so you ought to have been. To say that
you would never call me Frank again!"

"I didn't exactly say that."

"I have told him I will wait a fortnight, and so I will. After that,
I shall take the matter into my own hands."

It may be well supposed that Lady Arabella was not well pleased to
learn that Frank and Mary had been again together; and, in the agony
of her spirit, she did say some ill-natured things before Augusta,
who had now returned from Courcy Castle, as to the gross impropriety
of Mary's conduct. But to Frank she said nothing.

Nor was there much said between Frank and Beatrice. If everything
could really be settled at the end of that fortnight which was to
witness the disclosure of the doctor's mystery, there would still
be time to arrange that Mary should be at the wedding. "It shall be
settled then," he said to himself; "and if it be settled, my mother
will hardly venture to exclude my affianced bride from the house."
It was now the beginning of August, and it wanted yet a month to the
Oriel wedding.

But though he said nothing to his mother or to Beatrice, he did say
much to his father. In the first place, he showed him Mary's letter.
"If your heart be not made of stone it will be softened by that," he
said. Mr Gresham's heart was not of stone, and he did acknowledge
that the letter was a very sweet letter. But we know how the drop of
water hollows stone. It was not by the violence of his appeal that
Frank succeeded in obtaining from his father a sort of half-consent
that he would no longer oppose the match; but by the assiduity with
which the appeal was repeated. Frank, as we have said, had more
stubbornness of will than his father; and so, before the fortnight
was over, the squire had been talked over, and promised to attend at
the doctor's bidding.

"I suppose you had better take the Hazlehurst farm," said he to his
son, with a sigh. "It joins the park and the home-fields, and I will
give you up them also. God knows, I don't care about farming any
more--or about anything else either."

"Don't say that, father."

"Well, well! But, Frank, where will you live? The old house is big
enough for us all. But how would Mary get on with your mother?"

At the end of his fortnight, true to his time, the doctor returned to
the village. He was a bad correspondent; and though he had written
some short notes to Mary, he had said no word to her about his
business. It was late in the evening when he got home, and it was
understood by Frank and the squire that they were to be with him on
the following morning. Not a word had been said to Lady Arabella on
the subject.

It was late in the evening when he got home, and Mary waited for him
with a heart almost sick with expectation. As soon as the fly had
stopped at the little gate she heard his voice, and heard at once
that it was quick, joyful, and telling much of inward satisfaction.
He had a good-natured word for Janet, and called Thomas an old
blunder-head in a manner that made Bridget laugh outright.

"He'll have his nose put out of joint some day; won't he?" said the
doctor. Bridget blushed and laughed again, and made a sign to Thomas
that he had better look to his face.

Mary was in his arms before he was yet within the door. "My darling,"
said he, tenderly kissing her. "You are my own darling yet awhile."

"Of course I am. Am I not always to be so?"

"Well, well; let me have some tea, at any rate, for I'm in a fever of
thirst. They may call that tea at the Junction if they will; but if
China were sunk under the sea it would make no difference to them."

Dr Thorne always was in a fever of thirst when he got home from the
railway, and always made complaint as to the tea at the Junction.
Mary went about her usual work with almost more than her usual
alacrity, and so they were soon seated in the drawing-room together.

She soon found that his manner was more than ordinarily kind to her;
and there was moreover something about him which seemed to make him
sparkle with contentment, but he said no word about Frank, nor did he
make any allusion to the business which had taken him up to town.

"Have you got through all your work?" she said to him once.

"Yes, yes; I think all."

"And thoroughly?"

"Yes; thoroughly, I think. But I am very tired, and so are you too,
darling, with waiting for me."

"Oh, no, I am not," said she, as she went on continually filling his
cup; "but I am so happy to have you home again. You have been away so
much lately."

"Ah, yes; well I suppose I shall not go away any more now. It will be
somebody else's turn now."

"Uncle, I think you're going to take up writing mystery romances,
like Mrs Radcliffe's."

"Yes; and I'll begin to-morrow, certainly with-- But, Mary, I will
not say another word to-night. Give me a kiss, dearest, and I'll go."

Mary did kiss him, and he did go. But as she was still lingering in
the room, putting away a book, or a reel of thread, and then sitting
down to think what the morrow would bring forth, the doctor again
came into the room in his dressing-gown, and with the slippers on.

"What, not gone yet?" said he.

"No, not yet; I'm going now."

"You and I, Mary, have always affected a good deal of indifference as
to money, and all that sort of thing."

"I won't acknowledge that it has been an affectation at all," she
answered.

"Perhaps not; but we have often expressed it, have we not?"

"I suppose, uncle, you think that we are like the fox that lost his
tail, or rather some unfortunate fox that might be born without one."

"I wonder how we should either of us bear it if we found ourselves
suddenly rich. It would be a great temptation--a sore temptation. I
fear, Mary, that when poor people talk disdainfully of money, they
often are like your fox, born without a tail. If nature suddenly
should give that beast a tail, would he not be prouder of it than all
the other foxes in the wood?"

"Well, I suppose he would. That's the very meaning of the story. But
how moral you've become all of a sudden at twelve o'clock at night!
Instead of being Mrs Radcliffe, I shall think you're Mr Æsop."

He took up the article which he had come to seek, and kissing her
again on the forehead, went away to his bed-room without further
speech. "What can he mean by all this about money?" said Mary to
herself. "It cannot be that by Sir Louis's death he will get any of
all this property;" and then she began to bethink herself whether,
after all, she would wish him to be a rich man. "If he were very
rich, he might do something to assist Frank; and then--"

There never was a fox yet without a tail who would not be delighted
to find himself suddenly possessed of that appendage. Never; let the
untailed fox have been ever so sincere in his advice to his friends!
We are all of us, the good and the bad, looking for tails--for one
tail, or for more than one; we do so too often by ways that are
mean enough: but perhaps there is no tail-seeker more mean, more
sneakingly mean than he who looks out to adorn his bare back with a
tail by marriage.

The doctor was up very early the next morning, long before Mary was
ready with her teacups. He was up, and in his own study behind the
shop, arranging dingy papers, pulling about tin boxes which he had
brought down with him from London, and piling on his writing-table
one set of documents in one place, and one in another. "I think I
understand it all," said he; "but yet I know I shall be bothered.
Well, I never will be anybody's trustee again. Let me see!" and then
he sat down, and with bewildered look recapitulated to himself sundry
heavy items. "What those shares are really worth I cannot understand,
and nobody seems able to tell one. They must make it out among
them as best they can. Let me see; that's Boxall Hill, and this is
Greshamsbury. I'll put a newspaper over Greshamsbury, or the squire
will know it!" and then, having made his arrangements, he went to his
breakfast.

I know I am wrong, my much and truly honoured critic, about these
title-deeds and documents. But when we've got that barrister in
hand, then if I go wrong after that, let the blame be on my own
shoulders--or on his.

The doctor ate his breakfast quickly; and did not talk much to his
niece. But what he did say was of a nature to make her feel strangely
happy. She could not analyse her own feelings, or give a reason for
her own confidence; but she certainly did feel, and even trust, that
something was going to happen after breakfast which would make her
more happy than she had been for many months.

"Janet," said he, looking at his watch, "if Mr Gresham and Mr
Frank call, show them into my study. What are you going to do with
yourself, my dear?"

"I don't know, uncle; you are so mysterious, and I am in such a
twitter, that I don't know what to do. Why is Mr Gresham coming
here--that is, the squire?"

"Because I have business with him about the Scatcherd property. You
know that he owed Sir Louis money. But don't go out, Mary. I want you
to be in the way if I should have to call for you. You can stay in
the drawing-room, can't you?"

"Oh, yes, uncle; or here."

"No, dearest; go into the drawing-room." Mary obediently did as she
was bid; and there she sat, for the next three hours, wondering,
wondering, wondering. During the greater part of that time, however,
she well knew that Mr Gresham, senior, and Mr Gresham, junior, were
both with her uncle, below.

At eleven o'clock the doctor's visitors came. He had expected them
somewhat earlier, and was beginning to become fidgety. He had so much
on his hands that he could not sit still for a moment till he had, at
any rate, commenced it. The expected footsteps were at last heard on
the gravel-path, and a moment or two afterwards Janet ushered the
father and son into the room.

The squire did not look very well. He was worn and sorrowful, and
rather pale. The death of his young creditor might be supposed to
have given him some relief from his more pressing cares, but the
necessity of yielding to Frank's wishes had almost more than balanced
this. When a man has daily to reflect that he is poorer than he was
the day before, he soon becomes worn and sorrowful.

But Frank was well; both in health and spirits. He also felt as Mary
did, that the day was to bring forth something which should end his
present troubles; and he could not but be happy to think that he
could now tell Dr Thorne that his father's consent to his marriage
had been given.

The doctor shook hands with them both, and then they sat down. They
were all rather constrained in their manner; and at first it seemed
that nothing but little speeches of compliment were to be made. At
last, the squire remarked that Frank had been talking to him about
Miss Thorne.

"About Mary?" said the doctor.

"Yes; about Mary," said the squire, correcting himself. It was quite
unnecessary that he should use so cold a name as the other, now that
he had agreed to the match.

"Well!" said Dr Thorne.

"I suppose it must be so, doctor. He has set his heart upon it, and
God knows, I have nothing to say against her--against her personally.
No one could say a word against her. She is a sweet, good girl,
excellently brought up; and, as for myself, I have always loved her."
Frank drew near to his father, and pressed his hand against the
squire's arm, by way of giving him, in some sort, a filial embrace
for his kindness.

"Thank you, squire, thank you," said the doctor. "It is very good of
you to say that. She is a good girl, and if Frank chooses to take
her, he will, in my estimation, have made a good choice."

"Chooses!" said Frank, with all the enthusiasm of a lover.

The squire felt himself perhaps a little ruffled at the way in which
the doctor received his gracious intimation; but he did now show it
as he went on. "They cannot, you know, doctor, look to be rich
people--"

"Ah! well, well," interrupted the doctor.

"I have told Frank so, and I think that you should tell Mary. Frank
means to take some land into his hand, and he must farm it as a
farmer. I will endeavour to give him three, or perhaps four hundred a
year. But you know better--"

"Stop, squire; stop a minute. We will talk about that presently. This
death of poor Sir Louis will make a difference."

"Not permanently," said the squire mournfully.

"And now, Frank," said the doctor, not attending to the squire's last
words, "what do you say?"

"What do I say? I say what I said to you in London the other day. I
believe Mary loves me; indeed, I won't be affected--I know she does.
I have loved her--I was going to say always; and, indeed, I almost
might say so. My father knows that this is no light fancy of mine. As
to what he says about our being poor, why--"

The doctor was very arbitrary, and would hear neither of them on this
subject.

"Mr Gresham," said he, interrupting Frank, "of course I am well aware
how very little suited Mary is by birth to marry your only son."

"It is too late to think about it now," said the squire.

"It is not too late for me to justify myself," replied the doctor.
"We have long known each other, Mr Gresham, and you said here the
other day, that this is a subject as to which we have been both of
one mind. Birth and blood are very valuable gifts."

"I certainly think so," said the squire; "but one can't have
everything."

"No; one can't have everything."

"If I am satisfied in that matter--" began Frank.

"Stop a moment, my dear boy," said the doctor. "As your father says,
one can't have everything. My dear friend--" and he gave his hand to
the squire--"do not be angry if I alluded for a moment to the estate.
It has grieved me to see it melting away--the old family acres that
have so long been the heritage of the Greshams."

"We need not talk about that now, Dr Thorne," said Frank, in an
almost angry tone.

"But I must, Frank, for one moment, to justify myself. I could not
have excused myself in letting Mary think that she could become your
wife if I had not hoped that good might come of it."

"Well; good will come of it," said Frank, who did not quite
understand at what the doctor was driving.

"I hope so. I have had much doubt about this, and have been sorely
perplexed; but now I do hope so. Frank--Mr Gresham--" and then Dr
Thorne rose from his chair; but was, for a moment, unable to go on
with his tale.

"We will hope that it is all for the best," said the squire.

"I am sure it is," said Frank.

"Yes; I hope it is. I do think it is; I am sure it is, Frank. Mary
will not come to you empty-handed. I wish for your sake--yes, and for
hers too--that her birth were equal to her fortune, as her worth is
superior to both. Mr Gresham, this marriage will, at any rate, put an
end to your pecuniary embarrassments--unless, indeed, Frank should
prove a hard creditor. My niece is Sir Roger Scatcherd's heir."

The doctor, as soon as he made the announcement, began to employ
himself sedulously about the papers on the table; which, in the
confusion caused by his own emotion, he transferred hither and
thither in such a manner as to upset all his previous arrangements.
"And now," he said, "I might as well explain, as well as I can, of
what that fortune consists. Here, this is--no--"

"But, Dr Thorne," said the squire, now perfectly pale, and almost
gasping for breath, "what is it you mean?"

"There's not a shadow of doubt," said the doctor. "I've had Sir
Abraham Haphazard, and Sir Rickety Giggs, and old Neversaye Die, and
Mr Snilam; and they are all of the same opinion. There is not the
smallest doubt about it. Of course, she must administer, and all
that; and I'm afraid there'll be a very heavy sum to pay for the tax;
for she cannot inherit as a niece, you know. Mr Snilam pointed that
out particularly. But, after all that, there'll be--I've got it down
on a piece of paper, somewhere--three grains of blue pill. I'm really
so bothered, squire, with all these papers, and all those lawyers,
that I don't know whether I'm sitting or standing. There's ready
money enough to pay all the tax and all the debts. I know that, at
any rate."

"You don't mean to say that Mary Thorne is now possessed of all Sir
Roger Scatcherd's wealth?" at last ejaculated the squire.

"But that's exactly what I do mean to say," said the doctor, looking
up from his papers with a tear in his eye, and a smile on his
mouth; "and what is more, squire, you owe her at the present moment
exactly--I've got that down too, somewhere, only I am so bothered
with all these papers. Come, squire, when do you mean to pay her?
She's in a great hurry, as young ladies are when they want to get
married."

The doctor was inclined to joke if possible, so as to carry off, as
it were, some of the great weight of obligation which it might seem
that he was throwing on the father and son; but the squire was by no
means in a state to understand a joke: hardly as yet in a state to
comprehend what was so very serious in this matter.

"Do you mean that Mary is the owner of Boxall Hill?" said he.

"Indeed, I do," said the doctor; and he was just going to add, "and
of Greshamsbury also," but he stopped himself.

"What, the whole property there?"

"That's only a small portion," said the doctor. "I almost wish it
were all, for then I should not be so bothered. Look here; these are
the Boxall Hill title-deeds; that's the simplest part of the whole
affair; and Frank may go and settle himself there to-morrow if he
pleases."

"Stop a moment, Dr Thorne," said Frank. These were the only words
which he had yet uttered since the tidings had been conveyed to him.

"And these, squire, are the Greshamsbury papers:" and the doctor,
with considerable ceremony, withdrew the covering newspapers. "Look
at them; there they all are once again. When I suggested to Mr Snilam
that I supposed they might now all go back to the Greshamsbury
muniment room, I thought he would have fainted. As I cannot return
them to you, you will have to wait till Frank shall give them up."

"But, Dr Thorne," said Frank.

"Well, my boy."

"Does Mary know all about this?"

"Not a word of it. I mean that you shall tell her."

"Perhaps, under such very altered circumstances--"

"Eh?"

"The change is so great and so sudden, so immense in its effects,
that Mary may perhaps wish--"

"Wish! wish what? Wish not to be told of it at all?"

"I shall not think of holding her to her engagement--that is, if--I
mean to say, she should have time at any rate for consideration."

"Oh, I understand," said the doctor. "She shall have time for
consideration. How much shall we give her, squire? three minutes? Go
up to her Frank: she is in the drawing-room."

Frank went to the door, and then hesitated, and returned. "I could
not do it," said he. "I don't think that I understand it all yet. I
am so bewildered that I could not tell her;" and he sat down at the
table, and began to sob with emotion.

"And she knows nothing of it?" said the squire.

"Not a word. I thought that I would keep the pleasure of telling her
for Frank."

"She should not be left in suspense," said the squire.

"Come, Frank, go up to her," again urged the doctor. "You've been
ready enough with your visits when you knew that you ought to stay
away."

"I cannot do it," said Frank, after a pause of some moments; "nor is
it right that I should. It would be taking advantage of her."

"Go to her yourself, doctor; it is you that should do it," said the
squire.

After some further slight delay, the doctor got up, and did go
upstairs. He, even, was half afraid of the task. "It must be done,"
he said to himself, as his heavy steps mounted the stairs. "But how
to tell it?"

When he entered, Mary was standing half-way up the room, as though
she had risen to meet him. Her face was troubled, and her eyes were
almost wild. The emotion, the hopes, the fears of that morning had
almost been too much for her. She had heard the murmuring of the
voices in the room below, and had known that one of them was that
of her lover. Whether that discussion was to be for her good or ill
she did not know; but she felt that further suspense would almost
kill her. "I could wait for years," she said to herself, "if I did
but know. If I lost him, I suppose I should bear it, if I did but
know."--Well; she was going to know.

Her uncle met her in the middle of the room. His face was serious,
though not sad; too serious to confirm her hopes at that moment of
doubt. "What is it, uncle?" she said, taking one of his hands between
both of her own. "What is it? Tell me." And as she looked up into his
face with her wild eyes, she almost frightened him.

"Mary," he said gravely, "you have heard much, I know, of Sir Roger
Scatcherd's great fortune."

"Yes, yes, yes!"

"Now that poor Sir Louis is dead--"

"Well, uncle, well?"

"It has been left--"

"To Frank! to Mr Gresham, to the squire!" exclaimed Mary, who felt,
with an agony of doubt, that this sudden accession of immense wealth
might separate her still further from her lover.

"No, Mary, not to the Greshams; but to yourself."

"To me!" she cried, and putting both her hands to her forehead, she
seemed to be holding her temples together. "To me!"

"Yes, Mary; it is all your own now. To do as you like best with it
all--all. May God, in His mercy, enable you to bear the burden, and
lighten for you the temptation!"

She had so far moved as to find the nearest chair, and there she
was now seated, staring at her uncle with fixed eyes. "Uncle," she
said, "what does it mean?" Then he came, and sitting beside her, he
explained, as best he could, the story of her birth, and her kinship
with the Scatcherds. "And where is he, uncle?" she said. "Why does he
not come to me?"

"I wanted him to come, but he refused. They are both there now, the
father and son; shall I fetch them?"

"Fetch them! whom? The squire? No, uncle; but may we go to them?"

"Surely, Mary."

"But, uncle--"

"Yes, dearest."

"Is it true? are you sure? For his sake, you know; not for my own.
The squire, you know--Oh, uncle! I cannot go."

"They shall come to you."

"No--no. I have gone to him such hundreds of times; I will never
allow that he shall be sent to me. But, uncle, is it true?"

The doctor, as he went downstairs, muttered something about Sir
Abraham Haphazard, and Sir Rickety Giggs; but these great names were
much thrown away upon poor Mary. The doctor entered the room first,
and the heiress followed him with downcast eyes and timid steps. She
was at first afraid to advance, but when she did look up, and saw
Frank standing alone by the window, her lover restored her courage,
and rushing up to him, she threw herself into his arms. "Oh, Frank;
my own Frank! my own Frank! we shall never be separated now."




CHAPTER XLVII

How the Bride Was Received, and Who Were Asked to the Wedding


And thus after all did Frank perform his great duty; he did marry
money; or rather, as the wedding has not yet taken place, and is,
indeed, as yet hardly talked of, we should more properly say that
he had engaged himself to marry money. And then, such a quantity of
money! The Scatcherd wealth greatly exceeded the Dunstable wealth; so
that our hero may be looked on as having performed his duties in a
manner deserving the very highest commendation from all classes of
the de Courcy connexion.

And he received it. But that was nothing. That _he_ should be fêted
by the de Courcys and Greshams, now that he was about to do his duty
by his family in so exemplary a manner: that he should be patted on
the back, now that he no longer meditated that vile crime which had
been so abhorrent to his mother's soul; this was only natural; this
is hardly worthy of remark. But there was another to be fêted,
another person to be made a personage, another blessed human mortal
about to do her duty by the family of Gresham in a manner that
deserved, and should receive, Lady Arabella's warmest caresses.

Dear Mary! It was, indeed, not singular that she should be prepared
to act so well, seeing that in early youth she had had the advantage
of an education in the Greshamsbury nursery; but not on that account
was it the less fitting that her virtue should be acknowledged,
eulogised, nay, all but worshipped.

How the party at the doctor's got itself broken up, I am not prepared
to say. Frank, I know, stayed and dined there, and his poor mother,
who would not retire to rest till she had kissed him, and blessed
him, and thanked him for all he was doing for the family, was kept
waiting in her dressing-room till a very unreasonable hour of the
night.

It was the squire who brought the news up to the house. "Arabella,"
he said, in a low, but somewhat solemn voice, "you will be surprised
at the news I bring you. Mary Thorne is the heiress to all the
Scatcherd property!"

"Oh, heavens! Mr Gresham."

"Yes, indeed," continued the squire. "So it is; it is very, very--"
But Lady Arabella had fainted. She was a woman who generally had her
feelings and her emotions much under her own control; but what she
now heard was too much for her. When she came to her senses, the
first words that escaped her lips were, "Dear Mary!"

But the household had to sleep on the news before it could be fully
realised. The squire was not by nature a mercenary man. If I have at
all succeeded in putting his character before the reader, he will be
recognised as one not over attached to money for money's sake. But
things had gone so hard with him, the world had become so rough, so
ungracious, so full of thorns, the want of means had become an evil
so keenly felt in every hour, that it cannot be wondered at that his
dreams that night should be of a golden elysium. The wealth was not
coming to him. True. But his chief sorrow had been for his son. Now
that son would be his only creditor. It was as though mountains of
marble had been taken from off his bosom.

But Lady Arabella's dreams flew away at once into the seventh heaven.
Sordid as they certainly were, they were not absolutely selfish.
Frank would now certainly be the first commoner in Barsetshire; of
course he would represent the county; of course there would be the
house in town; it wouldn't be her house, but she was contented that
the grandeur should be that of her child. He would have heaven
knows what to spend per annum. And that it should come through Mary
Thorne! What a blessing she had allowed Mary to be brought into the
Greshamsbury nursery! Dear Mary!

"She will of course be one now," said Beatrice to her sister. With
her, at the present moment, "one" of course meant one of the bevy
that was to attend her at the altar. "Oh dear! how nice! I shan't
know what to say to her to-morrow. But I know one thing."

"What is that?" asked Augusta.

"She will be as mild and as meek as a little dove. If she and the
doctor had lost every shilling in the world, she would have been as
proud as an eagle." It must be acknowledged that Beatrice had had the
wit to read Mary's character aright.

But Augusta was not quite pleased with the whole affair. Not that
she begrudged her brother his luck, or Mary her happiness. But her
ideas of right and wrong--perhaps we should rather say Lady Amelia's
ideas--would not be fairly carried out.

"After all, Beatrice, this does not alter her birth. I know it is
useless saying anything to Frank."

"Why, you wouldn't break both their hearts now?"

"I don't want to break their hearts, certainly. But there are those
who put their dearest and warmest feelings under restraint rather
than deviate from what they know to be proper." Poor Augusta! she was
the stern professor of the order of this philosophy; the last in the
family who practised with unflinching courage its cruel behests; the
last, always excepting the Lady Amelia.

And how slept Frank that night? With him, at least, let us hope, nay,
let us say boldly, that his happiest thoughts were not of the wealth
which he was to acquire. But yet it would be something to restore
Boxall Hill to Greshamsbury; something to give back to his father
those rumpled vellum documents, since the departure of which the
squire had never had a happy day; nay, something to come forth again
to his friends as a gay, young country squire, instead of as a
farmer, clod-compelling for his bread. We would not have him thought
to be better than he was, nor would we wish him to make him of other
stuff than nature generally uses. His heart did exult at Mary's
wealth; but it leaped higher still when he thought of purer joys.

And what shall we say of Mary's dreams? With her, it was altogether
what she should give, not at all what she should get. Frank had loved
her so truly when she was so poor, such an utter castaway; Frank, who
had ever been the heir of Greshamsbury! Frank, who with his beauty,
and spirit, and his talents might have won the smiles of the richest,
the grandest, the noblest! What lady's heart would not have rejoiced
to be allowed to love her Frank? But he had been true to her through
everything. Ah! how often she thought of that hour, when suddenly
appearing before her, he had strained her to his breast, just as she
had resolved how best to bear the death-like chill of his supposed
estrangements! She was always thinking of that time. She fed her love
by recurring over and over to the altered feeling of that moment. Any
now she could pay him for his goodness. Pay him! No, that would be a
base word, a base thought. Her payment must be made, if God would so
grant it, in many, many years to come. But her store, such as it was,
should be emptied into his lap. It was soothing to her pride that she
would not hurt him by her love, that she would bring no injury to the
old house. "Dear, dear Frank" she murmured, as her waking dreams,
conquered at last by sleep, gave way to those of the fairy world.

But she thought not only of Frank; dreamed not only of him. What had
he not done for her, that uncle of hers, who had been more loving to
her than any father! How was he, too, to be paid? Paid, indeed! Love
can only be paid in its own coin: it knows of no other legal tender.
Well, if her home was to be Greshamsbury, at any rate she would not
be separated from him.

What the doctor dreamed of that, neither he or any one ever knew.
"Why, uncle, I think you've been asleep," said Mary to him that
evening as he moved for a moment uneasily on the sofa. He had been
asleep for the last three-quarters of an hour;--but Frank, his guest,
had felt no offence. "No, I've not been exactly asleep," said he;
"but I'm very tired. I wouldn't do it all again, Frank, to double the
money. You haven't got any more tea, have you, Mary?"

On the following morning, Beatrice was of course with her friend.
There was no awkwardness between them in meeting. Beatrice had loved
her when she was poor, and though they had not lately thought alike
on one very important subject, Mary was too gracious to impute that
to Beatrice as a crime.

"You will be one now, Mary; of course you will."

"If Lady Arabella will let me come."

"Oh, Mary; let you! Do you remember what you said once about coming,
and being near me? I have so often thought of it. And now, Mary, I
must tell you about Caleb;" and the young lady settled herself on the
sofa, so as to have a comfortable long talk. Beatrice had been quite
right. Mary was as meek with her, and as mild as a dove.

And then Patience Oriel came. "My fine, young, darling, magnificent,
overgrown heiress," said Patience, embracing her. "My breath deserted
me, and I was nearly stunned when I heard of it. How small we shall
all be, my dear! I am quite prepared to toady to you immensely; but
pray be a little gracious to me, for the sake of auld lang syne."

Mary gave a long, long kiss. "Yes, for auld lang syne, Patience; when
you took me away under your wing to Richmond." Patience also had
loved her when she was in her trouble, and that love, too, should
never be forgotten.

But the great difficulty was Lady Arabella's first meeting with her.
"I think I'll go down to her after breakfast," said her ladyship to
Beatrice, as the two were talking over the matter while the mother
was finishing her toilet.

"I am sure she will come up if you like it, mamma."

"She is entitled to every courtesy--as Frank's accepted bride, you
know," said Lady Arabella. "I would not for worlds fail in any
respect to her for his sake."

"He will be glad enough for her to come, I am sure," said Beatrice.
"I was talking with Caleb this morning, and he says--"

The matter was of importance, and Lady Arabella gave it her most
mature consideration. The manner of receiving into one's family an
heiress whose wealth is to cure all one's difficulties, disperse
all one's troubles, give a balm to all the wounds of misfortune,
must, under any circumstances, be worthy of much care. But when that
heiress has been already treated as Mary had been treated!

"I must see her, at any rate, before I go to Courcy." said Lady
Arabella.

"Are you going to Courcy, mamma?"

"Oh, certainly; yes, I must see my sister-in-law now. You don't seem
to realise the importance, my dear, of Frank's marriage. He will be
in a great hurry about it, and, indeed, I cannot blame him. I expect
that they will all come here."

"Who, mamma? the de Courcys?"

"Yes, of course. I shall be very much surprised if the earl does not
come now. And I must consult my sister-in-law as to asking the Duke
of Omnium."

Poor Mary!

"And I think it will perhaps be better," continued Lady Arabella,
"that we should have a larger party than we intended at your affair.
The countess, I'm sure, would come now. We couldn't put it off for
ten days; could we, dear?"

"Put it off ten days!"

"Yes; it would be convenient."

"I don't think Mr Oriel would like that at all, mamma. You know he
has made all his arrangements for his Sundays--"

Pshaw! The idea of the parson's Sundays being allowed to have any
bearing on such a matter as Frank's wedding would now become! Why,
they would have--how much? Between twelve and fourteen thousand a
year! Lady Arabella, who had made her calculations a dozen times
during the night, had never found it to be much less than the larger
sum. Mr Oriel's Sundays, indeed!

After much doubt, Lady Arabella acceded to her daughter's suggestion,
that Mary should be received at Greshamsbury instead of being called
on at the doctor's house. "If you think she won't mind the coming
up first," said her ladyship. "I certainly could receive her better
here. I should be more--more--more able, you know, to express what I
feel. We had better go into the big drawing-room to-day, Beatrice.
Will you remember to tell Mrs Richards?"

"Oh, certainly," was Mary's answer when Beatrice, with a voice a
little trembling, proposed to her to walk up to the house. "Certainly
I will, if Lady Arabella will receive me;--only one thing, Trichy."

"What's that, dearest?"

"Frank will think that I come after him."

"Never mind what he thinks. To tell you the truth, Mary, I often call
upon Patience for the sake of finding Caleb. That's all fair now, you
know."

Mary very quietly put on her straw bonnet, and said she was ready
to go up to the house. Beatrice was a little fluttered, and showed
it. Mary was, perhaps, a good deal fluttered, but she did not show
it. She had thought a good deal of her first interview with Lady
Arabella, of her first return to the house; but she had resolved
to carry herself as though the matter were easy to her. She would
not allow it to be seen that she felt that she brought with her to
Greshamsbury, comfort, ease, and renewed opulence.

So she put on her straw bonnet and walked up with Beatrice. Everybody
about the place had already heard the news. The old woman at the
lodge curtsied low to her; the gardener, who was mowing the lawn; the
butler, who opened the front door--he must have been watching Mary's
approach--had manifestly put on a clean white neckcloth for the
occasion.

"God bless you once more, Miss Thorne!" said the old man, in a
half-whisper. Mary was somewhat troubled, for everything seemed,
in a manner, to bow down before her. And why should not everything
bow down before her, seeing that she was in truth the owner of
Greshamsbury?

And then a servant in livery would open the big drawing-room door.
This rather upset both Mary and Beatrice. It became almost impossible
for Mary to enter the room just as she would have done two years ago;
but she got through the difficulty with much self-control.

"Mamma, here's Mary," said Beatrice.

Nor was Lady Arabella quite mistress of herself, although she had
studied minutely how to bear herself.

"Oh, Mary, my dear Mary; what can I say to you?" and then, with a
handkerchief to her eyes, she ran forward and hid her face on Miss
Thorne's shoulders. "What can I say--can you forgive me my anxiety
for my son?"

"How do you do, Lady Arabella?" said Mary.

"My daughter! my child! my Frank's own bride! Oh, Mary! oh, my child!
If I have seemed unkind to you, it has been through love to him."

"All these things are over now," said Mary. "Mr Gresham told me
yesterday that I should be received as Frank's future wife; and so,
you see, I have come." And then she slipped through Lady Arabella's
arms, and sat down, meekly down, on a chair. In five minutes she
had escaped with Beatrice into the school-room, and was kissing the
children, and turning over the new trousseau. They were, however,
soon interrupted, and there was, perhaps, some other kissing besides
that of the children.

"You have no business in here at all, Frank," said Beatrice. "Has he,
Mary?"

"None in the world, I should think."

"See what he has done to my poplin; I hope you won't have your things
treated so cruelly. He'll be careful enough about them."

"Is Oriel a good hand at packing up finery--eh, Beatrice?" asked
Frank.

"He is, at any rate, too well-behaved to spoil it." Thus Mary was
again made at home in the household of Greshamsbury.

Lady Arabella did not carry out her little plan of delaying the Oriel
wedding. Her idea had been to add some grandeur to it, in order to
make it a more fitting precursor of that other greater wedding which
was to follow so soon in its wake. But this, with the assistance of
the countess, she found herself able to do without interfering with
poor Mr Oriel's Sunday arrangements. The countess herself, with the
Ladies Alexandrina and Margaretta, now promised to come, even to this
first affair; and for the other, the whole de Courcy family would
turn out, count and countess, lords and ladies, Honourable Georges
and Honourable Johns. What honour, indeed, could be too great to show
to a bride who had fourteen thousand a year in her own right, or to a
cousin who had done his duty by securing such a bride to himself!

"If the duke be in the country, I am sure he will be happy to come,"
said the countess. "Of course, he will be talking to Frank about
politics. I suppose the squire won't expect Frank to belong to the
old school now."

"Frank, of course, will judge for himself, Rosina;--with his
position, you know!" And so things were settled at Courcy Castle.

And then Beatrice was wedded and carried off to the Lakes. Mary, as
she had promised, did stand near her; but not exactly in the gingham
frock of which she had once spoken. She wore on that occasion-- But
it will be too much, perhaps, to tell the reader what she wore as
Beatrice's bridesmaid, seeing that a couple of pages, at least, must
be devoted to her marriage-dress, and seeing, also, that we have only
a few pages to finish everything; the list of visitors, the marriage
settlements, the dress, and all included.

It was in vain that Mary endeavoured to repress Lady Arabella's
ardour for grand doings. After all, she was to be married from the
doctor's house, and not from Greshamsbury, and it was the doctor
who should have invited the guests; but, in this matter, he did not
choose to oppose her ladyship's spirit, and she had it all her own
way.

"What can I do?" said he to Mary. "I have been contradicting her in
everything for the last two years. The least we can do is to let her
have her own way now in a trifle like this."

But there was one point on which Mary would let nobody have his or
her own way; on which the way to be taken was very manifestly to be
her own. This was touching the marriage settlements. It must not be
supposed, that if Beatrice were married on a Tuesday, Mary could be
married on the Tuesday week following. Ladies with twelve thousand a
year cannot be disposed of in that way: and bridegrooms who do their
duty by marrying money often have to be kept waiting. It was spring,
the early spring, before Frank was made altogether a happy man.

But a word about the settlements. On this subject the doctor thought
he would have been driven mad. Messrs Slow & Bideawhile, as the
lawyers of the Greshamsbury family--it will be understood that Mr
Gazebee's law business was of quite a different nature, and his
work, as regarded Greshamsbury, was now nearly over--Messrs Slow &
Bideawhile declared that it would never do for them to undertake
alone to draw out the settlements. An heiress, such as Mary, must
have lawyers of her own; half a dozen at least, according to the
apparent opinion of Messrs Slow & Bideawhile. And so the doctor had
to go to other lawyers, and they had again to consult Sir Abraham,
and Mr Snilam on a dozen different heads.

If Frank became tenant in tail, in right of his wife, but under his
father, would he be able to grant leases for more than twenty-one
years? and, if so, to whom would the right of trover belong? As to
flotsam and jetsam--there was a little property, Mr Critic, on the
sea-shore--that was a matter that had to be left unsettled at the
last. Such points as these do take a long time to consider. All
this bewildered the doctor sadly, and Frank himself began to make
accusations that he was to be done out of his wife altogether.

But, as we have said, there was one point on which Mary would have
her own way. The lawyers might tie up as they would on her behalf all
the money, and shares, and mortgages which had belonged to the late
Sir Roger, with this exception, all that had ever appertained to
Greshamsbury should belong to Greshamsbury again; not in perspective,
not to her children, or to her children's children, but at once.
Frank should be lord of Boxall Hill in his own right; and as to those
other _liens_ on Greshamsbury, let Frank manage that with his father
as he might think fit. She would only trouble herself to see that he
was empowered to do as he did think fit.

"But," argued the ancient, respectable family attorney to the doctor,
"that amounts to two-thirds of the whole estate. Two-thirds, Dr
Thorne! It is preposterous; I should almost say impossible." And the
scanty hairs on the poor man's head almost stood on end as he thought
of the outrageous manner in which the heiress prepared to sacrifice
herself.

"It will all be the same in the end," said the doctor, trying to make
things smooth. "Of course, their joint object will be to put the
Greshamsbury property together again."

"But, my dear sir,"--and then, for twenty minutes, the lawyer
went on proving that it would by no means be the same thing; but,
nevertheless, Mary Thorne did have her own way.

In the course of the winter, Lady de Courcy tried very hard to induce
the heiress to visit Courcy Castle, and this request was so backed by
Lady Arabella, that the doctor said he thought she might as well go
there for three or four days. But here, again, Mary was obstinate.

"I don't see it at all," she said. "If you make a point of it,
or Frank, or Mr Gresham, I will go; but I can't see any possible
reason." The doctor, when so appealed to, would not absolutely say
that he made a point of it, and Mary was tolerably safe as regarded
Frank or the squire. If she went, Frank would be expected to go, and
Frank disliked Courcy Castle almost more than ever. His aunt was now
more than civil to him, and, when they were together, never ceased to
compliment him on the desirable way in which he had done his duty by
his family.

And soon after Christmas a visitor came to Mary, and stayed a
fortnight with her: one whom neither she nor the doctor had expected,
and of whom they had not much more than heard. This was the famous
Miss Dunstable. "Birds of a feather flock together," said Mrs
Rantaway--late Miss Gushing--when she heard of the visit. "The
railway man's niece--if you can call her a niece--and the quack's
daughter will do very well together, no doubt."

"At any rate, they can count their money-bags," said Mrs Umbleby.

And in fact, Mary and Miss Dunstable did get on very well together;
and Miss Dunstable made herself quite happy at Greshamsbury, although
some people--including Mrs Rantaway--contrived to spread a report,
that Dr Thorne, jealous of Mary's money, was going to marry her.

"I shall certainly come and see you turned off," said Miss Dunstable,
taking leave of her new friend. Miss Dunstable, it must be
acknowledged, was a little too fond of slang; but then, a lady with
her fortune, and of her age, may be fond of almost whatever she
pleases.

And so by degrees the winter wore away--very slowly to Frank, as he
declared often enough; and slowly, perhaps, to Mary also, though she
did not say so. The winter wore away, and the chill, bitter, windy,
early spring came round. The comic almanacs give us dreadful pictures
of January and February; but, in truth, the months which should be
made to look gloomy in England are March and April. Let no man boast
himself that he has got through the perils of winter till at least
the seventh of May.

It was early in April, however, that the great doings were to be done
at Greshamsbury. Not exactly on the first. It may be presumed, that
in spite of the practical, common-sense spirit of the age, very few
people do choose to have themselves united on that day. But some
day in the first week of that month was fixed for the ceremony, and
from the end of February all through March, Lady Arabella worked and
strove in a manner that entitled her to profound admiration.

It was at last settled that the breakfast should be held in the large
dining-room at Greshamsbury. There was a difficulty about it which
taxed Lady Arabella to the utmost, for, in making the proposition,
she could not but seem to be throwing some slight on the house in
which the heiress had lived. But when the affair was once opened to
Mary, it was astonishing how easy it became.

"Of course," said Mary, "all the rooms in our house would not hold
half the people you are talking about--if they must come."

Lady Arabella looked so beseechingly, nay, so piteously, that Mary
had not another word to say. It was evident that they must all come:
the de Courcys to the fifth generation; the Duke of Omnium himself,
and others in concatenation accordingly.

"But will your uncle be angry if we have the breakfast up here? He
has been so very handsome to Frank, that I wouldn't make him angry
for all the world."

"If you don't tell him anything about it, Lady Arabella, he'll think
that it is all done properly. He will never know, if he's not told,
that he ought to give the breakfast, and not you."

"Won't he, my dear?" And Lady Arabella looked her admiration for this
very talented suggestion. And so that matter was arranged. The doctor
never knew, till Mary told him some year or so afterwards, that he
had been remiss in any part of his duty.

And who was asked to the wedding? In the first place, we have said
that the Duke of Omnium was there. This was, in fact, the one
circumstance that made this wedding so superior to any other that
had ever taken place in that neighbourhood. The Duke of Omnium never
went anywhere; and yet he went to Mary's wedding! And Mary, when
the ceremony was over, absolutely found herself kissed by a duke.
"Dearest Mary!" exclaimed Lady Arabella, in her ecstasy of joy, when
she saw the honour that was done to her daughter-in-law.

"I hope we shall induce you to come to Gatherum Castle soon," said
the duke to Frank. "I shall be having a few friends there in the
autumn. Let me see; I declare, I have not seen you since you were
good enough to come to my collection. Ha! ha! ha! It wasn't bad fun,
was it?" Frank was not very cordial with his answer. He had not quite
reconciled himself to the difference of his position. When he was
treated as one of the "collection" at Gatherum Castle, he had not
married money.

It would be vain to enumerate all the de Courcys that were there.
There was the earl, looking very gracious, and talking to the
squire about the county. And there was Lord Porlock, looking very
ungracious, and not talking to anybody about anything. And there was
the countess, who for the last week past had done nothing but pat
Frank on the back whenever she could catch him. And there were the
Ladies Alexandrina, Margaretta, and Selina, smiling at everybody.
And the Honourable George, talking in whispers to Frank about his
widow--"Not such a catch as yours, you know; but something extremely
snug;--and have it all my own way, too, old fellow, or I shan't come
to the scratch." And the Honourable John prepared to toady Frank
about his string of hunters; and the Lady Amelia, by herself, not
quite contented with these democratic nuptials--"After all, she is so
absolutely nobody; absolutely, absolutely," she said confidentially
to Augusta, shaking her head. But before Lady Amelia had left
Greshamsbury, Augusta was quite at a loss to understand how there
could be need for so much conversation between her cousin and Mr
Mortimer Gazebee.

And there were many more de Courcys, whom to enumerate would be much
too long.

And the bishop of the diocese, and Mrs Proudie were there. A hint
had even been given, that his lordship would himself condescend to
perform the ceremony, if this should be wished; but that work had
already been anticipated by a very old friend of the Greshams.
Archdeacon Grantly, the rector of Plumstead Episcopi, had long since
undertaken this part of the business; and the knot was eventually
tied by the joint efforts of himself and Mr Oriel. Mrs Grantly came
with him, and so did Mrs Grantly's sister, the new dean's wife. The
dean himself was at the time unfortunately absent at Oxford.

And all the Bakers and the Jacksons were there. The last time they
had all met together under the squire's roof, was on the occasion of
Frank's coming of age. The present gala doings were carried on in a
very different spirit. That had been a very poor affair, but this was
worthy of the best days of Greshamsbury.

Occasion also had been taken of this happy moment to make up, or
rather to get rid of the last shreds of the last feud that had so
long separated Dr Thorne from his own relatives. The Thornes of
Ullathorne had made many overtures in a covert way. But our doctor
had contrived to reject them. "They would not receive Mary as their
cousin," said he, "and I will go nowhere that she cannot go." But now
all this was altered. Mrs Gresham would certainly be received in any
house in the county. And thus, Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, an amiable,
popular old bachelor, came to the wedding; and so did his maiden
sister, Miss Monica Thorne, than whose no kinder heart glowed through
all Barsetshire.

"My dear," said she to Mary, kissing her, and offering her some
little tribute, "I am very glad to make your acquaintance; very. It
was not her fault," she added, speaking to herself. "And now that
she will be a Gresham, that need not be any longer thought of."
Nevertheless, could Miss Thorne have spoken her inward thoughts out
loud, she would have declared, that Frank would have done better to
have borne his poverty than marry wealth without blood. But then,
there are but few so stanch as Miss Thorne; perhaps none in that
county--always excepting Lady Amelia.

And Miss Dunstable, also, was a bridesmaid. "Oh, no" said she, when
asked; "you should have them young and pretty." But she gave way when
she found that Mary did not flatter her by telling her that she was
either the one or the other. "The truth is," said Miss Dunstable, "I
have always been a little in love with your Frank, and so I shall do
it for his sake." There were but four: the other two were the Gresham
twins. Lady Arabella exerted herself greatly in framing hints to
induce Mary to ask some of the de Courcy ladies to do her so much
honour; but on this head Mary would please herself. "Rank," said she
to Beatrice, with a curl on her lip, "has its drawbacks--and must put
up with them."

And now I find that I have not one page--not half a page--for the
wedding-dress. But what matters? Will it not be all found written in
the columns of the _Morning Post_?

And thus Frank married money, and became a great man. Let us hope
that he will be a happy man. As the time of the story has been
brought down so near to the present era, it is not practicable for
the novelist to tell much of his future career. When I last heard
from Barsetshire, it seemed to be quite settled that he is to take
the place of one of the old members at the next election; and they
say, also, that there is no chance of any opposition. I have heard,
too, that there have been many very private consultations between him
and various gentlemen of the county, with reference to the hunt; and
the general feeling is said to be that the hounds should go to Boxall
Hill.

At Boxall Hill the young people established themselves on their
return from the Continent. And that reminds me that one word must be
said of Lady Scatcherd.

"You will always stay here with us," said Mary to her, caressing her
ladyship's rough hand, and looking kindly into that kind face.

But Lady Scatcherd would not consent to this. "I will come and see
you sometimes, and then I shall enjoy myself. Yes, I will come and
see you, and my own dear boy." The affair was ended by her taking Mrs
Opie Green's cottage, in order that she might be near the doctor; Mrs
Opie Green having married--somebody.

And of whom else must we say a word? Patience, also, of course, got
a husband--or will do so. Dear Patience! it would be a thousand
pities that so good a wife should be lost to the world. Whether Miss
Dunstable will ever be married, or Augusta Gresham, or Mr Moffat, or
any of the tribe of the de Courcys--except Lady Amelia--I cannot say.
They have all of them still their future before them. That Bridget
was married to Thomas--that I am able to assert; for I know that
Janet was much put out by their joint desertion.

Lady Arabella has not yet lost her admiration for Mary, and Mary,
in return, behaves admirably. Another event is expected, and her
ladyship is almost as anxious about that as she was about the
wedding. "A matter, you know, of such importance in the county!" she
whispered to Lady de Courcy.

Nothing can be more happy than the intercourse between the squire and
his son. What their exact arrangements are, we need not specially
inquire; but the demon of pecuniary embarrassment has lifted his
black wings from the demesne of Greshamsbury.

And now we have but one word left for the doctor. "If you don't
come and dine with me," said the squire to him, when they found
themselves both deserted, "mind I shall come and dine with you." And
on this principle they seem to act. Dr Thorne continues to extend
his practice, to the great disgust of Dr Fillgrave; and when Mary
suggested to him that he should retire, he almost boxed her ears. He
knows the way, however, to Boxall Hill as well as he ever did, and is
willing to acknowledge, that the tea there is almost as good as it
ever was at Greshamsbury.


3xxxxxxxxx

PHINEAS FINN

The Irish Member

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE


CONTENTS

   VOLUME I

            I. Phineas Finn Proposes to Stand for Loughshane
           II. Phineas Finn Is Elected for Loughshane
          III. Phineas Finn Takes His Seat
           IV. Lady Laura Standish
            V. Mr. and Mrs. Low
           VI. Lord Brentford's Dinner
          VII. Mr. and Mrs. Bunce
         VIII. The News about Mr. Mildmay and Sir Everard
           IX. The New Government
            X. Violet Effingham
           XI. Lord Chiltern
          XII. Autumnal Prospects
         XIII. Saulsby Wood
          XIV. Loughlinter
           XV. Donald Bean's Pony
          XVI. Phineas Finn Returns to Killaloe
         XVII. Phineas Finn Returns to London
        XVIII. Mr. Turnbull
          XIX. Lord Chiltern Rides His Horse Bonebreaker
           XX. The Debate on the Ballot
          XXI. "Do be punctual"
         XXII. Lady Baldock at Home
        XXIII. Sunday in Grosvenor Place
         XXIV. The Willingford Bull
          XXV. Mr. Turnbull's Carriage Stops the Way
         XXVI. "The First Speech"
        XXVII. Phineas Discussed
       XXVIII. The Second Reading Is Carried
         XXIX. A Cabinet Meeting
          XXX. Mr. Kennedy's Luck
         XXXI. Finn for Loughton
        XXXII. Lady Laura Kennedy's Headache
       XXXIII. Mr. Slide's Grievance
        XXXIV. Was He Honest?
         XXXV. Mr. Monk upon Reform
        XXXVI. Phineas Finn Makes Progress
       XXXVII. A Rough Encounter


   VOLUME II

      XXXVIII. The Duel
        XXXIX. Lady Laura Is Told
           XL. Madame Max Goesler
          XLI. Lord Fawn
         XLII. Lady Baldock Does Not Send a Card to Phineas Finn
        XLIII. Promotion
         XLIV. Phineas and His Friends
          XLV. Miss Effingham's Four Lovers
         XLVI. The Mousetrap
        XLVII. Mr. Mildmay's Bill
       XLVIII. "The Duke"
         XLIX. The Duellists Meet
            L. Again Successful
           LI. Troubles at Loughlinter
          LII. The First Blow
         LIII. Showing How Phineas Bore the Blow
          LIV. Consolation
           LV. Lord Chiltern at Saulsby
          LVI. What the People in Marylebone Thought
         LVII. The Top Brick of the Chimney
        LVIII. Rara Avis in Terris
          LIX. The Earl's Wrath
           LX. Madame Goesler's Politics
          LXI. Another Duel
         LXII. The Letter That Was Sent to Brighton
        LXIII. Showing How the Duke Stood His Ground
         LXIV. The Horns
          LXV. The Cabinet Minister at Killaloe
         LXVI. Victrix
        LXVII. Job's Comforters
       LXVIII. The Joint Attack
         LXIX. The Temptress
          LXX. The Prime Minister's House
         LXXI. Comparing Notes
        LXXII. Madame Goesler's Generosity
       LXXIII. Amantium Iræ
        LXXIV. The Beginning of the End
         LXXV. P. P. C.
        LXXVI. Conclusion





VOLUME I

CHAPTER I

Phineas Finn Proposes to Stand for Loughshane


Dr. Finn, of Killaloe, in county Clare, was as well known in those
parts,--the confines, that is, of the counties Clare, Limerick,
Tipperary, and Galway,--as was the bishop himself who lived in the
same town, and was as much respected. Many said that the doctor was
the richer man of the two, and the practice of his profession was
extended over almost as wide a district. Indeed the bishop whom he
was privileged to attend, although a Roman Catholic, always spoke of
their dioceses being conterminate. It will therefore be understood
that Dr. Finn,--Malachi Finn was his full name,--had obtained a wide
reputation as a country practitioner in the west of Ireland. And he
was a man sufficiently well to do, though that boast made by his
friends, that he was as warm a man as the bishop, had but little
truth to support it. Bishops in Ireland, if they live at home, even
in these days, are very warm men; and Dr. Finn had not a penny in the
world for which he had not worked hard. He had, moreover, a costly
family, five daughters and one son, and, at the time of which we
are speaking, no provision in the way of marriage or profession had
been made for any of them. Of the one son, Phineas, the hero of the
following pages, the mother and five sisters were very proud. The
doctor was accustomed to say that his goose was as good as any other
man's goose, as far as he could see as yet; but that he should like
some very strong evidence before he allowed himself to express an
opinion that the young bird partook, in any degree, of the qualities
of a swan. From which it may be gathered that Dr. Finn was a man of
common-sense.

Phineas had come to be a swan in the estimation of his mother and
sisters by reason of certain early successes at college. His father,
whose religion was not of that bitter kind in which we in England
are apt to suppose that all the Irish Roman Catholics indulge, had
sent his son to Trinity; and there were some in the neighbourhood of
Killaloe,--patients, probably, of Dr. Duggin, of Castle Connell, a
learned physician who had spent a fruitless life in endeavouring to
make head against Dr. Finn,--who declared that old Finn would not be
sorry if his son were to turn Protestant and go in for a fellowship.
Mrs. Finn was a Protestant, and the five Miss Finns were Protestants,
and the doctor himself was very much given to dining out among his
Protestant friends on a Friday. Our Phineas, however, did not turn
Protestant up in Dublin, whatever his father's secret wishes on that
subject may have been. He did join a debating society, to success
in which his religion was no bar; and he there achieved a sort of
distinction which was both easy and pleasant, and which, making
its way down to Killaloe, assisted in engendering those ideas as
to swanhood of which maternal and sisterly minds are so sweetly
susceptible. "I know half a dozen old windbags at the present
moment," said the doctor, "who were great fellows at debating clubs
when they were boys." "Phineas is not a boy any longer," said Mrs.
Finn. "And windbags don't get college scholarships," said Matilda
Finn, the second daughter. "But papa always snubs Phinny," said
Barbara, the youngest. "I'll snub you, if you don't take care," said
the doctor, taking Barbara tenderly by the ear;--for his youngest
daughter was the doctor's pet.

The doctor certainly did not snub his son, for he allowed him to go
over to London when he was twenty-two years of age, in order that he
might read with an English barrister. It was the doctor's wish that
his son might be called to the Irish Bar, and the young man's desire
that he might go to the English Bar. The doctor so far gave way,
under the influence of Phineas himself, and of all the young women of
the family, as to pay the usual fee to a very competent and learned
gentleman in the Middle Temple, and to allow his son one hundred and
fifty pounds per annum for three years. Dr. Finn, however, was still
firm in his intention that his son should settle in Dublin, and take
the Munster Circuit,--believing that Phineas might come to want home
influences and home connections, in spite of the swanhood which was
attributed to him.

Phineas sat his terms for three years, and was duly called to
the Bar; but no evidence came home as to the acquirement of any
considerable amount of law lore, or even as to much law study, on
the part of the young aspirant. The learned pundit at whose feet he
had been sitting was not especially loud in praise of his pupil's
industry, though he did say a pleasant word or two as to his pupil's
intelligence. Phineas himself did not boast much of his own hard
work when at home during the long vacation. No rumours of expected
successes,--of expected professional successes,--reached the ears of
any of the Finn family at Killaloe. But, nevertheless, there came
tidings which maintained those high ideas in the maternal bosom of
which mention has been made, and which were of sufficient strength to
induce the doctor, in opposition to his own judgment, to consent to
the continued residence of his son in London. Phineas belonged to an
excellent club,--the Reform Club,--and went into very good society.
He was hand in glove with the Hon. Laurence Fitzgibbon, the youngest
son of Lord Claddagh. He was intimate with Barrington Erle, who had
been private secretary,--one of the private secretaries,--to the
great Whig Prime Minister who was lately in but was now out. He had
dined three or four times with that great Whig nobleman, the Earl of
Brentford. And he had been assured that if he stuck to the English
Bar he would certainly do well. Though he might fail to succeed in
court or in chambers, he would doubtless have given to him some
one of those numerous appointments for which none but clever young
barristers are supposed to be fitting candidates. The old doctor
yielded for another year, although at the end of the second year he
was called upon to pay a sum of three hundred pounds, which was then
due by Phineas to creditors in London. When the doctor's male friends
in and about Killaloe heard that he had done so, they said that he
was doting. Not one of the Miss Finns was as yet married; and, after
all that had been said about the doctor's wealth, it was supposed
that there would not be above five hundred pounds a year among them
all, were he to give up his profession. But the doctor, when he paid
that three hundred pounds for his son, buckled to his work again,
though he had for twelve months talked of giving up the midwifery.
He buckled to again, to the great disgust of Dr. Duggin, who at this
time said very ill-natured things about young Phineas.

At the end of the three years Phineas was called to the Bar, and
immediately received a letter from his father asking minutely as to
his professional intentions. His father recommended him to settle
in Dublin, and promised the one hundred and fifty pounds for three
more years, on condition that this advice was followed. He did not
absolutely say that the allowance would be stopped if the advice were
not followed, but that was plainly to be implied. That letter came
at the moment of a dissolution of Parliament. Lord de Terrier, the
Conservative Prime Minister, who had now been in office for the
almost unprecedentedly long period of fifteen months, had found that
he could not face continued majorities against him in the House of
Commons, and had dissolved the House. Rumour declared that he would
have much preferred to resign, and betake himself once again to the
easy glories of opposition; but his party had naturally been obdurate
with him, and he had resolved to appeal to the country. When Phineas
received his father's letter, it had just been suggested to him at
the Reform Club that he should stand for the Irish borough of
Loughshane.

This proposition had taken Phineas Finn so much by surprise that when
first made to him by Barrington Erle it took his breath away. What!
he stand for Parliament, twenty-four years old, with no vestige
of property belonging to him, without a penny in his purse, as
completely dependent on his father as he was when he first went to
school at eleven years of age! And for Loughshane, a little borough
in the county Galway, for which a brother of that fine old Irish
peer, the Earl of Tulla, had been sitting for the last twenty
years,--a fine, high-minded representative of the thorough-going
Orange Protestant feeling of Ireland! And the Earl of Tulla, to
whom almost all Loughshane belonged,--or at any rate the land about
Loughshane,--was one of his father's staunchest friends! Loughshane
is in county Galway, but the Earl of Tulla usually lived at his seat
in county Clare, not more than ten miles from Killaloe, and always
confided his gouty feet, and the weak nerves of the old countess, and
the stomachs of all his domestics, to the care of Dr. Finn. How was
it possible that Phineas should stand for Loughshane? From whence
was the money to come for such a contest? It was a beautiful dream,
a grand idea, lifting Phineas almost off the earth by its glory.
When the proposition was first made to him in the smoking-room at
the Reform Club by his friend Erle, he was aware that he blushed
like a girl, and that he was unable at the moment to express
himself plainly,--so great was his astonishment and so great his
gratification. But before ten minutes had passed by, while Barrington
Erle was still sitting over his shoulder on the club sofa, and before
the blushes had altogether vanished, he had seen the improbability of
the scheme, and had explained to his friend that the thing could not
be done. But to his increased astonishment, his friend made nothing
of the difficulties. Loughshane, according to Barrington Erle, was
so small a place, that the expense would be very little. There were
altogether no more than 307 registered electors. The inhabitants were
so far removed from the world, and were so ignorant of the world's
good things, that they knew nothing about bribery. The Hon. George
Morris, who had sat for the last twenty years, was very unpopular. He
had not been near the borough since the last election, he had hardly
done more than show himself in Parliament, and had neither given a
shilling in the town nor got a place under Government for a single
son of Loughshane. "And he has quarrelled with his brother," said
Barrington Erle. "The devil he has!" said Phineas. "I thought they
always swore by each other." "It's at each other they swear now,"
said Barrington; "George has asked the Earl for more money, and the
Earl has cut up rusty." Then the negotiator went on to explain that
the expenses of the election would be defrayed out of a certain fund
collected for such purposes, that Loughshane had been chosen as a
cheap place, and that Phineas Finn had been chosen as a safe and
promising young man. As for qualification, if any question were
raised, that should be made all right. An Irish candidate was wanted,
and a Roman Catholic. So much the Loughshaners would require on
their own account when instigated to dismiss from their service
that thorough-going Protestant, the Hon. George Morris. Then "the
party,"--by which Barrington Erle probably meant the great man in
whose service he himself had become a politician,--required that
the candidate should be a safe man, one who would support "the
party,"--not a cantankerous, red-hot semi-Fenian, running about to
meetings at the Rotunda, and such-like, with views of his own about
tenant-right and the Irish Church. "But I have views of my own," said
Phineas, blushing again. "Of course you have, my dear boy," said
Barrington, clapping him on the back. "I shouldn't come to you unless
you had views. But your views and ours are the same, and you're
just the lad for Galway. You mightn't have such an opening again
in your life, and of course you'll stand for Loughshane." Then the
conversation was over, the private secretary went away to arrange
some other little matter of the kind, and Phineas Finn was left alone
to consider the proposition that had been made to him.

To become a member of the British Parliament! In all those hot
contests at the two debating clubs to which he had belonged, this
had been the ambition which had moved him. For, after all, to what
purpose of their own had those empty debates ever tended? He and
three or four others who had called themselves Liberals had been
pitted against four or five who had called themselves Conservatives,
and night after night they had discussed some ponderous subject
without any idea that one would ever persuade another, or that their
talking would ever conduce to any action or to any result. But each
of these combatants had felt,--without daring to announce a hope on
the subject among themselves,--that the present arena was only a
trial-ground for some possible greater amphitheatre, for some future
debating club in which debates would lead to action, and in which
eloquence would have power, even though persuasion might be out of
the question.

Phineas certainly had never dared to speak, even to himself, of such
a hope. The labours of the Bar had to be encountered before the dawn
of such a hope could come to him. And he had gradually learned to
feel that his prospects at the Bar were not as yet very promising. As
regarded professional work he had been idle, and how then could he
have a hope?

And now this thing, which he regarded as being of all things in the
world the most honourable, had come to him all at once, and was
possibly within his reach! If he could believe Barrington Erle, he
had only to lift up his hand, and he might be in Parliament within
two months. And who was to be believed on such a subject if not
Barrington Erle? This was Erle's special business, and such a man
would not have come to him on such a subject had he not been in
earnest, and had he not himself believed in success. There was an
opening ready, an opening to this great glory,--if only it might be
possible for him to fill it!

What would his father say? His father would of course oppose the
plan. And if he opposed his father, his father would of course stop
his income. And such an income as it was! Could it be that a man
should sit in Parliament and live upon a hundred and fifty pounds
a year? Since that payment of his debts he had become again
embarrassed,--to a slight amount. He owed a tailor a trifle, and a
bootmaker a trifle,--and something to the man who sold gloves and
shirts; and yet he had done his best to keep out of debt with more
than Irish pertinacity, living very closely, breakfasting upon tea
and a roll, and dining frequently for a shilling at a luncheon-house
up a court near Lincoln's Inn. Where should he dine if the
Loughshaners elected him to Parliament? And then he painted to
himself a not untrue picture of the probable miseries of a man who
begins life too high up on the ladder,--who succeeds in mounting
before he has learned how to hold on when he is aloft. For our
Phineas Finn was a young man not without sense,--not entirely a
windbag. If he did this thing the probability was that he might
become utterly a castaway, and go entirely to the dogs before he was
thirty. He had heard of penniless men who had got into Parliament,
and to whom had come such a fate. He was able to name to himself a
man or two whose barks, carrying more sail than they could bear, had
gone to pieces among early breakers in this way. But then, would
it not be better to go to pieces early than never to carry any
sail at all? And there was, at any rate, the chance of success. He
was already a barrister, and there were so many things open to a
barrister with a seat in Parliament! And as he knew of men who had
been utterly ruined by such early mounting, so also did he know of
others whose fortunes had been made by happy audacity when they were
young. He almost thought that he could die happy if he had once taken
his seat in Parliament,--if he had received one letter with those
grand initials written after his name on the address. Young men in
battle are called upon to lead forlorn hopes. Three fall, perhaps,
to one who gets through; but the one who gets through will have
the Victoria Cross to carry for the rest of his life. This was his
forlorn hope; and as he had been invited to undertake the work, he
would not turn from the danger. On the following morning he again saw
Barrington Erle by appointment, and then wrote the following letter
to his father:--


   Reform Club, Feb., 186--.

   MY DEAR FATHER,

   I am afraid that the purport of this letter will startle
   you, but I hope that when you have finished it you will
   think that I am right in my decision as to what I am going
   to do. You are no doubt aware that the dissolution of
   Parliament will take place at once, and that we shall be
   in all the turmoil of a general election by the middle of
   March. I have been invited to stand for Loughshane, and
   have consented. The proposition has been made to me by my
   friend Barrington Erle, Mr. Mildmay's private secretary,
   and has been made on behalf of the Political Committee of
   the Reform Club. I need hardly say that I should not have
   thought of such a thing with a less thorough promise of
   support than this gives me, nor should I think of it now
   had I not been assured that none of the expense of the
   election would fall upon me. Of course I could not have
   asked you to pay for it.

   But to such a proposition, so made, I have felt that it
   would be cowardly to give a refusal. I cannot but regard
   such a selection as a great honour. I own that I am fond
   of politics, and have taken great delight in their study
   --("Stupid young fool!" his father said to himself as he
   read this)--and it has been my dream for years past to
   have a seat in Parliament at some future time. ("Dream!
   yes; I wonder whether he has ever dreamed what he is to
   live upon.") The chance has now come to me much earlier
   than I have looked for it, but I do not think that it
   should on that account be thrown away. Looking to my
   profession, I find that many things are open to a
   barrister with a seat in Parliament, and that the House
   need not interfere much with a man's practice. ("Not if
   he has got to the top of his tree," said the doctor.)

   My chief doubt arose from the fact of your old friendship
   with Lord Tulla, whose brother has filled the seat for I
   don't know how many years. But it seems that George Morris
   must go; or, at least, that he must be opposed by a
   Liberal candidate. If I do not stand, some one else will,
   and I should think that Lord Tulla will be too much of a
   man to make any personal quarrel on such a subject. If he
   is to lose the borough, why should not I have it as well
   as another?

   I can fancy, my dear father, all that you will say as to
   my imprudence, and I quite confess that I have not a word
   to answer. I have told myself more than once, since last
   night, that I shall probably ruin myself. ("I wonder
   whether he has ever told himself that he will probably
   ruin me also," said the doctor.) But I am prepared to ruin
   myself in such a cause. I have no one dependent on me;
   and, as long as I do nothing to disgrace my name, I may
   dispose of myself as I please. If you decide on stopping
   my allowance, I shall have no feeling of anger against
   you. ("How very considerate!" said the doctor.) And in
   that case I shall endeavour to support myself by my pen.
   I have already done a little for the magazines.

   Give my best love to my mother and sisters. If you will
   receive me during the time of the election, I shall see
   them soon. Perhaps it will be best for me to say that I
   have positively decided on making the attempt; that is to
   say, if the Club Committee is as good as its promise. I
   have weighed the matter all round, and I regard the prize
   as being so great, that I am prepared to run any risk to
   obtain it. Indeed, to me, with my views about politics,
   the running of such a risk is no more than a duty. I
   cannot keep my hand from the work now that the work has
   come in the way of my hand. I shall be most anxious to get
   a line from you in answer to this.

   Your most affectionate son,

   PHINEAS FINN.


I question whether Dr. Finn, when he read this letter, did not feel
more of pride than of anger,--whether he was not rather gratified
than displeased, in spite of all that his common-sense told him on
the subject. His wife and daughters, when they heard the news, were
clearly on the side of the young man. Mrs. Finn immediately expressed
an opinion that Parliament would be the making of her son, and that
everybody would be sure to employ so distinguished a barrister. The
girls declared that Phineas ought, at any rate, to have his chance,
and almost asserted that it would be brutal in their father to stand
in their brother's way. It was in vain that the doctor tried to
explain that going into Parliament could not help a young barrister,
whatever it might do for one thoroughly established in his
profession; that Phineas, if successful at Loughshane, would at once
abandon all idea of earning any income,--that the proposition, coming
from so poor a man, was a monstrosity,--that such an opposition
to the Morris family, coming from a son of his, would be gross
ingratitude to Lord Tulla. Mrs. Finn and the girls talked him down,
and the doctor himself was almost carried away by something like
vanity in regard to his son's future position.

Nevertheless he wrote a letter strongly advising Phineas to abandon
the project. But he himself was aware that the letter which he wrote
was not one from which any success could be expected. He advised
his son, but did not command him. He made no threats as to stopping
his income. He did not tell Phineas, in so many words, that he was
proposing to make an ass of himself. He argued very prudently against
the plan, and Phineas, when he received his father's letter, of
course felt that it was tantamount to a paternal permission to
proceed with the matter. On the next day he got a letter from his
mother full of affection, full of pride,--not exactly telling him to
stand for Loughshane by all means, for Mrs. Finn was not the woman to
run openly counter to her husband in any advice given by her to their
son,--but giving him every encouragement which motherly affection and
motherly pride could bestow. "Of course you will come to us," she
said, "if you do make up your mind to be member for Loughshane. We
shall all of us be so delighted to have you!" Phineas, who had fallen
into a sea of doubt after writing to his father, and who had demanded
a week from Barrington Erle to consider the matter, was elated to
positive certainty by the joint effect of the two letters from home.
He understood it all. His mother and sisters were altogether in
favour of his audacity, and even his father was not disposed to
quarrel with him on the subject.

"I shall take you at your word," he said to Barrington Erle at the
club that evening.

"What word?" said Erle, who had too many irons in the fire to be
thinking always of Loughshane and Phineas Finn,--or who at any rate
did not choose to let his anxiety on the subject be seen.

"About Loughshane."

"All right, old fellow; we shall be sure to carry you through. The
Irish writs will be out on the third of March, and the sooner you're
there the better."




CHAPTER II

Phineas Finn Is Elected for Loughshane


One great difficulty about the borough vanished in a very wonderful
way at the first touch. Dr. Finn, who was a man stout at heart,
and by no means afraid of his great friends, drove himself over to
Castlemorris to tell his news to the Earl, as soon as he got a second
letter from his son declaring his intention of proceeding with the
business, let the results be what they might. Lord Tulla was a
passionate old man, and the doctor expected that there would be a
quarrel;--but he was prepared to face that. He was under no special
debt of gratitude to the lord, having given as much as he had taken
in the long intercourse which had existed between them;--and he
agreed with his son in thinking that if there was to be a Liberal
candidate at Loughshane, no consideration of old pill-boxes and
gallipots should deter his son Phineas from standing. Other
considerations might very probably deter him, but not that. The Earl
probably would be of a different opinion, and the doctor felt it to
be incumbent on him to break the news to Lord Tulla.

"The devil he is!" said the Earl, when the doctor had told his story.
"Then I'll tell you what, Finn, I'll support him."

"You support him, Lord Tulla!"

"Yes;--why shouldn't I support him? I suppose it's not so bad with me
in the country that my support will rob him of his chance! I'll tell
you one thing for certain, I won't support George Morris."

"But, my lord--"

"Well; go on."

"I've never taken much part in politics myself, as you know; but my
boy Phineas is on the other side."

"I don't care a ---- for sides. What has my party done for me?
Look at my cousin, Dick Morris. There's not a clergyman in Ireland
stauncher to them than he has been, and now they've given the deanery
of Kilfenora to a man that never had a father, though I condescended
to ask for it for my cousin. Let them wait till I ask for anything
again." Dr. Finn, who knew all about Dick Morris's debts, and who had
heard of his modes of preaching, was not surprised at the decision
of the Conservative bestower of Irish Church patronage; but on this
subject he said nothing. "And as for George," continued the Earl, "I
will never lift my hand again for him. His standing for Loughshane
would be quite out of the question. My own tenants wouldn't vote for
him if I were to ask them myself. Peter Blake"--Mr. Peter Blake was
the lord's agent--"told me only a week ago that it would be useless.
The whole thing is gone, and for my part I wish they'd disenfranchise
the borough. I wish they'd disenfranchise the whole country, and send
us a military governor. What's the use of such members as we send?
There isn't one gentleman among ten of them. Your son is welcome for
me. What support I can give him he shall have, but it isn't much. I
suppose he had better come and see me."

The doctor promised that his son should ride over to Castlemorris,
and then took his leave,--not specially flattered, as he felt that
were his son to be returned, the Earl would not regard him as the
one gentleman among ten whom the county might send to leaven the
remainder of its members,--but aware that the greatest impediment
in his son's way was already removed. He certainly had not gone to
Castlemorris with any idea of canvassing for his son, and yet he had
canvassed for him most satisfactorily. When he got home he did not
know how to speak of the matter otherwise than triumphantly to his
wife and daughters. Though he desired to curse, his mouth would speak
blessings. Before that evening was over the prospects of Phineas at
Loughshane were spoken of with open enthusiasm before the doctor,
and by the next day's post a letter was written to him by Matilda,
informing him that the Earl was prepared to receive him with open
arms. "Papa has been over there and managed it all," said Matilda.

"I'm told George Morris isn't going to stand," said Barrington Erle
to Phineas the night before his departure.

"His brother won't support him. His brother means to support me,"
said Phineas.

"That can hardly be so."

"But I tell you it is. My father has known the Earl these twenty
years, and has managed it."

"I say, Finn, you're not going to play us a trick, are you?" said Mr.
Erle, with something like dismay in his voice.

"What sort of trick?"

"You're not coming out on the other side?"

"Not if I know it," said Phineas, proudly. "Let me assure you I
wouldn't change my views in politics either for you or for the Earl,
though each of you carried seats in your breeches pockets. If I go
into Parliament, I shall go there as a sound Liberal,--not to support
a party, but to do the best I can for the country. I tell you so, and
I shall tell the Earl the same."

Barrington Erle turned away in disgust. Such language was to him
simply disgusting. It fell upon his ears as false maudlin sentiment
falls on the ears of the ordinary honest man of the world. Barrington
Erle was a man ordinarily honest. He would not have been untrue to
his mother's brother, William Mildmay, the great Whig Minister of the
day, for any earthly consideration. He was ready to work with wages
or without wages. He was really zealous in the cause, not asking
very much for himself. He had some undefined belief that it was much
better for the country that Mr. Mildmay should be in power than
that Lord de Terrier should be there. He was convinced that Liberal
politics were good for Englishmen, and that Liberal politics and the
Mildmay party were one and the same thing. It would be unfair to
Barrington Erle to deny to him some praise for patriotism. But he
hated the very name of independence in Parliament, and when he was
told of any man, that that man intended to look to measures and not
to men, he regarded that man as being both unstable as water and
dishonest as the wind. No good could possibly come from such a one,
and much evil might and probably would come. Such a politician was a
Greek to Barrington Erle, from whose hands he feared to accept even
the gift of a vote. Parliamentary hermits were distasteful to him,
and dwellers in political caves were regarded by him with aversion
as being either knavish or impractical. With a good Conservative
opponent he could shake hands almost as readily as with a good Whig
ally; but the man who was neither flesh nor fowl was odious to him.
According to his theory of parliamentary government, the House of
Commons should be divided by a marked line, and every member should
be required to stand on one side of it or on the other. "If not
with me, at any rate be against me," he would have said to every
representative of the people in the name of the great leader whom he
followed. He thought that debates were good, because of the people
outside,--because they served to create that public opinion which was
hereafter to be used in creating some future House of Commons; but he
did not think it possible that any vote should be given on a great
question, either this way or that, as the result of a debate; and he
was certainly assured in his own opinion that any such changing of
votes would be dangerous, revolutionary, and almost unparliamentary.
A member's vote,--except on some small crotchety open question thrown
out for the amusement of crotchety members,--was due to the leader of
that member's party. Such was Mr. Erle's idea of the English system
of Parliament, and, lending semi-official assistance as he did
frequently to the introduction of candidates into the House, he was
naturally anxious that his candidates should be candidates after his
own heart. When, therefore, Phineas Finn talked of measures and not
men, Barrington Erle turned away in open disgust. But he remembered
the youth and extreme rawness of the lad, and he remembered also the
careers of other men.

Barrington Erle was forty, and experience had taught him something.
After a few seconds, he brought himself to think mildly of the young
man's vanity,--as of the vanity of a plunging colt who resents the
liberty even of a touch. "By the end of the first session the thong
will be cracked over his head, as he patiently assists in pulling the
coach up hill, without producing from him even a flick of his tail,"
said Barrington Erle to an old parliamentary friend.

"If he were to come out after all on the wrong side," said the
parliamentary friend.

Erle admitted that such a trick as that would be unpleasant, but
he thought that old Lord Tulla was hardly equal to so clever a
stratagem.

Phineas went to Ireland, and walked over the course at Loughshane.
He called upon Lord Tulla, and heard that venerable nobleman talk a
great deal of nonsense. To tell the truth of Phineas, I must confess
that he wished to talk the nonsense himself; but the Earl would not
hear him, and put him down very quickly. "We won't discuss politics,
if you please, Mr. Finn; because, as I have already said, I am
throwing aside all political considerations." Phineas, therefore, was
not allowed to express his views on the government of the country in
the Earl's sitting-room at Castlemorris. There was, however, a good
time coming; and so, for the present, he allowed the Earl to ramble
on about the sins of his brother George, and the want of all proper
pedigree on the part of the new Dean of Kilfenora. The conference
ended with an assurance on the part of Lord Tulla that if the
Loughshaners chose to elect Mr. Phineas Finn he would not be in the
least offended. The electors did elect Mr. Phineas Finn,--perhaps
for the reason given by one of the Dublin Conservative papers, which
declared that it was all the fault of the Carlton Club in not sending
a proper candidate. There was a great deal said about the matter,
both in London and Dublin, and the blame was supposed to fall on
the joint shoulders of George Morris and his elder brother. In the
meantime, our hero, Phineas Finn, had been duly elected member of
Parliament for the borough of Loughshane.

The Finn family could not restrain their triumphings at Killaloe, and
I do not know that it would have been natural had they done so. A
gosling from such a flock does become something of a real swan by
getting into Parliament. The doctor had his misgivings,--had great
misgivings, fearful forebodings; but there was the young man elected,
and he could not help it. He could not refuse his right hand to his
son or withdraw his paternal assistance because that son had been
specially honoured among the young men of his country. So he pulled
out of his hoard what sufficed to pay off outstanding debts,--they
were not heavy,--and undertook to allow Phineas two hundred and fifty
pounds a year as long as the session should last.

There was a widow lady living at Killaloe who was named Mrs. Flood
Jones, and she had a daughter. She had a son also, born to inherit
the property of the late Floscabel Flood Jones of Floodborough, as
soon as that property should have disembarrassed itself; but with
him, now serving with his regiment in India, we shall have no
concern. Mrs. Flood Jones was living modestly at Killaloe on her
widow's jointure,--Floodborough having, to tell the truth, pretty
nearly fallen into absolute ruin,--and with her one daughter, Mary.
Now on the evening before the return of Phineas Finn, Esq., M.P., to
London, Mrs. and Miss Flood Jones drank tea at the doctor's house.

"It won't make a bit of change in him," Barbara Finn said to her
friend Mary, up in some bedroom privacy before the tea-drinking
ceremonies had altogether commenced.

"Oh, it must," said Mary.

"I tell you it won't, my dear; he is so good and so true."

"I know he is good, Barbara; and as for truth, there is no question
about it, because he has never said a word to me that he might not
say to any girl."

"That's nonsense, Mary."

"He never has, then, as sure as the blessed Virgin watches over
us;--only you don't believe she does."

"Never mind about the Virgin now, Mary."

"But he never has. Your brother is nothing to me, Barbara."

"Then I hope he will be before the evening is over. He was walking
with you all yesterday and the day before."

"Why shouldn't he,--and we that have known each other all our lives?
But, Barbara, pray, pray never say a word of this to any one!"

"Is it I? Wouldn't I cut out my tongue first?"

"I don't know why I let you talk to me in this way. There has never
been anything between me and Phineas,--your brother I mean."

"I know whom you mean very well."

"And I feel quite sure that there never will be. Why should there?
He'll go out among great people and be a great man; and I've already
found out that there's a certain Lady Laura Standish whom he admires
very much."

"Lady Laura Fiddlestick!"

"A man in Parliament, you know, may look up to anybody," said Miss
Mary Flood Jones.

"I want Phin to look up to you, my dear."

"That wouldn't be looking up. Placed as he is now, that would be
looking down; and he is so proud that he'll never do that. But come
down, dear, else they'll wonder where we are."

Mary Flood Jones was a little girl about twenty years of age, with
the softest hair in the world, of a colour varying between brown and
auburn,--for sometimes you would swear it was the one and sometimes
the other; and she was as pretty as ever she could be. She was one
of those girls, so common in Ireland, whom men, with tastes that way
given, feel inclined to take up and devour on the spur of the moment;
and when she liked her lion, she had a look about her which seemed to
ask to be devoured. There are girls so cold-looking,--pretty girls,
too, ladylike, discreet, and armed with all accomplishments,--whom to
attack seems to require the same sort of courage, and the same sort
of preparation, as a journey in quest of the north-west passage. One
thinks of a pedestal near the Athenaeum as the most appropriate and
most honourable reward of such courage. But, again, there are other
girls to abstain from attacking whom is, to a man of any warmth
of temperament, quite impossible. They are like water when one is
athirst, like plovers' eggs in March, like cigars when one is out
in the autumn. No one ever dreams of denying himself when such
temptation comes in the way. It often happens, however, that in spite
of appearances, the water will not come from the well, nor the egg
from its shell, nor will the cigar allow itself to be lit. A girl of
such appearance, so charming, was Mary Flood Jones of Killaloe, and
our hero Phineas was not allowed to thirst in vain for a drop from
the cool spring.

When the girls went down into the drawing-room Mary was careful to
go to a part of the room quite remote from Phineas, so as to seat
herself between Mrs. Finn and Dr. Finn's young partner, Mr. Elias
Bodkin, from Ballinasloe. But Mrs. Finn and the Miss Finns and all
Killaloe knew that Mary had no love for Mr. Bodkin, and when Mr.
Bodkin handed her the hot cake she hardly so much as smiled at him.
But in two minutes Phineas was behind her chair, and then she smiled;
and in five minutes more she had got herself so twisted round that
she was sitting in a corner with Phineas and his sister Barbara; and
in two more minutes Barbara had returned to Mr. Elias Bodkin, so that
Phineas and Mary were uninterrupted. They manage these things very
quickly and very cleverly in Killaloe.

"I shall be off to-morrow morning by the early train," said Phineas.

"So soon;--and when will you have to begin,--in Parliament, I mean?"

"I shall have to take my seat on Friday. I'm going back just in
time."

"But when shall we hear of your saying something?"

"Never, probably. Not one in ten who go into Parliament ever do say
anything."

"But you will; won't you? I hope you will. I do so hope you will
distinguish yourself;--because of your sister, and for the sake of
the town, you know."

"And is that all, Mary?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"You don't care a bit about myself, then?"

"You know that I do. Haven't we been friends ever since we were
children? Of course it will be a great pride to me that a person whom
I have known so intimately should come to be talked about as a great
man."

"I shall never be talked about as a great man."

"You're a great man to me already, being in Parliament. Only
think;--I never saw a member of Parliament in my life before."

"You've seen the bishop scores of times."

"Is he in Parliament? Ah, but not like you. He couldn't come to be
a Cabinet Minister, and one never reads anything about him in the
newspapers. I shall expect to see your name, very often, and I shall
always look for it. 'Mr. Phineas Finn paired off with Mr. Mildmay.'
What is the meaning of pairing off?"

"I'll explain it all to you when I come back, after learning my
lesson."

"Mind you do come back. But I don't suppose you ever will. You will
be going somewhere to see Lady Laura Standish when you are not wanted
in Parliament."

"Lady Laura Standish!"

"And why shouldn't you? Of course, with your prospects, you should
go as much as possible among people of that sort. Is Lady Laura very
pretty?"

"She's about six feet high."

"Nonsense. I don't believe that."

"She would look as though she were, standing by you."

"Because I am so insignificant and small."

"Because your figure is perfect, and because she is straggling. She
is as unlike you as possible in everything. She has thick lumpy red
hair, while yours is all silk and softness. She has large hands and
feet, and--"

"Why, Phineas, you are making her out to be an ogress, and yet I know
that you admire her."

"So I do, because she possesses such an appearance of power. And
after all, in spite of the lumpy hair, and in spite of large hands
and straggling figure, she is handsome. One can't tell what it is.
One can see that she is quite contented with herself, and intends to
make others contented with her. And so she does."

"I see you are in love with her, Phineas."

"No; not in love,--not with her at least. Of all men in the world, I
suppose that I am the last that has a right to be in love. I daresay
I shall marry some day."

"I'm sure I hope you will."

"But not till I'm forty or perhaps fifty years old. If I was not fool
enough to have what men call a high ambition I might venture to be in
love now."

"I'm sure I'm very glad that you've got a high ambition. It is what
every man ought to have; and I've no doubt that we shall hear of your
marriage soon,--very soon. And then,--if she can help you in your
ambition, we--shall--all--be so--glad."

Phineas did not say a word further then. Perhaps some commotion among
the party broke up the little private conversation in the corner. And
he was not alone with Mary again till there came a moment for him
to put her cloak over her shoulders in the back parlour, while Mrs.
Flood Jones was finishing some important narrative to his mother. It
was Barbara, I think, who stood in some doorway, and prevented people
from passing, and so gave him the opportunity which he abused.

"Mary," said he, taking her in his arms, without a single word of
love-making beyond what the reader has heard,--"one kiss before we
part."

"No, Phineas, no!" But the kiss had been taken and given before she
had even answered him. "Oh, Phineas, you shouldn't!"

"I should. Why shouldn't I? And, Mary, I will have one morsel of your
hair."

"You shall not; indeed you shall not!" But the scissors were at hand,
and the ringlet was cut and in his pocket before she was ready with
her resistance. There was nothing further;--not a word more, and Mary
went away with her veil down, under her mother's wing, weeping sweet
silent tears which no one saw.

"You do love her; don't you, Phineas?" asked Barbara.

"Bother! Do you go to bed, and don't trouble yourself about such
trifles. But mind you're up, old girl, to see me off in the morning."

Everybody was up to see him off in the morning, to give him coffee
and good advice, and kisses, and to throw all manner of old shoes
after him as he started on his great expedition to Parliament. His
father gave him an extra twenty-pound note, and begged him for God's
sake to be careful about his money. His mother told him always to
have an orange in his pocket when he intended to speak longer than
usual. And Barbara in a last whisper begged him never to forget dear
Mary Flood Jones.




CHAPTER III

Phineas Finn Takes His Seat


Phineas had many serious, almost solemn thoughts on his journey
towards London. I am sorry I must assure my female readers that very
few of them had reference to Mary Flood Jones. He had, however, very
carefully packed up the tress, and could bring that out for proper
acts of erotic worship at seasons in which his mind might be less
engaged with affairs of state than it was at present. Would he make a
failure of this great matter which he had taken in hand? He could not
but tell himself that the chances were twenty to one against him. Now
that he looked nearer at it all, the difficulties loomed larger than
ever, and the rewards seemed to be less, more difficult of approach,
and more evanescent. How many members were there who could never get
a hearing! How many who only spoke to fail! How many, who spoke well,
who could speak to no effect as far as their own worldly prospects
were concerned! He had already known many members of Parliament to
whom no outward respect or sign of honour was ever given by any one;
and it seemed to him, as he thought over it, that Irish members of
Parliament were generally treated with more indifference than any
others. There were O'B---- and O'C---- and O'D----, for whom no one
cared a straw, who could hardly get men to dine with them at the
club, and yet they were genuine members of Parliament. Why should he
ever be better than O'B----, or O'C----, or O'D----? And in what way
should he begin to be better? He had an idea of the fashion after
which it would be his duty to strive that he might excel those
gentlemen. He did not give any of them credit for much earnestness
in their country's behalf, and he was minded to be very earnest. He
would go to his work honestly and conscientiously, determined to do
his duty as best he might, let the results to himself be what they
would. This was a noble resolution, and might have been pleasant to
him,--had he not remembered that smile of derision which had come
over his friend Erle's face when he declared his intention of doing
his duty to his country as a Liberal, and not of supporting a party.
O'B---- and O'C---- and O'D---- were keen enough to support their
party, only they were sometimes a little astray at knowing which
was their party for the nonce. He knew that Erle and such men would
despise him if he did not fall into the regular groove,--and if the
Barrington Erles despised him, what would then be left for him?

His moody thoughts were somewhat dissipated when he found one
Laurence Fitzgibbon,--the Honourable Laurence Fitzgibbon,--a special
friend of his own, and a very clever fellow, on board the boat as it
steamed out of Kingston harbour. Laurence Fitzgibbon had also just
been over about his election, and had been returned as a matter of
course for his father's county. Laurence Fitzgibbon had sat in the
House for the last fifteen years, and was yet well-nigh as young a
man as any in it. And he was a man altogether different from the
O'B----s, O'C----s, and O'D----s. Laurence Fitzgibbon could always
get the ear of the House if he chose to speak, and his friends
declared that he might have been high up in office long since if he
would have taken the trouble to work. He was a welcome guest at the
houses of the very best people, and was a friend of whom any one
might be proud. It had for two years been a feather in the cap of
Phineas that he knew Laurence Fitzgibbon. And yet people said that
Laurence Fitzgibbon had nothing of his own, and men wondered how he
lived. He was the youngest son of Lord Claddagh, an Irish peer with a
large family, who could do nothing for Laurence, his favourite child,
beyond finding him a seat in Parliament.

"Well, Finn, my boy," said Laurence, shaking hands with the young
member on board the steamer, "so you've made it all right at
Loughshane." Then Phineas was beginning to tell all the story,
the wonderful story, of George Morris and the Earl of Tulla,--how
the men of Loughshane had elected him without opposition; how he
had been supported by Conservatives as well as Liberals;--how
unanimous Loughshane had been in electing him, Phineas Finn, as its
representative. But Mr. Fitzgibbon seemed to care very little about
all this, and went so far as to declare that those things were
accidents which fell out sometimes one way and sometimes another,
and were altogether independent of any merit or demerit on the part
of the candidate himself. And it was marvellous and almost painful
to Phineas that his friend Fitzgibbon should accept the fact of his
membership with so little of congratulation,--with absolutely no
blowing of trumpets whatever. Had he been elected a member of the
municipal corporation of Loughshane, instead of its representative in
the British Parliament, Laurence Fitzgibbon could not have made less
fuss about it. Phineas was disappointed, but he took the cue from his
friend too quickly to show his disappointment. And when, half an hour
after their meeting, Fitzgibbon had to be reminded that his companion
was not in the House during the last session, Phineas was able to
make the remark as though he thought as little about the House as did
the old-accustomed member himself.

"As far as I can see as yet," said Fitzgibbon, "we are sure to have
seventeen."

"Seventeen?" said Phineas, not quite understanding the meaning of the
number quoted.

"A majority of seventeen. There are four Irish counties and three
Scotch which haven't returned as yet; but we know pretty well what
they'll do. There's a doubt about Tipperary, of course, but whichever
gets in of the seven who are standing, it will be a vote on our side.
Now the Government can't live against that. The uphill strain is too
much for them."

"According to my idea, nothing can justify them in trying to live
against a majority."

"That's gammon. When the thing is so equal, anything is fair. But you
see they don't like it. Of course there are some among them as hungry
as we are; and Dubby would give his toes and fingers to remain in."
Dubby was the ordinary name by which, among friends and foes, Mr.
Daubeny was known: Mr. Daubeny, who at that time was the leader of
the Conservative party in the House of Commons. "But most of them,"
continued Mr. Fitzgibbon, "prefer the other game, and if you don't
care about money, upon my word it's the pleasanter game of the two."

"But the country gets nothing done by a Tory Government."

"As to that, it's six of one and half a dozen of the other. I never
knew a government yet that wanted to do anything. Give a government
a real strong majority, as the Tories used to have half a century
since, and as a matter of course it will do nothing. Why should
it? Doing things, as you call it, is only bidding for power,--for
patronage and pay."

"And is the country to have no service done?"

"The country gets quite as much service as it pays for,--and perhaps
a little more. The clerks in the offices work for the country. And
the Ministers work too, if they've got anything to manage. There is
plenty of work done;--but of work in Parliament, the less the better,
according to my ideas. It's very little that ever is done, and that
little is generally too much."

"But the people--"

"Come down and have a glass of brandy-and-water, and leave the people
alone for the present. The people can take care of themselves a great
deal better than we can take care of them." Mr. Fitzgibbon's doctrine
as to the commonwealth was very different from that of Barrington
Erle, and was still less to the taste of the new member. Barrington
Erle considered that his leader, Mr. Mildmay, should be intrusted to
make all necessary changes in the laws, and that an obedient House of
Commons should implicitly obey that leader in authorising all changes
proposed by him;--but according to Barrington Erle, such changes
should be numerous and of great importance, and would, if duly passed
into law at his lord's behest, gradually produce such a Whig Utopia
in England as has never yet been seen on the face of the earth.
Now, according to Mr. Fitzgibbon, the present Utopia would be good
enough,--if only he himself might be once more put into possession
of a certain semi-political place about the Court, from which he had
heretofore drawn £1,000 per annum, without any work, much to his
comfort. He made no secret of his ambition, and was chagrined simply
at the prospect of having to return to his electors before he could
enjoy those good things which he expected to receive from the
undoubted majority of seventeen, which had been, or would be,
achieved.

"I hate all change as a rule," said Fitzgibbon; "but, upon my word,
we ought to alter that. When a fellow has got a crumb of comfort,
after waiting for it years and years, and perhaps spending thousands
in elections, he has to go back and try his hand again at the last
moment, merely in obedience to some antiquated prejudice. Look at
poor Jack Bond,--the best friend I ever had in the world. He was
wrecked upon that rock for ever. He spent every shilling he had in
contesting Romford three times running,--and three times running
he got in. Then they made him Vice-Comptroller of the Granaries,
and I'm shot if he didn't get spilt at Romford on standing for his
re-election!"

"And what became of him?"

"God knows. I think I heard that he married an old woman and settled
down somewhere. I know he never came up again. Now, I call that a
confounded shame. I suppose I'm safe down in Mayo, but there's no
knowing what may happen in these days."

As they parted at Euston Square, Phineas asked his friend some little
nervous question as to the best mode of making a first entrance into
the House. Would Laurence Fitzgibbon see him through the difficulties
of the oath-taking? But Laurence Fitzgibbon made very little of the
difficulty. "Oh;--you just come down, and there'll be a rush of
fellows, and you'll know everybody. You'll have to hang about for an
hour or so, and then you'll get pushed through. There isn't time for
much ceremony after a general election."

Phineas reached London early in the morning, and went home to bed
for an hour or so. The House was to meet on that very day, and he
intended to begin his parliamentary duties at once if he should find
it possible to get some one to accompany him; He felt that he should
lack courage to go down to Westminster Hall alone, and explain to
the policeman and door-keepers that he was the man who had just been
elected member for Loughshane. So about noon he went into the Reform
Club, and there he found a great crowd of men, among whom there was a
plentiful sprinkling of members. Erle saw him in a moment, and came
to him with congratulations.

"So you're all right, Finn," said he.

"Yes; I'm all right,--I didn't have much doubt about it when I went
over."

"I never heard of a fellow with such a run of luck," said Erle. "It's
just one of those flukes that occur once in a dozen elections. Any
one on earth might have got in without spending a shilling."

Phineas didn't at all like this. "I don't think any one could have
got in," said he, "without knowing Lord Tulla."

"Lord Tulla was nowhere, my dear boy, and could have nothing to say
to it. But never mind that. You meet me in the lobby at two. There'll
be a lot of us there, and we'll go in together. Have you seen
Fitzgibbon?" Then Barrington Erle went off to other business, and
Finn was congratulated by other men. But it seemed to him that the
congratulations of his friends were not hearty. He spoke to some men,
of whom he thought that he knew they would have given their eyes
to be in Parliament;--and yet they spoke of his success as being a
very ordinary thing. "Well, my boy, I hope you like it," said one
middle-aged gentleman whom he had known ever since he came up to
London. "The difference is between working for nothing and working
for money. You'll have to work for nothing now."

"That's about it, I suppose," said Phineas.

"They say the House is a comfortable club," said the middle-aged
friend, "but I confess that I shouldn't like being rung away from my
dinner myself."

At two punctually Phineas was in the lobby at Westminster, and then
he found himself taken into the House with a crowd of other men. The
old and young, and they who were neither old nor young, were mingled
together, and there seemed to be very little respect of persons. On
three or four occasions there was some cheering when a popular man or
a great leader came in; but the work of the day left but little clear
impression on the mind of the young member. He was confused, half
elated, half disappointed, and had not his wits about him. He found
himself constantly regretting that he was there; and as constantly
telling himself that he, hardly yet twenty-five, without a shilling
of his own, had achieved an entrance into that assembly which by the
consent of all men is the greatest in the world, and which many of
the rich magnates of the country had in vain spent heaps of treasure
in their endeavours to open to their own footsteps. He tried hard to
realise what he had gained, but the dust and the noise and the crowds
and the want of something august to the eye were almost too strong
for him. He managed, however, to take the oath early among those who
took it, and heard the Queen's speech read and the Address moved and
seconded. He was seated very uncomfortably, high up on a back seat,
between two men whom he did not know; and he found the speeches to be
very long. He had been in the habit of seeing such speeches reported
in about a column, and he thought that these speeches must take at
least four columns each. He sat out the debate on the Address till
the House was adjourned, and then he went away to dine at his club.
He did go into the dining-room of the House, but there was a crowd
there, and he found himself alone,--and to tell the truth, he was
afraid to order his dinner.

The nearest approach to a triumph which he had in London came to him
from the glory which his election reflected upon his landlady. She
was a kindly good motherly soul, whose husband was a journeyman
law-stationer, and who kept a very decent house in Great Marlborough
Street. Here Phineas had lodged since he had been in London, and was
a great favourite. "God bless my soul, Mr. Phineas," said she, "only
think of your being a member of Parliament!"

"Yes, I'm a member of Parliament, Mrs. Bunce."

"And you'll go on with the rooms the same as ever? Well, I never
thought to have a member of Parliament in 'em."

Mrs. Bunce really had realised the magnitude of the step which her
lodger had taken, and Phineas was grateful to her.




CHAPTER IV

Lady Laura Standish


Phineas, in describing Lady Laura Standish to Mary Flood Jones at
Killaloe, had not painted her in very glowing colours. Nevertheless
he admired Lady Laura very much, and she was worthy of admiration. It
was probably the greatest pride of our hero's life that Lady Laura
Standish was his friend, and that she had instigated him to undertake
the risk of parliamentary life. Lady Laura was intimate also with
Barrington Erle, who was, in some distant degree, her cousin;
and Phineas was not without a suspicion that his selection for
Loughshane, from out of all the young liberal candidates, may have
been in some degree owing to Lady Laura's influence with Barrington
Erle. He was not unwilling that it should be so; for though,
as he had repeatedly told himself, he was by no means in love
with Lady Laura,--who was, as he imagined, somewhat older than
himself,--nevertheless, he would feel gratified at accepting anything
from her hands, and he felt a keen desire for some increase to those
ties of friendship which bound them together. No;--he was not in love
with Lady Laura Standish. He had not the remotest idea of asking her
to be his wife. So he told himself, both before he went over for his
election, and after his return. When he had found himself in a corner
with poor little Mary Flood Jones, he had kissed her as a matter of
course; but he did not think that he could, in any circumstances, be
tempted to kiss Lady Laura. He supposed that he was in love with his
darling little Mary,--after a fashion. Of course, it could never come
to anything, because of the circumstances of his life, which were
so imperious to him. He was not in love with Lady Laura, and yet he
hoped that his intimacy with her might come to much. He had more than
once asked himself how he would feel when somebody else came to be
really in love with Lady Laura,--for she was by no means a woman to
lack lovers,--when some one else should be in love with her, and be
received by her as a lover; but this question he had never been able
to answer. There were many questions about himself which he usually
answered by telling himself that it was his fate to walk over
volcanoes. "Of course, I shall be blown into atoms some fine day," he
would say; "but after all, that is better than being slowly boiled
down into pulp."

The House had met on a Friday, again on the Saturday morning, and
the debate on the Address had been adjourned till the Monday. On
the Sunday, Phineas determined that he would see Lady Laura. She
professed to be always at home on Sunday, and from three to four in
the afternoon her drawing-room would probably be half full of people.
There would, at any rate, be comers and goers, who would prevent
anything like real conversation between himself and her. But for a
few minutes before that he might probably find her alone, and he was
most anxious to see whether her reception of him, as a member of
Parliament, would be in any degree warmer than that of his other
friends. Hitherto he had found no such warmth since he came to
London, excepting that which had glowed in the bosom of Mrs. Bunce.

Lady Laura Standish was the daughter of the Earl of Brentford, and
was the only remaining lady of the Earl's family. The Countess had
been long dead; and Lady Emily, the younger daughter, who had been
the great beauty of her day, was now the wife of a Russian nobleman
whom she had persisted in preferring to any of her English suitors,
and lived at St. Petersburg. There was an aunt, old Lady Laura, who
came up to town about the middle of May; but she was always in the
country except for some six weeks in the season. There was a certain
Lord Chiltern, the Earl's son and heir, who did indeed live at the
family town house in Portman Square; but Lord Chiltern was a man of
whom Lady Laura's set did not often speak, and Phineas, frequently
as he had been at the house, had never seen Lord Chiltern there. He
was a young nobleman of whom various accounts were given by various
people; but I fear that the account most readily accepted in London
attributed to him a great intimacy with the affairs at Newmarket,
and a partiality for convivial pleasures. Respecting Lord Chiltern
Phineas had never as yet exchanged a word with Lady Laura. With her
father he was acquainted, as he had dined perhaps half a dozen times
at the house. The point in Lord Brentford's character which had more
than any other struck our hero, was the unlimited confidence which he
seemed to place in his daughter. Lady Laura seemed to have perfect
power of doing what she pleased. She was much more mistress of
herself than if she had been the wife instead of the daughter of the
Earl of Brentford,--and she seemed to be quite as much mistress of
the house.

Phineas had declared at Killaloe that Lady Laura was six feet high,
that she had red hair, that her figure was straggling, and that her
hands and feet were large. She was in fact about five feet seven
in height, and she carried her height well. There was something of
nobility in her gait, and she seemed thus to be taller than her
inches. Her hair was in truth red,--of a deep thorough redness. Her
brother's hair was the same; and so had been that of her father,
before it had become sandy with age. Her sister's had been of a soft
auburn hue, and hers had been said to be the prettiest head of hair
in Europe at the time of her marriage. But in these days we have got
to like red hair, and Lady Laura's was not supposed to stand in the
way of her being considered a beauty. Her face was very fair, though
it lacked that softness which we all love in women. Her eyes, which
were large and bright, and very clear, never seemed to quail, never
rose and sunk or showed themselves to be afraid of their own power.
Indeed, Lady Laura Standish had nothing of fear about her. Her
nose was perfectly cut, but was rather large, having the slightest
possible tendency to be aquiline. Her mouth also was large, but was
full of expression, and her teeth were perfect. Her complexion was
very bright, but in spite of its brightness she never blushed. The
shades of her complexion were set and steady. Those who knew her said
that her heart was so fully under command that nothing could stir her
blood to any sudden motion. As to that accusation of straggling which
had been made against her, it had sprung from ill-natured observation
of her modes of sitting. She never straggled when she stood or
walked; but she would lean forward when sitting, as a man does, and
would use her arms in talking, and would put her hand over her face,
and pass her fingers through her hair,--after the fashion of men
rather than of women;--and she seemed to despise that soft quiescence
of her sex in which are generally found so many charms. Her hands
and feet were large,--as was her whole frame. Such was Lady Laura
Standish; and Phineas Finn had been untrue to himself and to his own
appreciation of the lady when he had described her in disparaging
terms to Mary Flood Jones. But, though he had spoken of Lady Laura
in disparaging terms, he had so spoken of her as to make Miss Flood
Jones quite understand that he thought a great deal about Lady Laura.

And now, early on the Sunday, he made his way to Portman Square in
order that he might learn whether there might be any sympathy for him
there. Hitherto he had found none. Everything had been terribly dry
and hard, and he had gathered as yet none of the fruit which he had
expected that his good fortune would bear for him. It is true that he
had not as yet gone among any friends, except those of his club, and
men who were in the House along with him;--and at the club it might
be that there were some who envied him his good fortune, and others
who thought nothing of it because it had been theirs for years. Now
he would try a friend who, he hoped, could sympathise; and therefore
he called in Portman Square at about half-past two on the Sunday
morning. Yes,--Lady Laura was in the drawing-room. The hall-porter
admitted as much, but evidently seemed to think that he had been
disturbed from his dinner before his time. Phineas did not care a
straw for the hall-porter. If Lady Laura were not kind to him, he
would never trouble that hall-porter again. He was especially sore at
this moment because a valued friend, the barrister with whom he had
been reading for the last three years, had spent the best part of
an hour that Sunday morning in proving to him that he had as good
as ruined himself. "When I first heard it, of course I thought you
had inherited a fortune," said Mr. Low. "I have inherited nothing,"
Phineas replied;--"not a penny; and I never shall." Then Mr. Low had
opened his eyes very wide, and shaken his head very sadly, and had
whistled.

"I am so glad you have come, Mr. Finn," said Lady Laura, meeting
Phineas half-way across the large room.

"Thanks," said he, as he took her hand.

"I thought that perhaps you would manage to see me before any one
else was here."

"Well;--to tell the truth, I have wished it; though I can hardly tell
why."

"I can tell you why, Mr. Finn. But never mind;--come and sit down.
I am so very glad that you have been successful;--so very glad. You
know I told you that I should never think much of you if you did not
at least try it."

"And therefore I did try."

"And have succeeded. Faint heart, you know, never did any good. I
think it is a man's duty to make his way into the House;--that is, if
he ever means to be anybody. Of course it is not every man who can
get there by the time that he is five-and-twenty."

"Every friend that I have in the world says that I have ruined
myself."

"No;--I don't say so," said Lady Laura.

"And you are worth all the others put together. It is such a comfort
to have some one to say a cheery word to one."

"You shall hear nothing but cheery words here. Papa shall say cheery
words to you that shall be better than mine, because they shall be
weighted with the wisdom of age. I have heard him say twenty times
that the earlier a man goes into the House the better. There is much
to learn."

"But your father was thinking of men of fortune."

"Not at all;--of younger brothers, and barristers, and of men who
have their way to make, as you have. Let me see,--can you dine here
on Wednesday? There will be no party, of course, but papa will want
to shake hands with you; and you legislators of the Lower House are
more easily reached on Wednesdays than on any other day."

"I shall be delighted," said Phineas, feeling, however, that he did
not expect much sympathy from Lord Brentford.

"Mr. Kennedy dines here;--you know Mr. Kennedy, of Loughlinter; and
we will ask your friend Mr. Fitzgibbon. There will be nobody else. As
for catching Barrington Erle, that is out of the question at such a
time as this."

"But going back to my being ruined--" said Phineas, after a pause.

"Don't think of anything so disagreeable."

"You must not suppose that I am afraid of it. I was going to say that
there are worse things than ruin,--or, at any rate, than the chance
of ruin. Supposing that I have to emigrate and skin sheep, what
does it matter? I myself, being unencumbered, have myself as my own
property to do what I like with. With Nelson it was Westminster Abbey
or a peerage. With me it is parliamentary success or sheep-skinning."

"There shall be no sheep-skinning, Mr. Finn. I will guarantee you."

"Then I shall be safe."

At that moment the door of the room was opened, and a man entered
with quick steps, came a few yards in, and then retreated, slamming
the door after him. He was a man with thick short red hair, and an
abundance of very red beard. And his face was red,--and, as it seemed
to Phineas, his very eyes. There was something in the countenance of
the man which struck him almost with dread,--something approaching to
ferocity.

There was a pause a moment after the door was closed, and then Lady
Laura spoke. "It was my brother Chiltern. I do not think that you
have ever met him."




CHAPTER V

Mr. and Mrs. Low


That terrible apparition of the red Lord Chiltern had disturbed
Phineas in the moment of his happiness as he sat listening to the
kind flatteries of Lady Laura; and though Lord Chiltern had vanished
as quickly as he had appeared, there had come no return of his joy.
Lady Laura had said some word about her brother, and Phineas had
replied that he had never chanced to see Lord Chiltern. Then there
had been an awkward silence, and almost immediately other persons had
come in. After greeting one or two old acquaintances, among whom an
elder sister of Laurence Fitzgibbon was one, he took his leave and
escaped out into the square. "Miss Fitzgibbon is going to dine with
us on Wednesday," said Lady Laura. "She says she won't answer for her
brother, but she will bring him if she can."

"And you're a member of Parliament now too, they tell me," said Miss
Fitzgibbon, holding up her hands. "I think everybody will be in
Parliament before long. I wish I knew some man who wasn't, that I
might think of changing my condition."

But Phineas cared very little what Miss Fitzgibbon said to him.
Everybody knew Aspasia Fitzgibbon, and all who knew her were
accustomed to put up with the violence of her jokes and the
bitterness of her remarks. She was an old maid, over forty, very
plain, who, having reconciled herself to the fact that she was an old
maid, chose to take advantage of such poor privileges as the position
gave her. Within the last few years a considerable fortune had fallen
into her hands, some twenty-five thousand pounds, which had come to
her unexpectedly,--a wonderful windfall. And now she was the only one
of her family who had money at command. She lived in a small house by
herself, in one of the smallest streets of May Fair, and walked about
sturdily by herself, and spoke her mind about everything. She was
greatly devoted to her brother Laurence,--so devoted that there was
nothing she would not do for him, short of lending him money.

But Phineas when he found himself out in the square thought nothing
of Aspasia Fitzgibbon. He had gone to Lady Laura Standish for
sympathy, and she had given it to him in full measure. She understood
him and his aspirations if no one else did so on the face of the
earth. She rejoiced in his triumph, and was not too hard to tell him
that she looked forward to his success. And in what delightful
language she had done so! "Faint heart never won fair lady." It was
thus, or almost thus, that she had encouraged him. He knew well that
she had in truth meant nothing more than her words had seemed to
signify. He did not for a moment attribute to her aught else. But
might not he get another lesson from them? He had often told himself
that he was not in love with Laura Standish;--but why should he not
how tell himself that he was in love with her? Of course there would
be difficulty. But was it not the business of his life to overcome
difficulties? Had he not already overcome one difficulty almost as
great; and why should he be afraid of this other? Faint heart never
won fair lady! And this fair lady,--for at this moment he was ready
to swear that she was very fair,--was already half won. She could not
have taken him by the hand so warmly, and looked into his face so
keenly, had she not felt for him something stronger than common
friendship.

He had turned down Baker Street from the square, and was now walking
towards the Regent's Park. He would go and see the beasts in the
Zoological Gardens, and make up his mind as to his future mode of
life in that delightful Sunday solitude. There was very much as to
which it was necessary that he should make up his mind. If he
resolved that he would ask Lady Laura Standish to be his wife, when
should he ask her, and in what manner might he propose to her that
they should live? It would hardly suit him to postpone his courtship
indefinitely, knowing, as he did know, that he would be one among
many suitors. He could not expect her to wait for him if he did not
declare himself. And yet he could hardly ask her to come and share
with him the allowance made to him by his father! Whether she had
much fortune of her own, or little, or none at all, he did not in the
least know. He did know that the Earl had been distressed by his
son's extravagance, and that there had been some money difficulties
arising from this source.

But his great desire would be to support his own wife by his own
labour. At present he was hardly in a fair way to do that, unless he
could get paid for his parliamentary work. Those fortunate gentlemen
who form "The Government" are so paid. Yes;--there was the Treasury
Bench open to him, and he must resolve that he would seat himself
there. He would make Lady Laura understand this, and then he would
ask his question. It was true that at present his political opponents
had possession of the Treasury Bench;--but all governments are
mortal, and Conservative governments in this country are especially
prone to die. It was true that he could not hold even a Treasury
lordship with a poor thousand a year for his salary without having to
face the electors of Loughshane again before he entered upon the
enjoyment of his place;--but if he could only do something to give a
grace to his name, to show that he was a rising man, the electors of
Loughshane, who had once been so easy with him, would surely not be
cruel to him when he showed himself a second time among them. Lord
Tulla was his friend, and he had those points of law in his favour
which possession bestows. And then he remembered that Lady Laura was
related to almost everybody who was anybody among the high Whigs. She
was, he knew, second cousin to Mr. Mildmay, who for years had been
the leader of the Whigs, and was third cousin to Barrington Erle. The
late President of the Council, the Duke of St. Bungay, and Lord
Brentford had married sisters, and the St. Bungay people, and the
Mildmay people, and the Brentford people had all some sort of
connection with the Palliser people, of whom the heir and coming
chief, Plantagenet Palliser, would certainly be Chancellor of the
Exchequer in the next Government. Simply as an introduction into
official life nothing could be more conducive to chances of success
than a matrimonial alliance with Lady Laura. Not that he would have
thought of such a thing on that account! No;--he thought of it
because he loved her; honestly because he loved her. He swore to that
half a dozen times, for his own satisfaction. But, loving her as he
did, and resolving that in spite of all difficulties she should
become his wife, there could be no reason why he should not,--on her
account as well as on his own,--take advantage of any circumstances
that there might be in his favour.

As he wandered among the unsavoury beasts, elbowed on every side by
the Sunday visitors to the garden, he made up his mind that he would
first let Lady Laura understand what were his intentions with regard
to his future career, and then he would ask her to join her lot to
his. At every turn the chances would of course be very much against
him;--ten to one against him, perhaps, on every point; but it was his
lot in life to have to face such odds. Twelve months since it had
been much more than ten to one against his getting into Parliament;
and yet he was there. He expected to be blown into fragments,--to
sheep-skinning in Australia, or packing preserved meats on the plains
of Paraguay; but when the blowing into atoms should come, he was
resolved that courage to bear the ruin should not be wanting. Then he
quoted a line or two of a Latin poet, and felt himself to be
comfortable.

"So, here you are again, Mr. Finn," said a voice in his ear.

"Yes, Miss Fitzgibbon; here I am again."

"I fancied you members of Parliament had something else to do besides
looking at wild beasts. I thought you always spent Sunday in
arranging how you might most effectually badger each other on
Monday."

"We got through all that early this morning, Miss Fitzgibbon, while
you were saying your prayers."

"Here is Mr. Kennedy too;--you know him I daresay. He also is a
member; but then he can afford to be idle." But it so happened that
Phineas did not know Mr. Kennedy, and consequently there was some
slight form of introduction.

"I believe I am to meet you at dinner on Wednesday,"--said
Phineas,--"at Lord Brentford's."

"And me too," said Miss Fitzgibbon.

"Which will be the greatest possible addition to our pleasure," said
Phineas.

Mr. Kennedy, who seemed to be afflicted with some difficulty in
speaking, and whose bow to our hero had hardly done more than produce
the slightest possible motion to the top of his hat, hereupon
muttered something which was taken to mean an assent to the
proposition as to Wednesday's dinner. Then he stood perfectly still,
with his two hands fixed on the top of his umbrella, and gazed at the
great monkeys' cage. But it was clear that he was not looking at any
special monkey, for his eyes never wandered.

"Did you ever see such a contrast in your life?" said Miss Fitzgibbon
to Phineas,--hardly in a whisper.

"Between what?" said Phineas.

"Between Mr. Kennedy and a monkey. The monkey has so much to say for
himself, and is so delightfully wicked! I don't suppose that Mr.
Kennedy ever did anything wrong in his life."

Mr. Kennedy was a man who had very little temptation to do anything
wrong. He was possessed of over a million and a half of money, which
he was mistaken enough to suppose he had made himself; whereas it may
be doubted whether he had ever earned a penny. His father and his
uncle had created a business in Glasgow, and that business now
belonged to him. But his father and his uncle, who had toiled through
their long lives, had left behind them servants who understood the
work, and the business now went on prospering almost by its own
momentum. The Mr. Kennedy of the present day, the sole owner of the
business, though he did occasionally go to Glasgow, certainly did
nothing towards maintaining it. He had a magnificent place in
Perthshire, called Loughlinter, and he sat for a Scotch group of
boroughs, and he had a house in London, and a stud of horses in
Leicestershire, which he rarely visited, and was unmarried. He never
spoke much to any one, although he was constantly in society. He
rarely did anything, although he had the means of doing everything.
He had very seldom been on his legs in the House of Commons, though
he had sat there for ten years. He was seen about everywhere,
sometimes with one acquaintance and sometimes with another;--but it
may be doubted whether he had any friend. It may be doubted whether
he had ever talked enough to any man to make that man his friend.
Laurence Fitzgibbon tried him for one season, and after a month or
two asked for a loan of a few hundred pounds. "I never lend money to
any one under any circumstances," said Mr. Kennedy, and it was the
longest speech which had ever fallen from his mouth in the hearing of
Laurence Fitzgibbon. But though he would not lend money, he gave a
great deal,--and he would give it for almost every object. "Mr.
Robert Kennedy, M.P., Loughlinter, £105," appeared on almost every
charitable list that was advertised. No one ever spoke to him as to
this expenditure, nor did he ever speak to any one. Circulars came to
him and the cheques were returned. The duty was a very easy one to
him, and he performed it willingly. Had any amount of inquiry been
necessary, it is possible that the labour would have been too much
for him. Such was Mr. Robert Kennedy, as to whom Phineas had heard
that he had during the last winter entertained Lord Brentford and
Lady Laura, with very many other people of note, at his place in
Perthshire.

"I very much prefer the monkey," said Phineas to Miss Fitzgibbon.

"I thought you would," said she. "Like to like, you know. You have
both of you the same aptitude for climbing. But the monkeys never
fall, they tell me."

Phineas, knowing that he could gain nothing by sparring with Miss
Fitzgibbon, raised his hat and took his leave. Going out of a narrow
gate he found himself again brought into contact with Mr. Kennedy.
"What a crowd there is here," he said, finding himself bound to say
something. Mr. Kennedy, who was behind him, answered him not a word.
Then Phineas made up his mind that Mr. Kennedy was insolent with the
insolence of riches, and that he would hate Mr. Kennedy.

He was engaged to dine on this Sunday with Mr. Low, the barrister,
with whom he had been reading for the last three years. Mr. Low had
taken a strong liking to Phineas, as had also Mrs. Low, and the tutor
had more than once told his pupil that success in his profession was
certainly open to him if he would only stick to his work. Mr. Low was
himself an ambitious man, looking forward to entering Parliament at
some future time, when the exigencies of his life of labour might
enable him to do so; but he was prudent, given to close calculation,
and resolved to make the ground sure beneath his feet in every step
that he took forward. When he first heard that Finn intended to stand
for Loughshane he was stricken with dismay, and strongly dissuaded
him. "The electors may probably reject him. That's his only chance
now," Mr. Low had said to his wife, when he found that Phineas was,
as he thought, foolhardy. But the electors of Loughshane had not
rejected Mr. Low's pupil, and Mr. Low was now called upon to advise
what Phineas should do in his present circumstances. There is nothing
to prevent the work of a Chancery barrister being done by a member of
Parliament. Indeed, the most successful barristers are members of
Parliament. But Phineas Finn was beginning at the wrong end, and Mr.
Low knew that no good would come of it.

"Only think of your being in Parliament, Mr. Finn," said Mrs. Low.

"It is wonderful, isn't it?" said Phineas.

"It took us so much by surprise!" said Mrs. Low. "As a rule one never
hears of a barrister going into Parliament till after he's forty."

"And I'm only twenty-five. I do feel that I've disgraced myself. I
do, indeed, Mrs. Low."

"No;--you've not disgraced yourself, Mr. Finn. The only question is,
whether it's prudent. I hope it will all turn out for the best, most
heartily." Mrs. Low was a very matter-of-fact lady, four or five
years older than her husband, who had had a little money of her own,
and was possessed of every virtue under the sun. Nevertheless she did
not quite like the idea of her husband's pupil having got into
Parliament. If her husband and Phineas Finn were dining anywhere
together, Phineas, who had come to them quite a boy, would walk out
of the room before her husband. This could hardly be right!
Nevertheless she helped Phineas to the nicest bit of fish she could
find, and had he been ill, would have nursed him with the greatest
care.

After dinner, when Mrs. Low had gone up-stairs, there came the great
discussion between the tutor and the pupil, for the sake of which
this little dinner had been given. When Phineas had last been with
Mr. Low,--on the occasion of his showing himself at his tutor's
chambers after his return from Ireland,--he had not made up his mind
so thoroughly on certain points as he had done since he had seen Lady
Laura. The discussion could hardly be of any avail now,--but it could
not be avoided.

"Well, Phineas, and what do you mean to do?" said Mr. Low. Everybody
who knew our hero, or nearly everybody, called him by his Christian
name. There are men who seem to be so treated by general consent in
all societies. Even Mrs. Low, who was very prosaic, and unlikely to
be familiar in her mode of address, had fallen into the way of doing
it before the election. But she had dropped it, when the Phineas whom
she used to know became a member of Parliament.

"That's the question;--isn't it?" said Phineas.

"Of course you'll stick to your work?"

"What;--to the Bar?"

"Yes;--to the Bar."

"I am not thinking of giving it up permanently."

"Giving it up," said Mr. Low, raising his hands in surprise. "If you
give it up, how do you intend to live? Men are not paid for being
members of Parliament."

"Not exactly. But, as I said before, I am not thinking of giving it
up,--permanently."

"You mustn't give it up at all,--not for a day; that is, if you ever
mean to do any good."

"There I think that perhaps you may be wrong, Low!"

"How can I be wrong? Did a period of idleness ever help a man in any
profession? And is it not acknowledged by all who know anything about
it, that continuous labour is more necessary in our profession than
in any other?"

"I do not mean to be idle."

"What is it you do mean, Phineas?"

"Why simply this. Here I am in Parliament. We must take that as a
fact."

"I don't doubt the fact."

"And if it be a misfortune, we must make the best of it. Even you
wouldn't advise me to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds at once."

"I would;--to-morrow. My dear fellow, though I do not like to give
you pain, if you come to me I can only tell you what I think. My
advice to you is to give it up to-morrow. Men would laugh at you for
a few weeks, but that is better than being ruined for life."

"I can't do that," said Phineas, sadly.

"Very well;--then let us go on," said Mr. Low. "If you won't give up
your seat, the next best thing will be to take care that it shall
interfere as little as possible with your work. I suppose you must
sit upon some Committees."

"My idea is this,--that I will give up one year to learning the
practices of the House."

"And do nothing?"

"Nothing but that. Why, the thing is a study in itself. As for
learning it in a year, that is out of the question. But I am
convinced that if a man intends to be a useful member of Parliament,
he should make a study of it."

"And how do you mean to live in the meantime?" Mr. Low, who was an
energetic man, had assumed almost an angry tone of voice. Phineas for
awhile sat silent;--not that he felt himself to be without words for
a reply, but that he was thinking in what fewest words he might best
convey his ideas. "You have a very modest allowance from your father,
on which you have never been able to keep yourself free from debt,"
continued Mr. Low.

"He has increased it."

"And will it satisfy you to live here, in what will turn out to be
parliamentary club idleness, on the savings of his industrious life?
I think you will find yourself unhappy if you do that. Phineas, my
dear fellow, as far as I have as yet been able to see the world, men
don't begin either very good or very bad. They have generally good
aspirations with infirm purposes;--or, as we may say, strong bodies
with weak legs to carry them. Then, because their legs are weak, they
drift into idleness and ruin. During all this drifting they are
wretched, and when they have thoroughly drifted they are still
wretched. The agony of their old disappointment still clings to them.
In nine cases out of ten it is some one small unfortunate event that
puts a man astray at first. He sees some woman and loses himself with
her;--or he is taken to a racecourse and unluckily wins money;--or
some devil in the shape of a friend lures him to tobacco and brandy.
Your temptation has come in the shape of this accursed seat in
Parliament." Mr. Low had never said a soft word in his life to any
woman but the wife of his bosom, had never seen a racehorse, always
confined himself to two glasses of port after dinner, and looked upon
smoking as the darkest of all the vices.

"You have made up your mind, then, that I mean to be idle?"

"I have made up my mind that your time will be wholly
unprofitable,--if you do as you say you intend to do."

"But you do not know my plan;--just listen to me." Then Mr. Low did
listen, and Phineas explained his plan,--saying, of course, nothing
of his love for Lady Laura, but giving Mr. Low to understand that he
intended to assist in turning out the existing Government and to
mount up to some seat,--a humble seat at first,--on the Treasury
bench, by the help of his exalted friends and by the use of his own
gifts of eloquence. Mr. Low heard him without a word. "Of course,"
said Phineas, "after the first year my time will not be fully
employed, unless I succeed. And if I fail totally,--for, of course, I
may fail altogether--"

"It is possible," said Mr. Low.

"If you are resolved to turn yourself against me, I must not say
another word," said Phineas, with anger.

"Turn myself against you! I would turn myself any way so that I might
save you from the sort of life which you are preparing for yourself.
I see nothing in it that can satisfy any manly heart. Even if you are
successful, what are you to become? You will be the creature of some
minister, not his colleague. You are to make your way up the ladder
by pretending to agree whenever agreement is demanded from you, and
by voting whether you agree or do not. And what is to be your reward?
Some few precarious hundreds a year, lasting just so long as a party
may remain in power and you can retain a seat in Parliament! It is at
the best slavery and degradation,--even if you are lucky enough to
achieve the slavery."

"You yourself hope to go into Parliament and join a ministry some
day," said Phineas.

Mr. Low was not quick to answer, but he did answer at last. "That is
true, though I have never told you so. Indeed, it is hardly true to
say that I hope it. I have my dreams, and sometimes dare to tell
myself that they may possibly become waking facts. But if ever I sit
on a Treasury bench I shall sit there by special invitation, having
been summoned to take a high place because of my professional
success. It is but a dream after all, and I would not have you repeat
what I have said to any one. I had no intention to talk about
myself."

"I am sure that you will succeed," said Phineas.

"Yes;--I shall succeed. I am succeeding. I live upon what I earn,
like a gentleman, and can already afford to be indifferent to work
that I dislike. After all, the other part of it,--that of which I
dream,--is but an unnecessary adjunct; the gilding on the
gingerbread. I am inclined to think that the cake is more wholesome
without it."

Phineas did not go up-stairs into Mrs. Low's drawing-room on that
evening, nor did he stay very late with Mr. Low. He had heard enough
of counsel to make him very unhappy,--to shake from him much of the
audacity which he had acquired for himself during his morning's
walk,--and to make him almost doubt whether, after all, the
Chiltern Hundreds would not be for him the safest escape from his
difficulties. But in that case he must never venture to see Lady
Laura Standish again.




CHAPTER VI

Lord Brentford's Dinner


No;--in such case as that,--should he resolve upon taking the advice
of his old friend Mr. Low, Phineas Finn must make up his mind never
to see Lady Laura Standish again! And he was in love with Lady Laura
Standish;--and, for aught he knew, Lady Laura Standish might be in
love with him. As he walked home from Mr. Low's house in Bedford
Square, he was by no means a triumphant man. There had been much more
said between him and Mr. Low than could be laid before the reader
in the last chapter. Mr. Low had urged him again and again, and had
prevailed so far that Phineas, before he left the house, had promised
to consider that suicidal expedient of the Chiltern Hundreds. What a
by-word he would become if he were to give up Parliament, having sat
there for about a week! But such immediate giving up was one of the
necessities of Mr. Low's programme. According to Mr. Low's teaching,
a single year passed amidst the miasma of the House of Commons would
be altogether fatal to any chance of professional success. And Mr.
Low had at any rate succeeded in making Phineas believe that he
was right in this lesson. There was his profession, as to which Mr.
Low assured him that success was within his reach; and there was
Parliament on the other side, as to which he knew that the chances
were all against him, in spite of his advantage of a seat. That he
could not combine the two, beginning with Parliament, he did believe.
Which should it be? That was the question which he tried to decide
as he walked home from Bedford Square to Great Marlborough Street.
He could not answer the question satisfactorily, and went to bed an
unhappy man.

He must at any rate go to Lord Brentford's dinner on Wednesday, and,
to enable him to join in the conversation there, must attend the
debates on Monday and Tuesday. The reader may perhaps be best made to
understand how terrible was our hero's state of doubt by being told
that for awhile he thought of absenting himself from these debates,
as being likely to weaken his purpose of withdrawing altogether from
the House. It is not very often that so strong a fury rages between
party and party at the commencement of the session that a division
is taken upon the Address. It is customary for the leader of the
opposition on such occasions to express his opinion in the most
courteous language, that his right honourable friend, sitting
opposite to him on the Treasury bench, has been, is, and will be
wrong in everything that he thinks, says, or does in public life; but
that, as anything like factious opposition is never adopted on that
side of the House, the Address to the Queen, in answer to that most
fatuous speech which has been put into her Majesty's gracious mouth,
shall be allowed to pass unquestioned. Then the leader of the House
thanks his adversary for his consideration, explains to all men how
happy the country ought to be that the Government has not fallen into
the disgracefully incapable hands of his right honourable friend
opposite; and after that the Address is carried amidst universal
serenity. But such was not the order of the day on the present
occasion. Mr. Mildmay, the veteran leader of the liberal side of the
House, had moved an amendment to the Address, and had urged upon the
House, in very strong language, the expediency of showing, at the
very commencement of the session, that the country had returned
to Parliament a strong majority determined not to put up with
Conservative inactivity. "I conceive it to be my duty," Mr. Mildmay
had said, "at once to assume that the country is unwilling that the
right honourable gentlemen opposite should keep their seats on the
bench upon which they sit, and in the performance of that duty I am
called upon to divide the House upon the Address to her Majesty." And
if Mr. Mildmay used strong language, the reader may be sure that Mr.
Mildmay's followers used language much stronger. And Mr. Daubeny, who
was the present leader of the House, and representative there of the
Ministry,--Lord de Terrier, the Premier, sitting in the House of
Lords,--was not the man to allow these amenities to pass by without
adequate replies. He and his friends were very strong in sarcasm,
if they failed in argument, and lacked nothing for words, though
it might perhaps be proved that they were short in numbers. It was
considered that the speech in which Mr. Daubeny reviewed the long
political life of Mr. Mildmay, and showed that Mr. Mildmay had been
at one time a bugbear, and then a nightmare, and latterly simply a
fungus, was one of the severest attacks, if not the most severe, that
had been heard in that House since the Reform Bill. Mr. Mildmay, the
while, was sitting with his hat low down over his eyes, and many men
said that he did not like it. But this speech was not made till after
that dinner at Lord Brentford's, of which a short account must be
given.

Had it not been for the overwhelming interest of the doings in
Parliament at the commencement of the session, Phineas might have
perhaps abstained from attending, in spite of the charm of novelty.
For, in truth, Mr. Low's words had moved him much. But if it was to
be his fate to be a member of Parliament only for ten days, surely it
would be well that he should take advantage of the time to hear such
a debate as this. It would be a thing to talk of to his children in
twenty years' time, or to his grandchildren in fifty;--and it would
be essentially necessary that he should be able to talk of it to Lady
Laura Standish. He did, therefore, sit in the House till one on the
Monday night, and till two on the Tuesday night, and heard the debate
adjourned till the Thursday. On the Thursday Mr. Daubeny was to make
his great speech, and then the division would come.

When Phineas entered Lady Laura's drawing-room on the Wednesday
before dinner, he found the other guests all assembled. Why men
should have been earlier in keeping their dinner engagements on that
day than on any other he did not understand; but it was the fact,
probably, that the great anxiety of the time made those who were at
all concerned in the matter very keen to hear and to be heard. During
these days everybody was in a hurry,--everybody was eager; and there
was a common feeling that not a minute was to be lost. There were
three ladies in the room,--Lady Laura, Miss Fitzgibbon, and Mrs.
Bonteen. The latter was the wife of a gentleman who had been a junior
Lord of the Admiralty in the late Government, and who lived in the
expectation of filling, perhaps, some higher office in the Government
which, as he hoped, was soon to be called into existence. There
were five gentlemen besides Phineas Finn himself,--Mr. Bonteen, Mr.
Kennedy, Mr. Fitzgibbon, Barrington Erle, who had been caught in
spite of all that Lady Laura had said as to the difficulty of such
an operation, and Lord Brentford. Phineas was quick to observe that
every male guest was in Parliament, and to tell himself that he would
not have been there unless he also had had a seat.

"We are all here now," said the Earl, ringing the bell.

"I hope I've not kept you waiting," said Phineas.

"Not at all," said Lady Laura. "I do not know why we are in such a
hurry. And how many do you say it will be, Mr. Finn?"

"Seventeen, I suppose," said Phineas.

"More likely twenty-two," said Mr. Bonteen. "There is Colcleugh so
ill they can't possibly bring him up, and young Rochester is at
Vienna, and Gunning is sulking about something, and Moody has lost
his eldest son. By George! they pressed him to come up, although
Frank Moody won't be buried till Friday."

"I don't believe it," said Lord Brentford.

"You ask some of the Carlton fellows, and they'll own it."

"If I'd lost every relation I had in the world," said Fitzgibbon,
"I'd vote on such a question as this. Staying away won't bring poor
Frank Moody back to life."

"But there's a decency in these matters, is there not, Mr.
Fitzgibbon?" said Lady Laura.

"I thought they had thrown all that kind of thing overboard long
ago," said Miss Fitzgibbon. "It would be better that they should have
no veil, than squabble about the thickness of it."

Then dinner was announced. The Earl walked off with Miss Fitzgibbon,
Barrington Erle took Mrs. Bonteen, and Mr. Fitzgibbon took Lady
Laura.

"I'll bet four pounds to two it's over nineteen," said Mr. Bonteen,
as he passed through the drawing-room door. The remark seemed to have
been addressed to Mr. Kennedy, and Phineas therefore made no reply.

"I daresay it will," said Kennedy, "but I never bet."

"But you vote--sometimes, I hope," said Bonteen.

"Sometimes," said Mr. Kennedy.

"I think he is the most odious man that ever I set my eyes on," said
Phineas to himself as he followed Mr. Kennedy into the dining-room.
He had observed that Mr. Kennedy had been standing very near to Lady
Laura in the drawing-room, and that Lady Laura had said a few words
to him. He was more determined than ever that he would hate Mr.
Kennedy, and would probably have been moody and unhappy throughout
the whole dinner had not Lady Laura called him to a chair at her left
hand. It was very generous of her; and the more so, as Mr. Kennedy
had, in a half-hesitating manner, prepared to seat himself in that
very place. As it was, Phineas and Mr. Kennedy were neighbours, but
Phineas had the place of honour.

"I suppose you will not speak during the debate?" said Lady Laura.

"Who? I? Certainly not. In the first place, I could not get a
hearing, and, in the next place, I should not think of commencing on
such an occasion. I do not know that I shall ever speak at all."

"Indeed you will. You are just the sort of man who will succeed with
the House. What I doubt is, whether you will do as well in office."

"I wish I might have the chance."

"Of course you can have the chance if you try for it. Beginning so
early, and being on the right side,--and, if you will allow me to say
so, among the right set,--there can be no doubt that you may take
office if you will. But I am not sure that you will be tractable. You
cannot begin, you know, by being Prime Minister."

"I have seen enough to realise that already," said Phineas.

"If you will only keep that little fact steadily before your eyes,
there is nothing you may not reach in official life. But Pitt was
Prime Minister at four-and-twenty, and that precedent has ruined half
our young politicians."

"It has not affected me, Lady Laura."

"As far as I can see, there is no great difficulty in government. A
man must learn to have words at command when he is on his legs in
the House of Commons, in the same way as he would if he were talking
to his own servants. He must keep his temper; and he must be very
patient. As far as I have seen Cabinet Ministers, they are not more
clever than other people."

"I think there are generally one or two men of ability in the
Cabinet."

"Yes, of fair ability. Mr. Mildmay is a good specimen. There is not,
and never was, anything brilliant in him. He is not eloquent, nor,
as far as I am aware, did he ever create anything. But he has always
been a steady, honest, persevering man, and circumstances have made
politics come easy to him."

"Think of the momentous questions which he has been called upon to
decide," said Phineas.

"Every question so handled by him has been decided rightly according
to his own party, and wrongly according to the party opposite. A
political leader is so sure of support and so sure of attack, that
it is hardly necessary for him to be even anxious to be right. For
the country's sake, he should have officials under him who know the
routine of business."

"You think very badly then of politics as a profession."

"No; I think of them very highly. It must be better to deal with
the repeal of laws than the defending of criminals. But all this is
papa's wisdom, not mine. Papa has never been in the Cabinet yet, and
therefore of course he is a little caustic."

"I think he was quite right," said Barrington Erle stoutly. He spoke
so stoutly that everybody at the table listened to him.

"I don't exactly see the necessity for such internecine war just at
present," said Lord Brentford.

"I must say I do," said the other. "Lord de Terrier took office
knowing that he was in a minority. We had a fair majority of nearly
thirty when he came in."

"Then how very soft you must have been to go out," said Miss
Fitzgibbon.

"Not in the least soft," continued Barrington Erle. "We could not
command our men, and were bound to go out. For aught we knew, some
score of them might have chosen to support Lord de Terrier, and then
we should have owned ourselves beaten for the time."

"You were beaten,--hollow," said Miss Fitzgibbon.

"Then why did Lord de Terrier dissolve?"

"A Prime Minister is quite right to dissolve in such a position,"
said Lord Brentford. "He must do so for the Queen's sake. It is his
only chance."

"Just so. It is, as you say, his only chance, and it is his right.
His very possession of power will give him near a score of votes, and
if he thinks that he has a chance, let him try it. We maintain that
he had no chance, and that he must have known that he had none;--that
if he could not get on with the late House, he certainly could not
get on with a new House. We let him have his own way as far as we
could in February. We had failed last summer, and if he could get
along he was welcome. But he could not get along."

"I must say I think he was right to dissolve," said Lady Laura.

"And we are right to force the consequences upon him as quickly as
we can. He practically lost nine seats by his dissolution. Look at
Loughshane."

"Yes; look at Loughshane," said Miss Fitzgibbon. "The country at any
rate has gained something there."

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good, Mr. Finn," said the
Earl.

"What on earth is to become of poor George?" said Mr. Fitzgibbon. "I
wonder whether any one knows where he is. George wasn't a bad sort of
fellow."

"Roby used to think that he was a very bad fellow," said Mr. Bonteen.
"Roby used to swear that it was hopeless trying to catch him." It may
be as well to explain that Mr. Roby was a Conservative gentleman of
great fame who had for years acted as Whip under Mr. Daubeny, and who
now filled the high office of Patronage Secretary to the Treasury. "I
believe in my heart," continued Mr. Bonteen, "that Roby is rejoiced
that poor George Morris should be out in the cold."

"If seats were halveable, he should share mine, for the sake of auld
lang syne," said Laurence Fitzgibbon.

"But not to-morrow night," said Barrington Erle; "the division
to-morrow will be a thing not to be joked with. Upon my word I think
they're right about old Moody. All private considerations should give
way. And as for Gunning, I'd have him up or I'd know the reason why."

"And shall we have no defaulters, Barrington?" asked Lady Laura.

"I'm not going to boast, but I don't know of one for whom we need
blush. Sir Everard Powell is so bad with gout that he can't even bear
any one to look at him, but Ratler says that he'll bring him up." Mr.
Ratler was in those days the Whip on the liberal side of the House.

"Unfortunate wretch!" said Miss Fitzgibbon.

"The worst of it is that he screams in his paroxysms," said Mr.
Bonteen.

"And you mean to say that you'll take him into the lobby," said Lady
Laura.

"Undoubtedly," said Barrington Erle. "Why not? He has no business
with a seat if he can't vote. But Sir Everard is a good man, and
he'll be there if laudanum and bath-chair make it possible."

The same kind of conversation went on during the whole of dinner, and
became, if anything, more animated when the three ladies had left the
room. Mr. Kennedy made but one remark, and then he observed that as
far as he could see a majority of nineteen would be as serviceable
as a majority of twenty. This he said in a very mild voice, and in
a tone that was intended to be expressive of doubt; but in spite of
his humility Barrington Erle flew at him almost savagely,--as though
a liberal member of the House of Commons was disgraced by so mean a
spirit; and Phineas found himself despising the man for his want of
zeal.

"If we are to beat them, let us beat them well," said Phineas.

"Let there be no doubt about it," said Barrington Erle.

"I should like to see every man with a seat polled," said Bonteen.

"Poor Sir Everard!" said Lord Brentford. "It will kill him, no doubt,
but I suppose the seat is safe."

"Oh, yes; Llanwrwsth is quite safe," said Barrington, in his
eagerness omitting to catch Lord Brentford's grim joke.

Phineas went up into the drawing-room for a few minutes after dinner,
and was eagerly desirous of saying a few more words,--he knew not
what words,--to Lady Laura. Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Bonteen had left
the dining-room first, and Phineas again found Mr. Kennedy standing
close to Lady Laura's shoulder. Could it be possible that there was
anything in it? Mr. Kennedy was an unmarried man, with an immense
fortune, a magnificent place, a seat in Parliament, and was not
perhaps above forty years of age. There could be no reason why he
should not ask Lady Laura to be his wife,--except, indeed, that he
did not seem to have sufficient words at command to ask anybody for
anything. But could it be that such a woman as Lady Laura could
accept such a man as Mr. Kennedy because of his wealth, and because
of his fine place,--a man who had not a word to throw to a dog, who
did not seem to be possessed of an idea, who hardly looked like a
gentleman;--so Phineas told himself. But in truth Mr. Kennedy, though
he was a plain, unattractive man, with nothing in his personal
appearance to call for remark, was not unlike a gentleman in his
usual demeanour. Phineas himself, it may be here said, was six feet
high, and very handsome, with bright blue eyes, and brown wavy hair,
and light silken beard. Mrs. Low had told her husband more than once
that he was much too handsome to do any good. Mr. Low, however, had
replied that young Finn had never shown himself to be conscious of
his own personal advantages. "He'll learn it soon enough," said Mrs.
Low. "Some woman will tell him, and then he'll be spoilt." I do not
think that Phineas depended much as yet on his own good looks, but
he felt that Mr. Kennedy ought to be despised by such a one as Lady
Laura Standish, because his looks were not good. And she must despise
him! It could not be that a woman so full of life should be willing
to put up with a man who absolutely seemed to have no life within
him. And yet why was he there, and why was he allowed to hang about
just over her shoulders? Phineas Finn began to feel himself to be an
injured man.

But Lady Laura had the power of dispelling instantly this sense of
injury. She had done it effectually in the dining-room by calling him
to the seat by her side, to the express exclusion of the millionaire,
and she did it again now by walking away from Mr. Kennedy to the spot
on which Phineas had placed himself somewhat sulkily.

"Of course you'll be at the club on Friday morning after the
division," she said.

"No doubt."

"When you leave it, come and tell me what are your impressions, and
what you think of Mr. Daubeny's speech. There'll be nothing done in
the House before four, and you'll be able to run up to me."

"Certainly I will."

"I have asked Mr. Kennedy to come, and Mr. Fitzgibbon. I am so
anxious about it, that I want to hear what different people say.
You know, perhaps, that papa is to be in the Cabinet if there's a
change."

"Is he indeed?"

"Oh yes;--and you'll come up?"

"Of course I will. Do you expect to hear much of an opinion from Mr.
Kennedy?"

"Yes, I do. You don't quite know Mr. Kennedy yet. And you must
remember that he will say more to me than he will to you. He's
not quick, you know, as you are, and he has no enthusiasm on any
subject;--but he has opinions, and sound opinions too." Phineas
felt that Lady Laura was in a slight degree scolding him for the
disrespectful manner in which he had spoken of Mr. Kennedy; and he
felt also that he had committed himself,--that he had shown himself
to be sore, and that she had seen and understood his soreness.

"The truth is I do not know him," said he, trying to correct his
blunder.

"No;--not as yet. But I hope that you may some day, as he is one of
those men who are both useful and estimable."

"I do not know that I can use him," said Phineas; "but if you wish
it, I will endeavour to esteem him."

"I wish you to do both;--but that will all come in due time. I think
it probable that in the early autumn there will be a great gathering
of the real Whig Liberals at Loughlinter;--of those, I mean, who have
their heart in it, and are at the same time gentlemen. If it is so,
I should be sorry that you should not be there. You need not mention
it, but Mr. Kennedy has just said a word about it to papa, and a
word from him always means so much! Well;--good-night; and mind you
come up on Friday. You are going to the club, now, of course. I envy
you men your clubs more than I do the House;--though I feel that
a woman's life is only half a life, as she cannot have a seat in
Parliament."

Then Phineas went away, and walked down to Pall Mall with Laurence
Fitzgibbon. He would have preferred to take his walk alone, but he
could not get rid of his affectionate countryman. He wanted to think
over what had taken place during the evening; and, indeed, he did so
in spite of his friend's conversation. Lady Laura, when she first saw
him after his return to London, had told him how anxious her father
was to congratulate him on his seat, but the Earl had not spoken a
word to him on the subject. The Earl had been courteous, as hosts
customarily are, but had been in no way specially kind to him. And
then Mr. Kennedy! As to going to Loughlinter, he would not do such a
thing,--not though the success of the liberal party were to depend on
it. He declared to himself that there were some things which a man
could not do. But although he was not altogether satisfied with what
had occurred in Portman Square, he felt as he walked down arm-in-arm
with Fitzgibbon that Mr. Low and Mr. Low's counsels must be scattered
to the winds. He had thrown the die in consenting to stand for
Loughshane, and must stand the hazard of the cast.

"Bedad, Phin, my boy, I don't think you're listening to me at all,"
said Laurence Fitzgibbon.

"I'm listening to every word you say," said Phineas.

"And if I have to go down to the ould country again this session,
you'll go with me?"

"If I can I will."

"That's my boy! And it's I that hope you'll have the chance. What's
the good of turning these fellows out if one isn't to get something
for one's trouble?"




CHAPTER VII

Mr. and Mrs. Bunce


It was three o'clock on the Thursday night before Mr. Daubeny's
speech was finished. I do not think that there was any truth in the
allegation made at the time, that he continued on his legs an hour
longer than the necessities of his speech required, in order that
five or six very ancient Whigs might be wearied out and shrink to
their beds. Let a Whig have been ever so ancient and ever so weary,
he would not have been allowed to depart from Westminster Hall that
night. Sir Everard Powell was there in his bath-chair at twelve,
with a doctor on one side of him and a friend on the other, in some
purlieu of the House, and did his duty like a fine old Briton as he
was. That speech of Mr. Daubeny's will never be forgotten by any one
who heard it. Its studied bitterness had perhaps never been equalled,
and yet not a word was uttered for the saying of which he could be
accused of going beyond the limits of parliamentary antagonism. It is
true that personalities could not have been closer, that accusations
of political dishonesty and of almost worse than political cowardice
and falsehood could not have been clearer, that no words in the
language could have attributed meaner motives or more unscrupulous
conduct. But, nevertheless, Mr. Daubeny in all that he said was
parliamentary, and showed himself to be a gladiator thoroughly well
trained for the arena in which he had descended to the combat. His
arrows were poisoned, and his lance was barbed, and his shot was
heated red,--because such things are allowed. He did not poison
his enemies' wells or use Greek fire, because those things are not
allowed. He knew exactly the rules of the combat. Mr. Mildmay sat and
heard him without once raising his hat from his brow, or speaking
a word to his neighbour. Men on both sides of the House said that
Mr. Mildmay suffered terribly; but as Mr. Mildmay uttered no word of
complaint to any one, and was quite ready to take Mr. Daubeny by the
hand the next time they met in company, I do not know that any one
was able to form a true idea of Mr. Mildmay's feelings. Mr. Mildmay
was an impassive man who rarely spoke of his own feelings, and no
doubt sat with his hat low down over his eyes in order that no
man might judge of them on that occasion by the impression on his
features. "If he could have left off half an hour earlier it would
have been perfect as an attack," said Barrington Erle in criticising
Mr. Daubeny's speech, "but he allowed himself to sink into
comparative weakness, and the glory of it was over before the
end."--Then came the division. The Liberals had 333 votes to 314 for
the Conservatives, and therefore counted a majority of 19. It was
said that so large a number of members had never before voted at any
division.

"I own I'm disappointed," said Barrington Erle to Mr. Ratler.

"I thought there would be twenty," said Mr. Ratler. "I never went
beyond that. I knew they would have old Moody up, but I thought
Gunning would have been too hard for them."

"They say they've promised them both peerages."

"Yes;--if they remain in. But they know they're going out."

"They must go, with such a majority against them," said Barrington
Erle.

"Of course they must," said Mr. Ratler. "Lord de Terrier wants
nothing better, but it is rather hard upon poor Daubeny. I never saw
such an unfortunate old Tantalus."

"He gets a good drop of real water now and again, and I don't pity
him in the least. He's clever of course, and has made his own way,
but I've always a feeling that he has no business where he is.
I suppose we shall know all about it at Brooks's by one o'clock
to-morrow."

Phineas, though it had been past five before he went to bed,--for
there had been much triumphant talking to be done among liberal
members after the division,--was up at his breakfast at Mrs. Bunce's
lodgings by nine. There was a matter which he was called upon to
settle immediately in which Mrs. Bunce herself was much interested,
and respecting which he had promised to give an answer on this very
morning. A set of very dingy chambers up two pairs of stairs at No.
9, Old Square, Lincoln's Inn, to which Mr. Low had recommended him to
transfer himself and all his belongings, were waiting his occupation,
should he resolve upon occupying them. If he intended to commence
operations as a barrister, it would be necessary that he should have
chambers and a clerk; and before he had left Mr. Low's house on
Sunday evening he had almost given that gentleman authority to secure
for him these rooms at No. 9. "Whether you remain in Parliament or
no, you must make a beginning," Mr. Low had said; "and how are you
even to pretend to begin if you don't have chambers?" Mr. Low hoped
that he might be able to wean Phineas away from his Parliament
bauble;--that he might induce the young barrister to give up his
madness, if not this session or the next, at any rate before a third
year had commenced. Mr. Low was a persistent man, liking very much
when he did like, and loving very strongly when he did love. He would
have many a tug for Phineas Finn before he would allow that false
Westminster Satan to carry off the prey as altogether his own. If he
could only get Phineas into the dingy chambers he might do much!

But Phineas had now become so imbued with the atmosphere of politics,
had been so breathed upon by Lady Laura and Barrington Erle, that
he could no longer endure the thought of any other life than that
of a life spent among the lobbies. A desire to help to beat the
Conservatives had fastened on his very soul, and almost made Mr. Low
odious in his eyes. He was afraid of Mr. Low, and for the nonce would
not go to him any more;--but he must see the porter at Lincoln's Inn,
he must write a line to Mr. Low, and he must tell Mrs. Bunce that for
the present he would still keep on her rooms. His letter to Mr. Low
was as follows:--


   Great Marlborough Street, May, 186--.

   MY DEAR LOW,

   I have made up my mind against taking the chambers, and am
   now off to the Inn to say that I shall not want them. Of
   course, I know what you will think of me, and it is very
   grievous to me to have to bear the hard judgment of a man
   whose opinion I value so highly; but, in the teeth of your
   terribly strong arguments, I think that there is something
   to be said on my side of the question. This seat in
   Parliament has come in my way by chance, and I think it
   would be pusillanimous in me to reject it, feeling, as I
   do, that a seat in Parliament confers very great honour. I
   am, too, very fond of politics, and regard legislation as
   the finest profession going. Had I any one dependent on
   me, I probably might not be justified in following the
   bent of my inclination. But I am all alone in the world,
   and therefore have a right to make the attempt. If, after
   a trial of one or two sessions, I should fail in that
   which I am attempting, it will not even then be too late
   to go back to the better way. I can assure you that at any
   rate it is not my intention to be idle.

   I know very well how you will fret and fume over what I
   say, and how utterly I shall fail in bringing you round to
   my way of thinking; but as I must write to tell you of my
   decision, I cannot refrain from defending myself to the
   best of my ability.

   Yours always faithfully,

   PHINEAS FINN.


Mr. Low received this letter at his chambers, and when he had read
it, he simply pressed his lips closely together, placed the sheet
of paper back in its envelope, and put it into a drawer at his left
hand. Having done this, he went on with what work he had before him,
as though his friend's decision were a matter of no consequence to
him. As far as he was concerned the thing was done, and there should
be an end of it. So he told himself; but nevertheless his mind was
full of it all day; and, though he wrote not a word of answer to
Phineas, he made a reply within his own mind to every one of the
arguments used in the letter. "Great honour! How can there be honour
in what comes, as he says, by chance? He hasn't sense enough to
understand that the honour comes from the mode of winning it, and
from the mode of wearing it; and that the very fact of his being
member for Loughshane at this instant simply proves that Loughshane
should have had no privilege to return a member! No one dependent on
him! Are not his father and his mother and his sisters dependent on
him as long as he must eat their bread till he can earn bread of his
own? He will never earn bread of his own. He will always be eating
bread that others have earned." In this way, before the day was
over, Mr. Low became very angry, and swore to himself that he would
have nothing more to say to Phineas Finn. But yet he found himself
creating plans for encountering and conquering the parliamentary
fiend who was at present so cruelly potent with his pupil. It was not
till the third evening that he told his wife that Finn had made up
his mind not to take chambers. "Then I would have nothing more to say
to him," said Mrs. Low, savagely. "For the present I can have nothing
more to say to him." "But neither now nor ever," said Mrs. Low, with
great emphasis; "he has been false to you." "No," said Mr. Low, who
was a man thoroughly and thoughtfully just at all points; "he has not
been false to me. He has always meant what he has said, when he was
saying it. But he is weak and blind, and flies like a moth to the
candle; one pities the poor moth, and would save him a stump of his
wing if it be possible."

Phineas, when he had written his letter to Mr. Low, started off for
Lincoln's Inn, making his way through the well-known dreary streets
of Soho, and through St. Giles's, to Long Acre. He knew every corner
well, for he had walked the same road almost daily for the last three
years. He had conceived a liking for the route, which he might easily
have changed without much addition to the distance, by passing
through Oxford Street and Holborn; but there was an air of business
on which he prided himself in going by the most direct passage, and
he declared to himself very often that things dreary and dingy to the
eye might be good in themselves. Lincoln's Inn itself is dingy, and
the Law Courts therein are perhaps the meanest in which Equity ever
disclosed herself. Mr. Low's three rooms in the Old Square, each of
them brown with the binding of law books and with the dust collected
on law papers, and with furniture that had been brown always, and had
become browner with years, were perhaps as unattractive to the eye of
a young pupil as any rooms which were ever entered. And the study of
the Chancery law itself is not an alluring pursuit till the mind has
come to have some insight into the beauty of its ultimate object.
Phineas, during his three years' course of reasoning on these things,
had taught himself to believe that things ugly on the outside might
be very beautiful within; and had therefore come to prefer crossing
Poland Street and Soho Square, and so continuing his travels by the
Seven Dials and Long Acre. His morning walk was of a piece with his
morning studies, and he took pleasure in the gloom of both. But now
the taste of his palate had been already changed by the glare of
the lamps in and about palatial Westminster, and he found that St.
Giles's was disagreeable. The ways about Pall Mall and across the
Park to Parliament Street, or to the Treasury, were much pleasanter,
and the new offices in Downing Street, already half built, absorbed
all that interest which he had hitherto been able to take in
the suggested but uncommenced erection of new Law Courts in the
neighbourhood of Lincoln's Inn. As he made his way to the porter's
lodge under the great gateway of Lincoln's Inn, he told himself that
he was glad that he had escaped, at any rate for a while, from a life
so dull and dreary. If he could only sit in chambers at the Treasury
instead of chambers in that old court, how much pleasanter it would
be! After all, as regarded that question of income, it might well be
that the Treasury chambers should be the more remunerative, and the
more quickly remunerative, of the two. And, as he thought, Lady Laura
might be compatible with the Treasury chambers and Parliament, but
could not possibly be made compatible with Old Square, Lincoln's Inn.

But nevertheless there came upon him a feeling of sorrow when the
old man at the lodge seemed to be rather glad than otherwise that
he did not want the chambers. "Then Mr. Green can have them," said
the porter; "that'll be good news for Mr. Green. I don't know what
the gen'lemen 'll do for chambers if things goes on as they're
going." Mr. Green was welcome to the chambers as far as Phineas was
concerned; but Phineas felt nevertheless a certain amount of regret
that he should have been compelled to abandon a thing which was
regarded both by the porter and by Mr. Green as being so desirable.
He had however written his letter to Mr. Low, and made his promise to
Barrington Erle, and was bound to Lady Laura Standish; and he walked
out through the old gateway into Chancery Lane, resolving that he
would not even visit Lincoln's Inn again for a year. There were
certain books,--law books,--which he would read at such intervals of
leisure as politics might give him; but within the precincts of the
Inns of Court he would not again put his foot for twelve months, let
learned pundits of the law,--such for instance as Mr. and Mrs.
Low,--say what they might.

He had told Mrs. Bunce, before he left his home after breakfast, that
he should for the present remain under her roof. She had been much
gratified, not simply because lodgings in Great Marlborough Street
are less readily let than chambers in Lincoln's Inn, but also because
it was a great honour to her to have a member of Parliament in her
house. Members of Parliament are not so common about Oxford Street as
they are in the neighbourhood of Pall Mall and St. James's Square.
But Mr. Bunce, when he came home to his dinner, did not join as
heartily as he should have done in his wife's rejoicing. Mr. Bunce
was in the employment of certain copying law-stationers in Carey
Street, and had a strong belief in the law as a profession;--but he
had none whatever in the House of Commons. "And he's given up going
into chambers?" said Mr. Bunce to his wife.

"Given it up altogether for the present," said Mrs. Bunce.

"And he don't mean to have no clerk?" said Mr. Bunce.

"Not unless it is for his Parliament work."

"There ain't no clerks wanted for that, and what's worse, there ain't
no fees to pay 'em. I'll tell you what it is, Jane;--if you don't
look sharp there won't be nothing to pay you before long."

"And he in Parliament, Jacob!"

"There ain't no salary for being in Parliament. There are scores of
them Parliament gents ain't got so much as'll pay their dinners for
'em. And then if anybody does trust 'em, there's no getting at 'em
to make 'em pay as there is at other folk."

"I don't know that our Mr. Phineas will ever be like that, Jacob."

"That's gammon, Jane. That's the way as women gets themselves took in
always. Our Mr. Phineas! Why should our Mr. Phineas be better than
anybody else?"

"He's always acted handsome, Jacob."

"There was one time he could not pay his lodgings for wellnigh nine
months, till his governor come down with the money. I don't know
whether that was handsome. It knocked me about terrible, I know."

"He always meant honest, Jacob."

"I don't know that I care much for a man's meaning when he runs
short of money. How is he going to see his way, with his seat in
Parliament, and this giving up of his profession? He owes us near a
quarter now."

"He paid me two months this morning, Jacob; so he don't owe a
farthing."

"Very well;--so much the better for us. I shall just have a few words
with Mr. Low, and see what he says to it. For myself I don't think
half so much of Parliament folk as some do. They're for promising
everything before they's elected; but not one in twenty of 'em is as
good as his word when he gets there."

Mr. Bunce was a copying journeyman, who spent ten hours a day in
Carey Street with a pen between his fingers; and after that he would
often spend two or three hours of the night with a pen between his
fingers in Marlborough Street. He was a thoroughly hard-working man,
doing pretty well in the world, for he had a good house over his
head, and always could find raiment and bread for his wife and
eight children; but, nevertheless, he was an unhappy man because he
suffered from political grievances, or, I should more correctly say,
that his grievances were semi-political and semi-social. He had no
vote, not being himself the tenant of the house in Great Marlborough
Street. The tenant was a tailor who occupied the shop, whereas Bunce
occupied the whole of the remainder of the premises. He was a lodger,
and lodgers were not as yet trusted with the franchise. And he had
ideas, which he himself admitted to be very raw, as to the injustice
of the manner in which he was paid for his work. So much a folio,
without reference to the way in which his work was done, without
regard to the success of his work, with no questions asked of
himself, was, as he thought, no proper way of remunerating a man for
his labours. He had long since joined a Trade Union, and for two
years past had paid a subscription of a shilling a week towards its
funds. He longed to be doing some battle against his superiors, and
to be putting himself in opposition to his employers;--not that he
objected personally to Messrs. Foolscap, Margin, and Vellum, who
always made much of him as a useful man;--but because some such
antagonism would be manly, and the fighting of some battle would
be the right thing to do. "If Labour don't mean to go to the wall
himself," Bunce would say to his wife, "Labour must look alive, and
put somebody else there."

Mrs. Bunce was a comfortable motherly woman, who loved her husband
but hated politics. As he had an aversion to his superiors in the
world because they were superiors, so had she a liking for them for
the same reason. She despised people poorer than herself, and thought
it a fair subject for boasting that her children always had meat for
dinner. If it was ever so small a morsel, she took care that they had
it, in order that the boast might be maintained. The world had once
or twice been almost too much for her,--when, for instance, her
husband had been ill; and again, to tell the truth, for the last
three months of that long period in which Phineas had omitted to pay
his bills; but she had kept a fine brave heart during those troubles,
and could honestly swear that the children always had a bit of
meat, though she herself had been occasionally without it for days
together. At such times she would be more than ordinarily meek to
Mr. Margin, and especially courteous to the old lady who lodged in
her first-floor drawing-room,--for Phineas lived up two pairs of
stairs,--and she would excuse such servility by declaring that there
was no knowing how soon she might want assistance. But her husband,
in such emergencies, would become furious and quarrelsome, and would
declare that Labour was going to the wall, and that something very
strong must be done at once. That shilling which Bunce paid weekly to
the Union she regarded as being absolutely thrown away,--as much so
as though he cast it weekly into the Thames. And she had told him so,
over and over again, making heart-piercing allusions to the eight
children and to the bit of meat. He would always endeavour to explain
to her that there was no other way under the sun for keeping Labour
from being sent to the wall;--but he would do so hopelessly and
altogether ineffectually, and she had come to regard him as a lunatic
to the extent of that one weekly shilling.

She had a woman's instinctive partiality for comeliness in a man, and
was very fond of Phineas Finn because he was handsome. And now she
was very proud of him because he was a member of Parliament. She
had heard,--from her husband, who had told her the fact with much
disgust,--that the sons of Dukes and Earls go into Parliament, and
she liked to think that the fine young man to whom she talked more
or less every day should sit with the sons of Dukes and Earls. When
Phineas had really brought distress upon her by owing her some thirty
or forty pounds, she could never bring herself to be angry with
him,--because he was handsome and because he dined out with Lords.
And she had triumphed greatly over her husband, who had desired to be
severe upon his aristocratic debtor, when the money had all been paid
in a lump.

"I don't know that he's any great catch," Bunce had said, when the
prospect of their lodger's departure had been debated between them.

"Jacob," said his wife, "I don't think you feel it when you've got
people respectable about you."

"The only respectable man I know," said Jacob, "is the man as earns
his bread; and Mr. Finn, as I take it, is a long way from that yet."

Phineas returned to his lodgings before he went down to his club, and
again told Mrs. Bunce that he had altogether made up his mind about
the chambers. "If you'll keep me I shall stay here for the first
session I daresay."

"Of course we shall be only too proud, Mr. Finn; and though it mayn't
perhaps be quite the place for a member of Parliament--"

"But I think it is quite the place."

"It's very good of you to say so, Mr. Finn, and we'll do our very
best to make you comfortable. Respectable we are, I may say; and
though Bunce is a bit rough sometimes--"

"Never to me, Mrs. Bunce."

"But he is rough,--and silly, too, with his radical nonsense, paying
a shilling a week to a nasty Union just for nothing. Still he means
well, and there ain't a man who works harder for his wife and
children;--that I will say of him. And if he do talk politics--"

"But I like a man to talk politics, Mrs. Bunce."

"For a gentleman in Parliament of course it's proper; but I never
could see what good it could do to a law-stationer; and when he talks
of Labour going to the wall, I always ask him whether he didn't get
his wages regular last Saturday. But, Lord love you, Mr. Finn, when a
man as is a journeyman has took up politics and joined a Trade Union,
he ain't no better than a milestone for his wife to take and talk to
him."

After that Phineas went down to the Reform Club, and made one of
those who were buzzing there in little crowds and uttering their
prophecies as to future events. Lord de Terrier was to go out. That
was certain. Whether Mr. Mildmay was to come in was uncertain. That
he would go to Windsor to-morrow morning was not to be doubted; but
it was thought very probable that he might plead his age, and decline
to undertake the responsibility of forming a Ministry.

"And what then?" said Phineas to his friend Fitzgibbon.

"Why, then there will be a choice out of three. There is the Duke,
who is the most incompetent man in England; there is Monk, who is the
most unfit; and there is Gresham, who is the most unpopular. I can't
conceive it possible to find a worse Prime Minister than either of
the three;--but the country affords no other."

"And which would Mildmay name?"

"All of them,--one after the other, so as to make the embarrassment
the greater." That was Mr. Fitzgibbon's description of the crisis;
but then it was understood that Mr. Fitzgibbon was given to
romancing.




CHAPTER VIII

The News about Mr. Mildmay and Sir Everard


Fitzgibbon and Phineas started together from Pall Mall for Portman
Square,--as both of them had promised to call on Lady Laura,--but
Fitzgibbon turned in at Brooks's as they walked up St. James's
Square, and Phineas went on by himself in a cab. "You should belong
here," said Fitzgibbon as his friend entered the cab, and Phineas
immediately began to feel that he would have done nothing till he
could get into Brooks's. It might be very well to begin by talking
politics at the Reform Club. Such talking had procured for him his
seat at Loughshane. But that was done now, and something more than
talking was wanted for any further progress. Nothing, as he told
himself, of political import was managed at the Reform Club. No
influence from thence was ever brought to bear upon the adjustment of
places under the Government, or upon the arrangement of cabinets. It
might be very well to count votes at the Reform Club; but after the
votes had been counted,--had been counted successfully,--Brooks's was
the place, as Phineas believed, to learn at the earliest moment what
would be the exact result of the success. He must get into Brooks's,
if it might be possible for him. Fitzgibbon was not exactly the man
to propose him. Perhaps the Earl of Brentford would do it.

Lady Laura was at home, and with her was sitting--Mr. Kennedy.
Phineas had intended to be triumphant as he entered Lady Laura's
room. He was there with the express purpose of triumphing in the
success of their great party, and of singing a pleasant paean in
conjunction with Lady Laura. But his trumpet was put out of tune at
once when he saw Mr. Kennedy. He said hardly a word as he gave his
hand to Lady Laura,--and then afterwards to Mr. Kennedy, who chose
to greet him with this show of cordiality.

"I hope you are satisfied, Mr. Finn," said Lady Laura, laughing.

"Oh yes."

"And is that all? I thought to have found your joy quite
irrepressible."

"A bottle of soda-water, though it is a very lively thing when
opened, won't maintain its vivacity beyond a certain period, Lady
Laura."

"And you have had your gas let off already?"

"Well,--yes; at any rate, the sputtering part of it. Nineteen is very
well, but the question is whether we might not have had twenty-one."

"Mr. Kennedy has just been saying that not a single available vote
has been missed on our side. He has just come from Brooks's, and that
seems to be what they say there."

So Mr. Kennedy also was a member of Brooks's! At the Reform Club
there certainly had been an idea that the number might have been
swelled to twenty-one; but then, as Phineas began to understand,
nothing was correctly known at the Reform Club. For an accurate
appreciation of the political balance of the day, you must go to
Brooks's.

"Mr. Kennedy must of course be right," said Phineas. "I don't
belong to Brooks's myself. But I was only joking, Lady Laura. There
is, I suppose, no doubt that Lord de Terrier is out, and that is
everything."

"He has probably tendered his resignation," said Mr. Kennedy.

"That is the same thing," said Phineas, roughly.

"Not exactly," said Lady Laura. "Should there be any difficulty about
Mr. Mildmay, he might, at the Queen's request, make another attempt."

"With a majority of nineteen against him!" said Phineas. "Surely Mr.
Mildmay is not the only man in the country. There is the Duke, and
there is Mr. Gresham,--and there is Mr. Monk." Phineas had at his
tongue's end all the lesson that he had been able to learn at the
Reform Club.

"I should hardly think the Duke would venture," said Mr. Kennedy.

"Nothing venture, nothing have," said Phineas. "It is all very well
to say that the Duke is incompetent, but I do not know that anything
very wonderful is required in the way of genius. The Duke has held
his own in both Houses successfully, and he is both honest and
popular. I quite agree that a Prime Minister at the present day
should be commonly honest, and more than commonly popular."

"So you are all for the Duke, are you?" said Lady Laura, again
smiling as she spoke to him.

"Certainly;--if we are deserted by Mr. Mildmay. Don't you think so?"

"I don't find it quite so easy to make up my mind as you do. I am
inclined to think that Mr. Mildmay will form a government; and as
long as there is that prospect, I need hardly commit myself to an
opinion as to his probable successor." Then the objectionable Mr.
Kennedy took his leave, and Phineas was left alone with Lady Laura.

"It is glorious;--is it not?" he began, as soon as he found the field
to be open for himself and his own manoeuvring. But he was very
young, and had not as yet learned the manner in which he might best
advance his cause with such a woman as Lady Laura Standish. He was
telling her too clearly that he could have no gratification in
talking with her unless he could be allowed to have her all to
himself. That might be very well if Lady Laura were in love with him,
but would hardly be the way to reduce her to that condition.

"Mr. Finn," said she, smiling as she spoke, "I am sure that you did
not mean it, but you were uncourteous to my friend Mr. Kennedy."

"Who? I? Was I? Upon my word, I didn't intend to be uncourteous."

"If I had thought you had intended it, of course I could not tell you
of it. And now I take the liberty;--for it is a liberty--"

"Oh no."

"Because I feel so anxious that you should do nothing to mar your
chances as a rising man."

"You are only too kind to me,--always."

"I know how clever you are, and how excellent are all your instincts;
but I see that you are a little impetuous. I wonder whether you will
be angry if I take upon myself the task of mentor."

"Nothing you could say would make me angry,--though you might make me
very unhappy."

"I will not do that if I can help it. A mentor ought to be very old,
you know, and I am infinitely older than you are."

"I should have thought it was the reverse;--indeed, I may say that I
know that it is," said Phineas.

"I am not talking of years. Years have very little to do with the
comparative ages of men and women. A woman at forty is quite old,
whereas a man at forty is young." Phineas, remembering that he had
put down Mr. Kennedy's age as forty in his own mind, frowned when
he heard this, and walked about the room in displeasure. "And
therefore," continued Lady Laura, "I talk to you as though I were a
kind of grandmother."

"You shall be my great-grandmother if you will only be kind enough to
me to say what you really think."

"You must not then be so impetuous, and you must be a little
more careful to be civil to persons to whom you may not take any
particular fancy. Now Mr. Kennedy is a man who may be very useful to
you."

"I do not want Mr. Kennedy to be of use to me."

"That is what I call being impetuous,--being young,--being a boy. Why
should not Mr. Kennedy be of use to you as well as any one else? You
do not mean to conquer the world all by yourself."

"No;--but there is something mean to me in the expressed idea that
I should make use of any man,--and more especially of a man whom I
don't like."

"And why do you not like him, Mr. Finn?"

"Because he is one of my Dr. Fells."

"You don't like him simply because he does not talk much. That
may be a good reason why you should not make of him an intimate
companion,--because you like talkative people; but it should be no
ground for dislike."

Phineas paused for a moment before he answered her, thinking whether
or not it would be well to ask her some question which might produce
from her a truth which he would not like to hear. Then he did ask it.
"And do you like him?" he said.

She too paused, but only for a second. "Yes,--I think I may say that
I do like him."

"No more than that?"

"Certainly no more than that;--but that I think is a great deal."

"I wonder what you would say if any one asked you whether you liked
me," said Phineas, looking away from her through the window.

"Just the same;--but without the doubt, if the person who questioned
me had any right to ask the question. There are not above one or two
who could have such a right."

"And I was wrong, of course, to ask it about Mr. Kennedy," said
Phineas, looking out into the Square.

"I did not say so."

"But I see you think it."

"You see nothing of the kind. I was quite willing to be asked the
question by you, and quite willing to answer it. Mr. Kennedy is a man
of great wealth."

"What can that have to do with it?"

"Wait a moment, you impetuous Irish boy, and hear me out." Phineas
liked being called an impetuous Irish boy, and came close to her,
sitting where he could look up into her face; and there came a smile
upon his own, and he was very handsome. "I say that he is a man of
great wealth," continued Lady Laura; "and as wealth gives influence,
he is of great use,--politically,--to the party to which he belongs."

"Oh, politically!"

"Am I to suppose you care nothing for politics? To such men, to men
who think as you think, who are to sit on the same benches with
yourself, and go into the same lobby and be seen at the same club,
it is your duty to be civil both for your own sake and for that of
the cause. It is for the hermits of society to indulge in personal
dislikings,--for men who have never been active and never mean to be
active. I had been telling Mr. Kennedy how much I thought of you,--as
a good Liberal."

"And I came in and spoilt it all."

"Yes, you did. You knocked down my little house, and I must build it
all up again."

"Don't trouble yourself, Lady Laura."

"I shall. It will be a great deal of trouble,--a great deal, indeed;
but I shall take it. I mean you to be very intimate with Mr. Kennedy,
and to shoot his grouse, and to stalk his deer, and to help to
keep him in progress as a liberal member of Parliament. I am quite
prepared to admit, as a friend, that he would go back without some
such help."

"Oh;--I understand."

"I do not believe that you do understand at all, but I must endeavour
to make you do so by degrees. If you are to be my political pupil,
you must at any rate be obedient. The next time you meet Mr. Kennedy,
ask him his opinion instead of telling him your own. He has been in
Parliament twelve years, and he was a good deal older than you when
he began." At this moment a side door was opened, and the red-haired,
red-bearded man whom Phineas had seen before entered the room. He
hesitated a moment, as though he were going to retreat again, and
then began to pull about the books and toys which lay on one of the
distant tables, as though he were in quest of some article. And he
would have retreated had not Lady Laura called to him.

"Oswald," she said, "let me introduce you to Mr. Finn. Mr. Finn, I do
not think you have ever met my brother, Lord Chiltern." Then the two
young men bowed, and each of them muttered something. "Do not be in a
hurry, Oswald. You have nothing special to take you away. Here is Mr.
Finn come to tell us who are all the possible new Prime Ministers. He
is uncivil enough not to have named papa."

"My father is out of the question," said Lord Chiltern.

"Of course he is," said Lady Laura, "but I may be allowed my little
joke."

"I suppose he will at any rate be in the Cabinet," said Phineas.

"I know nothing whatever about politics," said Lord Chiltern.

"I wish you did," said his sister,--"with all my heart."

"I never did,--and I never shall, for all your wishing. It's the
meanest trade going I think, and I'm sure it's the most dishonest.
They talk of legs on the turf, and of course there are legs; but what
are they to the legs in the House? I don't know whether you are in
Parliament, Mr. Finn."

"Yes, I am; but do not mind me."

"I beg your pardon. Of course there are honest men there, and no
doubt you are one of them."

"He is indifferent honest,--as yet," said Lady Laura.

"I was speaking of men who go into Parliament to look after
Government places," said Lord Chiltern.

"That is just what I'm doing," said Phineas. "Why should not a man
serve the Crown? He has to work very hard for what he earns."

"I don't believe that the most of them work at all. However, I beg
your pardon. I didn't mean you in particular."

"Mr. Finn is such a thorough politician that he will never forgive
you," said Lady Laura.

"Yes, I will," said Phineas, "and I'll convert him some day. If he
does come into the House, Lady Laura, I suppose he'll come on the
right side?"

"I'll never go into the House, as you call it," said Lord Chiltern.
"But, I'll tell you what; I shall be very happy if you'll dine with
me to-morrow at Moroni's. They give you a capital little dinner at
Moroni's, and they've the best Château Yquem in London."

"Do," said Lady Laura, in a whisper. "Oblige me."

Phineas was engaged to dine with one of the Vice-Chancellors on the
day named. He had never before dined at the house of this great law
luminary, whose acquaintance he had made through Mr. Low, and he had
thought a great deal of the occasion. Mrs. Freemantle had sent him
the invitation nearly a fortnight ago, and he understood there was to
be an elaborate dinner party. He did not know it for a fact, but he
was in hopes of meeting the expiring Lord Chancellor. He considered
it to be his duty never to throw away such a chance. He would in
all respects have preferred Mr. Freemantle's dinner in Eaton Place,
dull and heavy though it might probably be, to the chance of Lord
Chiltern's companions at Moroni's. Whatever might be the faults of
our hero, he was not given to what is generally called dissipation
by the world at large,--by which the world means self-indulgence. He
cared not a brass farthing for Moroni's Château Yquem, nor for the
wondrously studied repast which he would doubtless find prepared for
him at that celebrated establishment in St. James's Street;--not a
farthing as compared with the chance of meeting so great a man as
Lord Moles. And Lord Chiltern's friends might probably be just the
men whom he would not desire to know. But Lady Laura's request
overrode everything with him. She had asked him to oblige her, and of
course he would do so. Had he been going to dine with the incoming
Prime Minister, he would have put off his engagement at her request.
He was not quick enough to make an answer without hesitation; but
after a moment's pause he said he should be most happy to dine with
Lord Chiltern at Moroni's.

"That's right; 7.30 sharp,--only I can tell you you won't meet any
other members." Then the servant announced more visitors, and Lord
Chiltern escaped out of the room before he was seen by the new
comers. These were Mrs. Bonteen and Laurence Fitzgibbon, and then Mr.
Bonteen,--and after them Mr. Ratler, the Whip, who was in a violent
hurry, and did not stay there a moment, and then Barrington Erle and
young Lord James Fitz-Howard, the youngest son of the Duke of St.
Bungay. In twenty or thirty minutes there was a gathering of liberal
political notabilities in Lady Laura's drawing-room. There were two
great pieces of news by which they were all enthralled. Mr. Mildmay
would not be Prime Minister, and Sir Everard Powell was--dead. Of
course nothing quite positive could be known about Mr. Mildmay. He
was to be with the Queen at Windsor on the morrow at eleven o'clock,
and it was improbable that he would tell his mind to any one before
he told it to her Majesty. But there was no doubt that he had engaged
"the Duke,"--so he was called by Lord James,--to go down to Windsor
with him, that he might be in readiness if wanted. "I have learned
that at home," said Lord James, who had just heard the news from his
sister, who had heard it from the Duchess. Lord James was delighted
with the importance given to him by his father's coming journey.
From this, and from other equally well-known circumstances, it was
surmised that Mr. Mildmay would decline the task proposed to him.
This, nevertheless, was only a surmise,--whereas the fact with
reference to Sir Everard was fully substantiated. The gout had flown
to his stomach, and he was dead. "By ---- yes; as dead as a herring,"
said Mr. Ratler, who at that moment, however, was not within hearing
of either of the ladies present. And then he rubbed his hands, and
looked as though he were delighted. And he was delighted,--not
because his old friend Sir Everard was dead, but by the excitement
of the tragedy. "Having done so good a deed in his last moments,"
said Laurence Fitzgibbon, "we may take it for granted that he will
go straight to heaven." "I hope there will be no crowner's quest,
Ratler," said Mr. Bonteen; "if there is I don't know how you'll
get out of it." "I don't see anything in it so horrible," said
Mr. Ratler. "If a fellow dies leading his regiment we don't think
anything of it. Sir Everard's vote was of more service to his country
than anything that a colonel or a captain can do." But nevertheless
I think that Mr. Ratler was somewhat in dread of future newspaper
paragraphs, should it be found necessary to summon a coroner's
inquisition to sit upon poor Sir Everard.

While this was going on Lady Laura took Phineas apart for a moment.
"I am so much obliged to you; I am indeed," she said.

"What nonsense!"

"Never mind whether it's nonsense or not;--but I am. I can't explain
it all now, but I do so want you to know my brother. You may be of
the greatest service to him,--of the very greatest. He is not half so
bad as people say he is. In many ways he is very good,--very good.
And he is very clever."

"At any rate I will think and believe no ill of him."

"Just so;--do not believe evil of him,--not more evil than you see. I
am so anxious,--so very anxious to try to put him on his legs, and I
find it so difficult to get any connecting link with him. Papa will
not speak with him,--because of money."

"But he is friends with you."

"Yes; I think he loves me. I saw how distasteful it was to you to go
to him;--and probably you were engaged?"

"One can always get off those sort of things if there is an object."

"Yes;--just so. And the object was to oblige me;--was it not?"

"Of course it was. But I must go now. We are to hear Daubeny's
statement at four, and I would not miss it for worlds."

"I wonder whether you would go abroad with my brother in the autumn?
But I have no right to think of such a thing;--have I? At any rate
I will not think of it yet. Good-bye,--I shall see you perhaps on
Sunday if you are in town."

Phineas walked down to Westminster with his mind very full of Lady
Laura and Lord Chiltern. What did she mean by her affectionate
manner to himself, and what did she mean by the continual praises
which she lavished upon Mr. Kennedy? Of whom was she thinking most,
of Mr. Kennedy, or of him? She had called herself his mentor. Was
the description of her feelings towards himself, as conveyed in that
name, of a kind to be gratifying to him? No;--he thought not. But
then might it not be within his power to change the nature of those
feelings? She was not in love with him at present. He could not make
any boast to himself on that head. But it might be within his power
to compel her to love him. The female mentor might be softened. That
she could not love Mr. Kennedy, he thought that he was quite sure.
There was nothing like love in her manner to Mr. Kennedy. As to Lord
Chiltern, Phineas would do whatever might be in his power. All that
he really knew of Lord Chiltern was that he had gambled and that he
had drunk.




CHAPTER IX

The New Government


In the House of Lords that night, and in the House of Commons, the
outgoing Ministers made their explanations. As our business at the
present moment is with the Commons, we will confine ourselves to
their chamber, and will do so the more willingly because the upshot
of what was said in the two places was the same. The outgoing
ministers were very grave, very self-laudatory, and very courteous.
In regard to courtesy it may be declared that no stranger to the
ways of the place could have understood how such soft words could be
spoken by Mr. Daubeny, beaten, so quickly after the very sharp words
which he had uttered when he only expected to be beaten. He announced
to his fellow-commoners that his right honourable friend and
colleague Lord de Terrier had thought it right to retire from the
Treasury. Lord de Terrier, in constitutional obedience to the vote
of the Lower House, had resigned, and the Queen had been graciously
pleased to accept Lord de Terrier's resignation. Mr. Daubeny could
only inform the House that her Majesty had signified her pleasure
that Mr. Mildmay should wait upon her to-morrow at eleven o'clock.
Mr. Mildmay,--so Mr. Daubeny understood,--would be with her Majesty
to-morrow at that hour. Lord de Terrier had found it to be his duty
to recommend her Majesty to send for Mr. Mildmay. Such was the real
import of Mr. Daubeny's speech. That further portion of it in which
he explained with blandest, most beneficent, honey-flowing words that
his party would have done everything that the country could require
of any party, had the House allowed it to remain on the Treasury
benches for a month or two,--and explained also that his party would
never recriminate, would never return evil for evil, would in no wise
copy the factious opposition of their adversaries; that his party
would now, as it ever had done, carry itself with the meekness of
the dove, and the wisdom of the serpent,--all this, I say, was so
generally felt by gentlemen on both sides of the House to be "leather
and prunella" that very little attention was paid to it. The great
point was that Lord de Terrier had resigned, and that Mr. Mildmay had
been summoned to Windsor.

The Queen had sent for Mr. Mildmay in compliance with advice given
to her by Lord de Terrier. And yet Lord de Terrier and his first
lieutenant had used all the most practised efforts of their eloquence
for the last three days in endeavouring to make their countrymen
believe that no more unfitting Minister than Mr. Mildmay ever
attempted to hold the reins of office! Nothing had been too bad
for them to say of Mr. Mildmay,--and yet, in the very first moment
in which they found themselves unable to carry on the Government
themselves, they advised the Queen to send for that most incompetent
and baneful statesman! We who are conversant with our own methods of
politics, see nothing odd in this, because we are used to it; but
surely in the eyes of strangers our practice must be very singular.
There is nothing like it in any other country,--nothing as yet.
Nowhere else is there the same good-humoured, affectionate,
prize-fighting ferocity in politics. The leaders of our two great
parties are to each other exactly as are the two champions of the
ring who knock each other about for the belt and for five hundred
pounds a side once in every two years. How they fly at each other,
striking as though each blow should carry death if it were but
possible! And yet there is no one whom the Birmingham Bantam
respects so highly as he does Bill Burns the Brighton Bully, or with
whom he has so much delight in discussing the merits of a pot of
half-and-half. And so it was with Mr. Daubeny and Mr. Mildmay. In
private life Mr. Daubeny almost adulated his elder rival,--and Mr.
Mildmay never omitted an opportunity of taking Mr. Daubeny warmly by
the hand. It is not so in the United States. There the same political
enmity exists, but the political enmity produces private hatred. The
leaders of parties there really mean what they say when they abuse
each other, and are in earnest when they talk as though they were
about to tear each other limb from limb. I doubt whether Mr. Daubeny
would have injured a hair of Mr. Mildmay's venerable head, even for
an assurance of six continued months in office.

When Mr. Daubeny had completed his statement, Mr. Mildmay simply told
the House that he had received and would obey her Majesty's commands.
The House would of course understand that he by no means meant to
aver that the Queen would even commission him to form a Ministry. But
if he took no such command from her Majesty it would become his duty
to recommend her Majesty to impose the task upon some other person.
Then everything was said that had to be said, and members returned to
their clubs. A certain damp was thrown over the joy of some excitable
Liberals by tidings which reached the House during Mr. Daubeny's
speech. Sir Everard Powell was no more dead than was Mr. Daubeny
himself. Now it is very unpleasant to find that your news is untrue,
when you have been at great pains to disseminate it. "Oh, but he is
dead," said Mr. Ratler. "Lady Powell assured me half an hour ago,"
said Mr. Ratler's opponent, "that he was at that moment a great deal
better than he had been for the last three months. The journey down
to the House did him a world of good." "Then we'll have him down for
every division," said Mr. Ratler.

The political portion of London was in a ferment for the next five
days. On the Sunday morning it was known that Mr. Mildmay had
declined to put himself at the head of a liberal Government. He and
the Duke of St. Bungay, and Mr. Plantagenet Palliser, had been in
conference so often, and so long, that it may almost be said they
lived together in conference. Then Mr. Gresham had been with Mr.
Mildmay,--and Mr. Monk also. At the clubs it was said by many that
Mr. Monk had been with Mr. Mildmay; but it was also said very
vehemently by others that no such interview had taken place. Mr. Monk
was a Radical, much admired by the people, sitting in Parliament for
that most Radical of all constituencies, the Pottery Hamlets, who
had never as yet been in power. It was the great question of the day
whether Mr. Mildmay would or would not ask Mr. Monk to join him; and
it was said by those who habitually think at every period of change
that the time has now come in which the difficulties to forming a
government will at last be found to be insuperable, that Mr. Mildmay
could not succeed either with Mr. Monk or without him. There were at
the present moment two sections of these gentlemen,--the section
which declared that Mr. Mildmay had sent for Mr. Monk, and the
section which declared that he had not. But there were others, who
perhaps knew better what they were saying, by whom it was asserted
that the whole difficulty lay with Mr. Gresham. Mr. Gresham was
willing to serve with Mr. Mildmay,--with certain stipulations as
to the special seat in the Cabinet which he himself was to occupy,
and as to the introduction of certain friends of his own; but,--so
said these gentlemen who were supposed really to understand the
matter,--Mr. Gresham was not willing to serve with the Duke and with
Mr. Palliser. Now, everybody who knew anything knew that the Duke
and Mr. Palliser were indispensable to Mr. Mildmay. And a liberal
Government, with Mr. Gresham in the opposition, could not live half
through a session! All Sunday and Monday these things were discussed;
and on the Monday Lord de Terrier absolutely stated to the Upper
House that he had received her Majesty's commands to form another
government. Mr. Daubeny, in half a dozen most modest words,--in words
hardly audible, and most unlike himself,--made his statement in the
Lower House to the same effect. Then Mr. Ratler, and Mr. Bonteen, and
Mr. Barrington Erle, and Mr. Laurence Fitzgibbon aroused themselves
and swore that such things could not be. Should the prey which they
had won for themselves, the spoil of their bows and arrows, be
snatched from out of their very mouths by treachery? Lord de Terrier
and Mr. Daubeny could not venture even to make another attempt unless
they did so in combination with Mr. Gresham. Such a combination, said
Mr. Barrington Erle, would be disgraceful to both parties, but would
prove Mr. Gresham to be as false as Satan himself. Early on the
Tuesday morning, when it was known that Mr. Gresham had been at Lord
de Terrier's house, Barrington Erle was free to confess that he had
always been afraid of Mr. Gresham. "I have felt for years," said he,
"that if anybody could break up the party it would be Mr. Gresham."

On that Tuesday morning Mr. Gresham certainly was with Lord de
Terrier, but nothing came of it. Mr. Gresham was either not enough
like Satan for the occasion, or else he was too closely like him.
Lord de Terrier did not bid high enough, or else Mr. Gresham did not
like biddings from that quarter. Nothing then came from this attempt,
and on the Tuesday afternoon the Queen again sent for Mr. Mildmay. On
the Wednesday morning the gentlemen who thought that the insuperable
difficulties had at length arrived, began to wear their longest
faces, and to be triumphant with melancholy forebodings. Now at
last there was a dead lock. Nobody could form a government. It
was asserted that Mr. Mildmay had fallen at her Majesty's feet
dissolved in tears, and had implored to be relieved from further
responsibility. It was well known to many at the clubs that the Queen
had on that morning telegraphed to Germany for advice. There were men
so gloomy as to declare that the Queen must throw herself into the
arms of Mr. Monk, unless Mr. Mildmay would consent to rise from his
knees and once more buckle on his ancient armour. "Even that would
be better than Gresham," said Barrington Erle, in his anger. "I'll
tell you what it is," said Ratler, "we shall have Gresham and Monk
together, and you and I shall have to do their biddings." Mr.
Barrington Erle's reply to that suggestion I may not dare to insert
in these pages.

On the Wednesday night, however, it was known that everything had
been arranged, and before the Houses met on the Thursday every place
had been bestowed, either in reality or in imagination. The _Times_,
in its second edition on the Thursday, gave a list of the Cabinet, in
which four places out of fourteen were rightly filled. On the Friday
it named ten places aright, and indicated the law officers, with only
one mistake in reference to Ireland; and on the Saturday it gave
a list of the Under Secretaries of State, and Secretaries and
Vice-Presidents generally, with wonderful correctness as to the
individuals, though the offices were a little jumbled. The Government
was at last formed in a manner which everybody had seen to be the
only possible way in which a government could be formed. Nobody was
surprised, and the week's work was regarded as though the regular
routine of government making had simply been followed. Mr. Mildmay
was Prime Minister; Mr. Gresham was at the Foreign Office; Mr. Monk
was at the Board of Trade; the Duke was President of the Council; the
Earl of Brentford was Privy Seal; and Mr. Palliser was Chancellor of
the Exchequer. Barrington Erle made a step up in the world, and went
to the Admiralty as Secretary; Mr. Bonteen was sent again to the
Admiralty; and Laurence Fitzgibbon became a junior Lord of the
Treasury. Mr. Ratler was, of course, installed as Patronage Secretary
to the same Board. Mr. Ratler was perhaps the only man in the party
as to whose destination there could not possibly be a doubt. Mr.
Ratler had really qualified himself for a position in such a way as
to make all men feel that he would, as a matter of course, be called
upon to fill it. I do not know whether as much could be said on
behalf of any other man in the new Government.

During all this excitement, and through all these movements, Phineas
Finn felt himself to be left more and more out in the cold. He had
not been such a fool as to suppose that any office would be offered
to him. He had never hinted at such a thing to his one dearly
intimate friend, Lady Laura. He had not hitherto opened his mouth in
Parliament. Indeed, when the new Government was formed he had not
been sitting for above a fortnight. Of course nothing could be done
for him as yet. But, nevertheless, he felt himself to be out in the
cold. The very men who had discussed with him the question of the
division,--who had discussed it with him because his vote was then as
good as that of any other member,--did not care to talk to him about
the distribution of places. He, at any rate, could not be one of
them. He, at any rate, could not be a rival. He could neither mar
nor assist. He could not be either a successful or a disappointed
sympathiser,--because he could not himself be a candidate. The affair
which perhaps disgusted him more than anything else was the offer of
an office,--not in the Cabinet, indeed, but one supposed to confer
high dignity,--to Mr. Kennedy. Mr. Kennedy refused the offer, and
this somewhat lessened Finn's disgust, but the offer itself made him
unhappy.

"I suppose it was made simply because of his money," he said to
Fitzgibbon.

"I don't believe that," said Fitzgibbon. "People seem to think that
he has got a head on his shoulders, though he has got no tongue in
it. I wonder at his refusing it because of the Right Honourable."

"I am so glad that Mr. Kennedy refused," said Lady Laura to him.

"And why? He would have been the Right Hon. Robert Kennedy for ever
and ever." Phineas when he said this did not as yet know exactly
how it would have come to pass that such honour,--the honour of the
enduring prefix to his name,--would have come in the way of Mr.
Kennedy had Mr. Kennedy accepted the office in question; but he was
very quick to learn all these things, and, in the meantime, he rarely
made any mistake about them.

"What would that have been to him,--with his wealth?" said Lady
Laura. "He has a position of his own and need not care for such
things. There are men who should not attempt what is called
independence in Parliament. By doing so they simply decline to make
themselves useful. But there are a few whose special walk in life it
is to be independent, and, as it were, unmoved by parties."

"Great Akinetoses! You know Orion," said Phineas.

"Mr. Kennedy is not an Akinetos," said Lady Laura.

"He holds a very proud position," said Phineas, ironically.

"A very proud position indeed," said Lady Laura, in sober earnest.

The dinner at Moroni's had been eaten, and Phineas had given an
account of the entertainment to Lord Chiltern's sister. There had
been only two other guests, and both of them had been men on the
turf. "I was the first there," said Phineas, "and he surprised me
ever so much by telling me that you had spoken to him of me before."

"Yes; I did so. I wish him to know you. I want him to know some men
who think of something besides horses. He is very well educated, you
know, and would certainly have taken honours if he had not quarrelled
with the people at Christ Church."

"Did he take a degree?"

"No;--they sent him down. It is best always to have the truth among
friends. Of course you will hear it some day. They expelled him
because he was drunk." Then Lady Laura burst out into tears, and
Phineas sat near her, and consoled her, and swore that if in any way
he could befriend her brother he would do so.

Mr. Fitzgibbon at this time claimed a promise which he said that
Phineas had made to him,--that Phineas would go over with him to Mayo
to assist at his re-election. And Phineas did go. The whole affair
occupied but a week, and was chiefly memorable as being the means of
cementing the friendship which existed between the two Irish members.

"A thousand a year!" said Laurence Fitzgibbon, speaking of the salary
of his office. "It isn't much; is it? And every fellow to whom I owe
a shilling will be down upon me. If I had studied my own comfort, I
should have done the same as Kennedy."




CHAPTER X

Violet Effingham


It was now the middle of May, and a month had elapsed since the
terrible difficulty about the Queen's Government had been solved. A
month had elapsed, and things had shaken themselves into their places
with more of ease and apparent fitness than men had given them credit
for possessing. Mr. Mildmay, Mr. Gresham, and Mr. Monk were the best
friends in the world, swearing by each other in their own house, and
supported in the other by as gallant a phalanx of Whig peers as ever
were got together to fight against the instincts of their own order
in compliance with the instincts of those below them. Lady Laura's
father was in the Cabinet, to Lady Laura's infinite delight. It
was her ambition to be brought as near to political action as was
possible for a woman without surrendering any of the privileges of
feminine inaction. That women should even wish to have votes at
parliamentary elections was to her abominable, and the cause of the
Rights of Women generally was odious to her; but, nevertheless, for
herself, she delighted in hoping that she too might be useful,--in
thinking that she too was perhaps, in some degree, politically
powerful; and she had received considerable increase to such hopes
when her father accepted the Privy Seal. The Earl himself was not an
ambitious man, and, but for his daughter, would have severed himself
altogether from political life before this time. He was an unhappy
man;--being an obstinate man, and having in his obstinacy quarrelled
with his only son. In his unhappiness he would have kept himself
alone, living in the country, brooding over his wretchedness, were
it not for his daughter. On her behalf, and in obedience to her
requirements, he came yearly up to London, and, perhaps in compliance
with her persuasion, had taken some part in the debates of the House
of Lords. It is easy for a peer to be a statesman, if the trouble of
the life be not too much for him. Lord Brentford was now a statesman,
if a seat in the Cabinet be proof of statesmanship.

At this time, in May, there was staying with Lady Laura in Portman
Square a very dear friend of hers, by name Violet Effingham. Violet
Effingham was an orphan, an heiress, and a beauty; with a terrible
aunt, one Lady Baldock, who was supposed to be the dragon who had
Violet, as a captive maiden, in charge. But as Miss Effingham was of
age, and was mistress of her own fortune, Lady Baldock was, in truth,
not omnipotent as a dragon should be. The dragon, at any rate, was
not now staying in Portman Square, and the captivity of the maiden
was therefore not severe at the present moment. Violet Effingham was
very pretty, but could hardly be said to be beautiful. She was small,
with light crispy hair, which seemed to be ever on the flutter round
her brows, and which yet was never a hair astray. She had sweet, soft
grey eyes, which never looked at you long, hardly for a moment,--but
which yet, in that half moment, nearly killed you by the power of
their sweetness. Her cheek was the softest thing in nature, and the
colour of it, when its colour was fixed enough to be told, was a
shade of pink so faint and creamy that you would hardly dare to call
it by its name. Her mouth was perfect, not small enough to give that
expression of silliness which is so common, but almost divine, with
the temptation of its full, rich, ruby lips. Her teeth, which she but
seldom showed, were very even and very white, and there rested on her
chin the dearest dimple that ever acted as a loadstar to mens's eyes.
The fault of her face, if it had a fault, was in her nose,--which
was a little too sharp, and perhaps too small. A woman who wanted to
depreciate Violet Effingham had once called her a pug-nosed puppet;
but I, as her chronicler, deny that she was pug-nosed,--and all the
world who knew her soon came to understand that she was no puppet. In
figure she was small, but not so small as she looked to be. Her feet
and hands were delicately fine, and there was a softness about her
whole person, an apparent compressibility, which seemed to indicate
that she might go into very small compass. Into what compass and
how compressed, there were very many men who held very different
opinions. Violet Effingham was certainly no puppet. She was great
at dancing,--as perhaps might be a puppet,--but she was great also
at archery, great at skating,--and great, too, at hunting. With
reference to that last accomplishment, she and Lady Baldock had had
more than one terrible tussle, not always with advantage to the
dragon. "My dear aunt," she had said once during the last winter,
"I am going to the meet with George,"--George was her cousin, Lord
Baldock, and was the dragon's son,--"and there, let there be an end
of it." "And you will promise me that you will not go further," said
the dragon. "I will promise nothing to-day to any man or to any
woman," said Violet. What was to be said to a young lady who spoke in
this way, and who had become of age only a fortnight since? She rode
that day the famous run from Bagnall's Gorse to Foulsham Common, and
was in at the death.

Violet Effingham was now sitting in conference with her friend Lady
Laura, and they were discussing matters of high import,--of very high
import, indeed,--to the interests of both of them. "I do not ask you
to accept him," said Lady Laura.

"That is lucky," said the other, "as he has never asked me."

"He has done much the same. You know that he loves you."

"I know,--or fancy that I know,--that so many men love me! But, after
all, what sort of love is it? It is just as when you and I, when we
see something nice in a shop, call it a dear duck of a thing, and
tell somebody to go and buy it, let the price be ever so extravagant.
I know my own position, Laura. I'm a dear duck of a thing."

"You are a very dear thing to Oswald."

"But you, Laura, will some day inspire a grand passion,--or I daresay
have already, for you are a great deal too close to tell;--and then
there will be cutting of throats, and a mighty hubbub, and a real
tragedy. I shall never go beyond genteel comedy,--unless I run away
with somebody beneath me, or do something awfully improper."

"Don't do that, dear."

"I should like to, because of my aunt. I should indeed. If it were
possible, without compromising myself, I should like her to be told
some morning that I had gone off with the curate."

"How can you be so wicked, Violet!"

"It would serve her right, and her countenance would be so awfully
comic. Mind, if it is ever to come off, I must be there to see it. I
know what she would say as well as possible. She would turn to poor
Gussy. 'Augusta,' she would say, 'I always expected it. I always
did.' Then I should come out and curtsey to her, and say so prettily,
'Dear aunt, it was only our little joke.' That's my line. But for
you,--you, if you planned it, would go off to-morrow with Lucifer
himself if you liked him."

"But failing Lucifer, I shall probably be very humdrum."

"You don't mean that there is anything settled, Laura?"

"There is nothing settled,--or any beginning of anything that ever
can be settled, But I am not talking about myself. He has told me
that if you will accept him, he will do anything that you and I may
ask him."

"Yes;--he will promise."

"Did you ever know him to break his word?"

"I know nothing about him, my dear. How should I?"

"Do not pretend to be ignorant and meek, Violet. You do know
him,--much better than most girls know the men they marry. You have
known him, more or less intimately, all your life."

"But am I bound to marry him because of that accident?"

"No; you are not bound to marry him,--unless you love him."

"I do not love him," said Violet, with slow, emphatic words, and a
little forward motion of her face, as though she were specially eager
to convince her friend that she was quite in earnest in what she
said.

"I fancy, Violet, that you are nearer to loving him than any other
man."

"I am not at all near to loving any man. I doubt whether I ever shall
be. It does not seem to me to be possible to myself to be what girls
call in love. I can like a man. I do like, perhaps, half a dozen. I
like them so much that if I go to a house or to a party it is quite
a matter of importance to me whether this man or that will or will
not be there. And then I suppose I flirt with them. At least Augusta
tells me that my aunt says that I do. But as for caring about any one
of them in the way of loving him,--wanting to marry him, and have him
all to myself, and that sort of thing,--I don't know what it means."

"But you intend to be married some day," said Lady Laura.

"Certainly I do. And I don't intend to wait very much longer. I am
heartily tired of Lady Baldock, and though I can generally escape
among my friends, that is not sufficient. I am beginning to think
that it would be pleasant to have a house of my own. A girl becomes
such a Bohemian when she is always going about, and doesn't quite
know where any of her things are."

Then there was a silence between them for a few minutes. Violet
Effingham was doubled up in a corner of a sofa, with her feet tucked
under her, and her face reclining upon one of her shoulders. And as
she talked she was playing with a little toy which was constructed
to take various shapes as it was flung this way or that. A bystander
looking at her would have thought that the toy was much more to her
than the conversation. Lady Laura was sitting upright, in a common
chair, at a table not far from her companion, and was manifestly
devoting herself altogether to the subject that was being discussed
between them. She had taken no lounging, easy attitude, she had found
no employment for her fingers, and she looked steadily at Violet as
she talked,--whereas Violet was looking only at the little manikin
which she tossed. And now Laura got up and came to the sofa, and sat
close to her friend. Violet, though she somewhat moved one foot, so
as to seem to make room for the other, still went on with her play.

"If you do marry, Violet, you must choose some one man out of the
lot."

"That's quite true, my dear, I certainly can't marry them all."

"And how do you mean to make the choice?"

"I don't know. I suppose I shall toss up."

"I wish you would be in earnest with me."

"Well;--I will be in earnest. I shall take the first that comes after
I have quite made up my mind. You'll think it very horrible, but that
is really what I shall do. After all, a husband is very much like a
house or a horse. You don't take your house because it's the best
house in the world, but because just then you want a house. You go
and see a house, and if it's very nasty you don't take it. But if
you think it will suit pretty well, and if you are tired of looking
about for houses, you do take it. That's the way one buys one's
horses,--and one's husbands."

"And you have not made up your mind yet?"

"Not quite. Lady Baldock was a little more decent than usual just
before I left Baddingham. When I told her that I meant to have a pair
of ponies, she merely threw up her hands and grunted. She didn't
gnash her teeth, and curse and swear, and declare to me that I was a
child of perdition."

"What do you mean by cursing and swearing?"

"She told me once that if I bought a certain little dog, it would
lead to my being everlastingly--you know what. She isn't so squeamish
as I am, and said it out."

"What did you do?"

"I bought the little dog, and it bit my aunt's heel. I was very sorry
then, and gave the creature to Mary Rivers. He was such a beauty! I
hope the perdition has gone with him, for I don't like Mary Rivers
at all. I had to give the poor beasty to somebody, and Mary Rivers
happened to be there. I told her that Puck was connected with
Apollyon, but she didn't mind that. Puck was worth twenty guineas,
and I daresay she has sold him."

"Oswald may have an equal chance then among the other favourites?"
said Lady Laura, after another pause.

"There are no favourites, and I will not say that any man may have a
chance. Why do you press me about your brother in this way?"

"Because I am so anxious. Because it would save him. Because you are
the only woman for whom he has ever cared, and because he loves you
with all his heart; and because his father would be reconciled to him
to-morrow if he heard that you and he were engaged."

"Laura, my dear--"

"Well."

"You won't be angry if I speak out?"

"Certainly not. After what I have said, you have a right to speak
out."

"It seems to me that all your reasons are reasons why he should marry
me;--not reasons why I should marry him."

"Is not his love for you a reason?"

"No," said Violet, pausing,--and speaking the word in the lowest
possible whisper. "If he did not love me, that, if known to me,
should be a reason why I should not marry him. Ten men may love
me,--I don't say that any man does--"

"He does."

"But I can't marry all the ten. And as for that business of saving
him--"

"You know what I mean!"

"I don't know that I have any special mission for saving young men. I
sometimes think that I shall have quite enough to do to save myself.
It is strange what a propensity I feel for the wrong side of the
post."

"I feel the strongest assurance that you will always keep on the
right side."

"Thank you, my dear. I mean to try, but I'm quite sure that the
jockey who takes me in hand ought to be very steady himself. Now,
Lord Chiltern--"

"Well,--out with it. What have you to say?"

"He does not bear the best reputation in this world as a steady man.
Is he altogether the sort of man that mammas of the best kind are
seeking for their daughters? I like a roué myself;--and a prig who
sits all night in the House, and talks about nothing but church-rates
and suffrage, is to me intolerable. I prefer men who are improper,
and all that sort of thing. If I were a man myself I should go in for
everything I ought to leave alone. I know I should. But you see,--I'm
not a man, and I must take care of myself. The wrong side of a post
for a woman is so very much the wrong side. I like a fast man, but I
know that I must not dare to marry the sort of man that I like."

"To be one of us, then,--the very first among us;--would that be the
wrong side?"

"You mean that to be Lady Chiltern in the present tense, and Lady
Brentford in the future, would be promotion for Violet Effingham in
the past?"

"How hard you are, Violet!"

"Fancy,--that it should come to this,--that you should call me hard,
Laura. I should like to be your sister. I should like well enough to
be your father's daughter. I should like well enough to be Chiltern's
friend. I am his friend. Nothing that any one has ever said of him
has estranged me from him. I have fought for him till I have been
black in the face. Yes, I have,--with my aunt. But I am afraid to be
his wife. The risk would be so great. Suppose that I did not save
him, but that he brought me to shipwreck instead?"

"That could not be!"

"Could it not? I think it might be so very well. When I was a child
they used to be always telling me to mind myself. It seems to me that
a child and a man need not mind themselves. Let them do what they
may, they can be set right again. Let them fall as they will, you can
put them on their feet. But a woman has to mind herself;--and very
hard work it is when she has a dragon of her own driving her ever the
wrong way."

"I want to take you from the dragon."

"Yes;--and to hand me over to a griffin."

"The truth is, Violet, that you do not know Oswald. He is not a
griffin."

"I did not mean to be uncomplimentary. Take any of the dangerous
wild beasts you please. I merely intend to point out that he is a
dangerous wild beast. I daresay he is noble-minded, and I will call
him a lion if you like it better. But even with a lion there is
risk."

"Of course there will be risk. There is risk with every man,--unless
you will be contented with the prig you described. Of course there
would be risk with my brother. He has been a gambler."

"They say he is one still."

"He has given it up in part, and would entirely at your instance."

"And they say other things of him, Laura."

"It is true. He has had paroxysms of evil life which have well-nigh
ruined him."

"And these paroxysms are so dangerous! Is he not in debt?"

"He is,--but not deeply. Every shilling that he owes would be
paid;--every shilling. Mind, I know all his circumstances, and I
give you my word that every shilling should be paid. He has never
lied,--and he has told me everything. His father could not leave an
acre away from him if he would, and would not if he could."

"I did not ask as fearing that. I spoke only of a dangerous habit. A
paroxysm of spending money is apt to make one so uncomfortable. And
then--"

"Well."

"I don't know why I should make a catalogue of your brother's
weaknesses."

"You mean to say that he drinks too much?"

"I do not say so. People say so. The dragon says so. And as I always
find her sayings to be untrue, I suppose this is like the rest of
them."

"It is untrue if it be said of him as a habit."

"It is another paroxysm,--just now and then."

"Do not laugh at me, Violet, when I am taking his part, or I shall be
offended."

"But you see, if I am to be his wife, it is--rather important."

"Still you need not ridicule me."

"Dear Laura, you know I do not ridicule you. You know I love you for
what you are doing. Would not I do the same, and fight for him down
to my nails if I had a brother?"

"And therefore I want you to be Oswald's wife;--because I know that
you would fight for him. It is not true that he is a--drunkard. Look
at his hand, which is as steady as yours. Look at his eye. Is there a
sign of it? He has been drunk, once or twice, perhaps,--and has done
fearful things."

"It might be that he would do fearful things to me."

"You never knew a man with a softer heart or with a finer spirit. I
believe as I sit here that if he were married to-morrow, his vices
would fall from him like old clothes."

"You will admit, Laura, that there will be some risk for the wife."

"Of course there will be a risk. Is there not always a risk?"

"The men in the city would call this double-dangerous, I think," said
Violet. Then the door was opened, and the man of whom they were
speaking entered the room.




CHAPTER XI

Lord Chiltern


The reader has been told that Lord Chiltern was a red man, and that
peculiarity of his personal appearance was certainly the first to
strike a stranger. It imparted a certain look of ferocity to him,
which was apt to make men afraid of him at first sight. Women are not
actuated in the same way, and are accustomed to look deeper into men
at the first sight than other men will trouble themselves to do. His
beard was red, and was clipped, so as to have none of the softness of
waving hair. The hair on his head also was kept short, and was very
red,--and the colour of his face was red. Nevertheless he was a
handsome man, with well-cut features, not tall, but very strongly
built, and with a certain curl in the corner of his eyelids which
gave to him a look of resolution,--which perhaps he did not possess.
He was known to be a clever man, and when very young had had
the reputation of being a scholar. When he was three-and-twenty
grey-haired votaries of the turf declared that he would make his
fortune on the race-course,--so clear-headed was he as to odds, so
excellent a judge of a horse's performances, and so gifted with a
memory of events. When he was five-and-twenty he had lost every
shilling of a fortune of his own, had squeezed from his father more
than his father ever chose to name in speaking of his affairs to
any one, and was known to be in debt. But he had sacrificed himself
on one or two memorable occasions in conformity with turf laws of
honour, and men said of him, either that he was very honest or very
chivalric,--in accordance with the special views on the subject of
the man who was speaking. It was reported now that he no longer owned
horses on the turf;--but this was doubted by some who could name
the animals which they said that he owned, and which he ran in the
name of Mr. Macnab,--said some; of Mr. Pardoe,--said others; of Mr.
Chickerwick,--said a third set of informants. The fact was that Lord
Chiltern at this moment had no interest of his own in any horse upon
the turf.

But all the world knew that he drank. He had taken by the throat
a proctor's bull-dog when he had been drunk at Oxford, had nearly
strangled the man, and had been expelled. He had fallen through his
violence into some terrible misfortune at Paris, had been brought
before a public judge, and his name and his infamy had been made
notorious in every newspaper in the two capitals. After that he had
fought a ruffian at Newmarket, and had really killed him with his
fists. In reference to this latter affray it had been proved that the
attack had been made on him, that he had not been to blame, and that
he had not been drunk. After a prolonged investigation he had come
forth from that affair without disgrace. He would have done so, at
least, if he had not been heretofore disgraced. But we all know how
the man well spoken of may steal a horse, while he who is of evil
repute may not look over a hedge. It was asserted widely by many who
were supposed to know all about everything that Lord Chiltern was in
a fit of delirium tremens when he killed the ruffian at Newmarket.
The worst of that latter affair was that it produced the total
estrangement which now existed between Lord Brentford and his son.
Lord Brentford would not believe that his son was in that matter
more sinned against than sinning. "Such things do not happen to
other men's sons," he said, when Lady Laura pleaded for her brother.
Lady Laura could not induce her father to see his son, but so far
prevailed that no sentence of banishment was pronounced against
Lord Chiltern. There was nothing to prevent the son sitting at
his father's table if he so pleased. He never did so please,--but
nevertheless he continued to live in the house in Portman Square;
and when he met the Earl, in the hall, perhaps, or on the staircase,
would simply bow to him. Then the Earl would bow again, and shuffle
on,--and look very wretched, as no doubt he was. A grown-up son must
be the greatest comfort a man can have,--if he be his father's best
friend; but otherwise he can hardly be a comfort. As it was in this
house, the son was a constant thorn in his father's side.

"What does he do when we leave London?" Lord Brentford once said to
his daughter.

"He stays here, papa."

"But he hunts still?"

"Yes, he hunts,--and he has a room somewhere at an inn,--down in
Northamptonshire. But he is mostly in London. They have trains on
purpose."

"What a life for my son!" said the Earl. "What a life! Of course no
decent person will let him into his house." Lady Laura did not know
what to say to this, for in truth Lord Chiltern was not fond of
staying at the houses of persons whom the Earl would have called
decent.

General Effingham, the father of Violet, and Lord Brentford had been
the closest and dearest of friends. They had been young men in the
same regiment, and through life each had confided in the other. When
the General's only son, then a youth of seventeen, was killed in
one of our grand New Zealand wars, the bereaved father and the Earl
had been together for a month in their sorrow. At that time Lord
Chiltern's career had still been open to hope,--and the one man had
contrasted his lot with the other. General Effingham lived long
enough to hear the Earl declare that his lot was the happier of the
two. Now the General was dead, and Violet, the daughter of a second
wife, was all that was left of the Effinghams. This second wife had
been a Miss Plummer, a lady from the city with much money, whose
sister had married Lord Baldock. Violet in this way had fallen to the
care of the Baldock people, and not into the hands of her father's
friends. But, as the reader will have surmised, she had ideas of her
own of emancipating herself from Baldock thraldom.

Twice before that last terrible affair at Newmarket, before the
quarrel between the father and the son had been complete, Lord
Brentford had said a word to his daughter,--merely a word,--of his
son in connection with Miss Effingham.

"If he thinks of it I shall be glad to see him on the subject. You
may tell him so." That had been the first word. He had just then
resolved that the affair in Paris should be regarded as condoned,--as
among the things to be forgotten. "She is too good for him; but if he
asks her let him tell her everything." That had been the second word,
and had been spoken immediately subsequent to a payment of twelve
thousand pounds made by the Earl towards the settlement of certain
Doncaster accounts. Lady Laura in negotiating for the money had
been very eloquent in describing some honest,--or shall we say
chivalric,--sacrifice which had brought her brother into this special
difficulty. Since that the Earl had declined to interest himself in
his son's matrimonial affairs; and when Lady Laura had once again
mentioned the matter, declaring her belief that it would be the means
of saving her brother Oswald, the Earl had desired her to be silent.
"Would you wish to destroy the poor child?" he had said. Nevertheless
Lady Laura felt sure that if she were to go to her father with a
positive statement that Oswald and Violet were engaged, he would
relent and would accept Violet as his daughter. As for the payment of
Lord Chiltern's present debts;--she had a little scheme of her own
about that.

Miss Effingham, who had been already two days in Portman Square, had
not as yet seen Lord Chiltern. She knew that he lived in the house,
that is, that he slept there, and probably eat his breakfast in some
apartment of his own;--but she knew also that the habits of the house
would not by any means make it necessary that they should meet. Laura
and her brother probably saw each other daily,--but they never went
into society together, and did not know the same sets of people.
When she had announced to Lady Baldock her intention of spending the
first fortnight of her London season with her friend Lady Laura,
Lady Baldock had as a matter of course--"jumped upon her," as Miss
Effingham would herself call it.

"You are going to the house of the worst reprobate in all England,"
said Lady Baldock.

"What;--dear old Lord Brentford, whom papa loved so well!"

"I mean Lord Chiltern, who, only last year,--murdered a man!"

"That is not true, aunt."

"There is worse than that,--much worse. He is always--tipsy, and
always gambling, and always-- But it is quite unfit that I should
speak a word more to you about such a man as Lord Chiltern. His name
ought never to be mentioned."

"Then why did you mention it, aunt?"

Lady Baldock's process of jumping upon her niece,--in which I think
the aunt had generally the worst of the exercise,--went on for some
time, but Violet of course carried her point.

"If she marries him there will be an end of everything," said Lady
Baldock to her daughter Augusta.

"She has more sense than that, mamma," said Augusta.

"I don't think she has any sense at all," said Lady Baldock;--"not in
the least. I do wish my poor sister had lived;--I do indeed."

Lord Chiltern was now in the room with Violet,--immediately upon that
conversation between Violet and his sister as to the expediency of
Violet becoming his wife. Indeed his entrance had interrupted the
conversation before it was over. "I am so glad to see you, Miss
Effingham," he said. "I came in thinking that I might find you."

"Here I am, as large as life," she said, getting up from her
corner on the sofa and giving him her hand. "Laura and I have been
discussing the affairs of the nation for the last two days, and have
nearly brought our discussion to an end." She could not help looking,
first at his eye and then at his hand, not as wanting evidence to
the truth of the statement which his sister had made, but because
the idea of a drunkard's eye and a drunkard's hand had been brought
before her mind. Lord Chiltern's hand was like the hand of any other
man, but there was something in his eye that almost frightened her.
It looked as though he would not hesitate to wring his wife's neck
round, if ever he should be brought to threaten to do so. And then
his eye, like the rest of him, was red. No;--she did not think that
she could ever bring herself to marry him. Why take a venture that
was double-dangerous, when there were so many ventures open to her,
apparently with very little of danger attached to them? "If it should
ever be said that I loved him, I would do it all the same," she said
to herself.

"If I did not come and see you here, I suppose that I should never
see you," said he, seating himself. "I do not often go to parties,
and when I do you are not likely to be there."

"We might make our little arrangements for meeting," said she,
laughing. "My aunt, Lady Baldock, is going to have an evening next
week."

"The servants would be ordered to put me out of the house."

"Oh no. You can tell her that I invited you."

"I don't think that Oswald and Lady Baldock are great friends," said
Lady Laura.

"Or he might come and take you and me to the Zoo on Sunday. That's
the proper sort of thing for a brother and a friend to do."

"I hate that place in the Regent's Park," said Lord Chiltern.

"When were you there last?" demanded Miss Effingham.

"When I came home once from Eton. But I won't go again till I can
come home from Eton again." Then he altered his tone as he continued
to speak. "People would look at me as if I were the wildest beast in
the whole collection."

"Then," said Violet, "if you won't go to Lady Baldock's or to the
Zoo, we must confine ourselves to Laura's drawing-room;--unless,
indeed, you like to take me to the top of the Monument."

"I'll take you to the top of the Monument with pleasure."

"What do you say, Laura?"

"I say that you are a foolish girl," said Lady Laura, "and that I
will have nothing to do with such a scheme."

"Then there is nothing for it but that you should come here; and as
you live in the house, and as I am sure to be here every morning,
and as you have no possible occupation for your time, and as we have
nothing particular to do with ours,--I daresay I shan't see you again
before I go to my aunt's in Berkeley Square."

"Very likely not," he said.

"And why not, Oswald?" asked his sister.

He passed his hand over his face before he answered her. "Because she
and I run in different grooves now, and are not such meet playfellows
as we used to be once. Do you remember my taking you away right
through Saulsby Wood once on the old pony, and not bringing you back
till tea-time, and Miss Blink going and telling my father?"

"Do I remember it? I think it was the happiest day in my life. His
pockets were crammed full of gingerbread and Everton toffy, and we
had three bottles of lemonade slung on to the pony's saddlebows. I
thought it was a pity that we should ever come back."

"It was a pity," said Lord Chiltern.

"But, nevertheless, substantially necessary," said Lady Laura.

"Failing our power of reproducing the toffy, I suppose it was," said
Violet.

"You were not Miss Effingham then," said Lord Chiltern.

"No,--not as yet. These disagreeable realities of life grow upon
one; do they not? You took off my shoes and dried them for me at a
woodman's cottage. I am obliged to put up with my maid's doing those
things now. And Miss Blink the mild is changed for Lady Baldock the
martinet. And if I rode about with you in a wood all day I should
be sent to Coventry instead of to bed. And so you see everything is
changed as well as my name."

"Everything is not changed," said Lord Chiltern, getting up from
his seat. "I am not changed,--at least not in this, that as I loved
you better than any being in the world,--better even than Laura
there,--so do I love you now infinitely the best of all. Do not look
so surprised at me. You knew it before as well as you do now;--and
Laura knows it. There is no secret to be kept in the matter among us
three."

"But, Lord Chiltern,--" said Miss Effingham, rising also to her feet,
and then pausing, not knowing how to answer him. There had been a
suddenness in his mode of addressing her which had, so to say, almost
taken away her breath; and then to be told by a man of his love
before his sister was in itself, to her, a matter so surprising, that
none of those words came at her command which will come, as though by
instinct, to young ladies on such occasions.

"You have known it always," said he, as though he were angry with
her.

"Lord Chiltern," she replied, "you must excuse me if I say that you
are, at the least, very abrupt. I did not think when I was going back
so joyfully to our childish days that you would turn the tables on me
in this way."

"He has said nothing that ought to make you angry," said Lady Laura.

"Only because he has driven me to say that which will make me appear
to be uncivil to himself. Lord Chiltern, I do not love you with that
love of which you are speaking now. As an old friend I have always
regarded you, and I hope that I may always do so." Then she got up
and left the room.

"Why were you so sudden with her,--so abrupt,--so loud?" said his
sister, coming up to him and taking him by the arm almost in anger.

"It would make no difference," said he. "She does not care for me."

"It makes all the difference in the world," said Lady Laura. "Such
a woman as Violet cannot be had after that fashion. You must begin
again."

"I have begun and ended," he said.

"That is nonsense. Of course you will persist. It was madness to
speak in that way to-day. You may be sure of this, however, that
there is no one she likes better than you. You must remember that you
have done much to make any girl afraid of you."

"I do remember it."

"Do something now to make her fear you no longer. Speak to her
softly. Tell her of the sort of life which you would live with her.
Tell her that all is changed. As she comes to love you, she will
believe you when she would believe no one else on that matter."

"Am I to tell her a lie?" said Lord Chiltern, looking his sister full
in the face. Then he turned upon his heel and left her.




CHAPTER XII

Autumnal Prospects


The session went on very calmly after the opening battle which ousted
Lord de Terrier and sent Mr. Mildmay back to the Treasury,--so calmly
that Phineas Finn was unconsciously disappointed, as lacking that
excitement of contest to which he had been introduced in the first
days of his parliamentary career. From time to time certain waspish
attacks were made by Mr. Daubeny, now on this Secretary of State and
now on that; but they were felt by both parties to mean nothing; and
as no great measure was brought forward, nothing which would serve
by the magnitude of its interests to divide the liberal side of the
House into fractions, Mr. Mildmay's Cabinet was allowed to hold its
own in comparative peace and quiet. It was now July,--the middle of
July,--and the member for Loughshane had not yet addressed the House.
How often had he meditated doing so; how he had composed his speeches
walking round the Park on his way down to the House; how he got his
subjects up,--only to find on hearing them discussed that he really
knew little or nothing about them; how he had his arguments and
almost his very words taken out of his mouth by some other member;
and lastly, how he had actually been deterred from getting upon his
legs by a certain tremor of blood round his heart when the moment
for rising had come,--of all this he never said a word to any man.
Since that last journey to county Mayo, Laurence Fitzgibbon had been
his most intimate friend, but he said nothing of all this even to
Laurence Fitzgibbon. To his other friend, Lady Laura Standish, he did
explain something of his feelings, not absolutely describing to her
the extent of hindrance to which his modesty had subjected him, but
letting her know that he had his qualms as well as his aspirations.
But as Lady Laura always recommended patience, and more than once
expressed her opinion that a young member would be better to sit
in silence at least for one session, he was not driven to the
mortification of feeling that he was incurring her contempt by his
bashfulness. As regarded the men among whom he lived, I think he was
almost annoyed at finding that no one seemed to expect that he should
speak. Barrington Erle, when he had first talked of sending Phineas
down to Loughshane, had predicted for him all manner of parliamentary
successes, and had expressed the warmest admiration of the manner in
which Phineas had discussed this or that subject at the Union. "We
have not above one or two men in the House who can do that kind of
thing," Barrington Erle had once said. But now no allusions whatever
were made to his powers of speech, and Phineas in his modest moments
began to be more amazed than ever that he should find himself seated
in that chamber.

To the forms and technicalities of parliamentary business he did give
close attention, and was unremitting in his attendance. On one or two
occasions he ventured to ask a question of the Speaker, and as the
words of experience fell into his ears, he would tell himself that
he was going through his education,--that he was learning to be a
working member, and perhaps to be a statesman. But his regrets with
reference to Mr. Low and the dingy chambers in Old Square were very
frequent; and had it been possible for him to undo all that he had
done, he would often have abandoned to some one else the honour of
representing the electors of Loughshane.

But he was supported in all his difficulties by the kindness of his
friend, Lady Laura Standish. He was often in the house in Portman
Square, and was always received with cordiality, and, as he thought,
almost with affection. She would sit and talk to him, sometimes
saying a word about her brother and sometimes about her father, as
though there were more between them than the casual intimacy of
London acquaintance. And in Portman Square he had been introduced to
Miss Effingham, and had found Miss Effingham to be--very nice. Miss
Effingham had quite taken to him, and he had danced with her at two
or three parties, talking always, as he did so, about Lady Laura
Standish.

"I declare, Laura, I think your friend Mr. Finn is in love with you,"
said Violet to Lady Laura one night.

"I don't think that. He is fond of me, and so am I of him. He is
so honest, and so naïve without being awkward! And then he is
undoubtedly clever."

"And so uncommonly handsome," said Violet.

"I don't know that that makes much difference," said Lady Laura.

"I think it does if a man looks like a gentleman as well."

"Mr. Finn certainly looks like a gentleman," said Lady Laura.

"And no doubt is one," said Violet. "I wonder whether he has got any
money."

"Not a penny, I should say."

"How does such a man manage to live? There are so many men like that,
and they are always mysteries to me. I suppose he'll have to marry an
heiress."

"Whoever gets him will not have a bad husband," said Lady Laura
Standish.

Phineas during the summer had very often met Mr. Kennedy. They sat
on the same side of the House, they belonged to the same club, they
dined together more than once in Portman Square, and on one occasion
Phineas had accepted an invitation to dinner sent to him by Mr.
Kennedy himself. "A slower affair I never saw in my life," he said
afterwards to Laurence Fitzgibbon. "Though there were two or three
men there who talk everywhere else, they could not talk at his
table." "He gave you good wine, I should say," said Fitzgibbon, "and
let me tell you that that covers a multitude of sins." In spite,
however, of all these opportunities for intimacy, now, nearly at
the end of the session, Phineas had hardly spoken a dozen words to
Mr. Kennedy, and really knew nothing whatsoever of the man, as one
friend,--or even as one acquaintance knows another. Lady Laura had
desired him to be on good terms with Mr. Kennedy, and for that reason
he had dined with him. Nevertheless he disliked Mr. Kennedy, and felt
quite sure that Mr. Kennedy disliked him. He was therefore rather
surprised when he received the following note:--


   Albany, Z 3, July 17, 186--.

   MY DEAR MR. FINN,

   I shall have some friends at Loughlinter next month, and
   should be very glad if you will join us. I will name the
   16th August. I don't know whether you shoot, but there are
   grouse and deer.

   Yours truly,

   ROBERT KENNEDY.


What was he to do? He had already begun to feel rather uncomfortable
at the prospect of being separated from all his new friends as soon
as the session should be over. Laurence Fitzgibhon had asked him to
make another visit to county Mayo, but that he had declined. Lady
Laura had said something to him about going abroad with her brother,
and since that there had sprung up a sort of intimacy between him and
Lord Chiltern; but nothing had been fixed about this foreign trip,
and there were pecuniary objections to it which put it almost out of
his power. The Christmas holidays he would of course pass with his
family at Killaloe, but he hardly liked the idea of hurrying off to
Killaloe immediately the session should be over. Everybody around
him seemed to be looking forward to pleasant leisure doings in the
country. Men talked about grouse, and of the ladies at the houses to
which they were going and of the people whom they were to meet. Lady
Laura had said nothing of her own movements for the early autumn, and
no invitation had come to him to go to the Earl's country house. He
had already felt that every one would depart and that he would be
left,--and this had made him uncomfortable. What was he to do with
the invitation from Mr. Kennedy? He disliked the man, and had told
himself half a dozen times that he despised him. Of course he must
refuse it. Even for the sake of the scenery, and the grouse, and the
pleasant party, and the feeling that going to Loughlinter in August
would be the proper sort of thing to do, he must refuse it! But it
occurred to him at last that he would call in Portman Square before
he wrote his note.

"Of course you will go," said Lady Laura, in her most decided tone.

"And why?"

"In the first place it is civil in him to ask you, and why should you
be uncivil in return?"

"There is nothing uncivil in not accepting a man's invitation," said
Phineas.

"We are going," said Lady Laura, "and I can only say that I shall be
disappointed if you do not go too. Both Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk will
be there, and I believe they have never stayed together in the same
house before. I have no doubt there are a dozen men on your side of
the House who would give their eyes to be there. Of course you will
go."

Of course he did go. The note accepting Mr. Kennedy's invitation was
written at the Reform Club within a quarter of an hour of his leaving
Portman Square. He was very careful in writing to be not more
familiar or more civil than Mr. Kennedy had been to himself, and
then he signed himself "Yours truly, Phineas Finn." But another
proposition was made to him, and a most charming proposition, during
the few minutes that he remained in Portman Square. "I am so glad,"
said Lady Laura, "because I can now ask you to run down to us at
Saulsby for a couple of days on your way to Loughlinter. Till this
was fixed I couldn't ask you to come all the way to Saulsby for two
days; and there won't be room for more between our leaving London
and starting to Loughlinter." Phineas swore that he would have gone
if it had been but for one hour, and if Saulsby had been twice the
distance. "Very well; come on the 13th and go on the 15th. You must
go on the 15th, unless you choose to stay with the housekeeper.
And remember, Mr. Finn, we have got no grouse at Saulsby." Phineas
declared that he did not care a straw for grouse.

There was another little occurrence which happened before Phineas
left London, and which was not altogether so charming as his
prospects at Saulsby and Loughlinter. Early in August, when the
session was still incomplete, he dined with Laurence Fitzgibbon at
the Reform Club. Laurence had specially invited him to do so, and
made very much of him on the occasion. "By George, my dear fellow,"
Laurence said to him that morning, "nothing has happened to me this
session that has given me so much pleasure as your being in the
House. Of course there are fellows with whom one is very intimate and
of whom one is very fond,--and all that sort of thing. But most of
these Englishmen on our side are such cold fellows; or else they are
like Ratler and Barrington Erle, thinking of nothing but politics.
And then as to our own men, there are so many of them one can hardly
trust! That's the truth of it. Your being in the House has been such
a comfort to me!" Phineas, who really liked his friend Laurence,
expressed himself very warmly in answer to this, and became
affectionate, and made sundry protestations of friendship which were
perfectly sincere. Their sincerity was tested after dinner, when
Fitzgibbon, as they two were seated on a sofa in the corner of the
smoking-room, asked Phineas to put his name to the back of a bill for
two hundred and fifty pounds at six months' date.

"But, my dear Laurence," said Phineas, "two hundred and fifty pounds
is a sum of money utterly beyond my reach."

"Exactly, my dear boy, and that's why I've come to you. D'ye think
I'd have asked anybody who by any impossibility might have been made
to pay anything for me?"

"But what's the use of it then?"

"All the use in the world. It's for me to judge of the use, you know.
Why, d'ye think I'd ask it if it wasn't any use? I'll make it of use,
my boy. And take my word, you'll never hear about it again. It's just
a forestalling of my salary; that's all. I wouldn't do it till I saw
that we were at least safe for six months to come." Then Phineas Finn
with many misgivings, with much inward hatred of himself for his own
weakness, did put his name on the back of the bill which Laurence
Fitzgibbon had prepared for his signature.




CHAPTER XIII

Saulsby Wood


"So you won't come to Moydrum again?" said Laurence Fitzgibbon to his
friend.

"Not this autumn, Laurence. Your father would think that I want to
live there."

"Bedad, it's my father would be glad to see you,--and the oftener the
better."

"The fact is, my time is filled up."

"You're not going to be one of the party at Loughlinter?"

"I believe I am. Kennedy asked me, and people seem to think that
everybody is to do what he bids them."

"I should think so too. I wish he had asked me. I should have thought
it as good as a promise of an under-secretaryship. All the Cabinet
are to be there. I don't suppose he ever had an Irishman in his house
before. When do you start?"

"Well;--on the 12th or 13th. I believe I shall go to Saulsby on my
way."

"The devil you will. Upon my word, Phineas, my boy, you're the
luckiest fellow I know. This is your first year, and you're asked to
the two most difficult houses in England. You have only to look out
for an heiress now. There is little Vi Effingham;--she is sure to be
at Saulsby. Good-bye, old fellow. Don't you be in the least unhappy
about the bill. I'll see to making that all right."

Phineas was rather unhappy about the bill; but there was so much that
was pleasant in his cup at the present moment, that he resolved, as
far as possible, to ignore the bitter of that one ingredient. He was
a little in the dark as to two or three matters respecting these
coming visits. He would have liked to have taken a servant with him;
but he had no servant, and felt ashamed to hire one for the occasion.
And then he was in trouble about a gun, and the paraphernalia of
shooting. He was not a bad shot at snipe in the bogs of county Clare,
but he had never even seen a gun used in England. However, he bought
himself a gun,--with other paraphernalia, and took a license for
himself, and then groaned over the expense to which he found that his
journey would subject him. And at last he hired a servant for the
occasion. He was intensely ashamed of himself when he had done so,
hating himself, and telling himself that he was going to the devil
headlong. And why had he done it? Not that Lady Laura would like him
the better, or that she would care whether he had a servant or not.
She probably would know nothing of his servant. But the people about
her would know, and he was foolishly anxious that the people about
her should think that he was worthy of her.

Then he called on Mr. Low before he started. "I did not like to leave
London without seeing you," he said; "but I know you will have
nothing pleasant to say to me."

"I shall say nothing unpleasant certainly. I see your name in the
divisions, and I feel a sort of envy myself."

"Any fool could go into a lobby," said Phineas.

"To tell you the truth, I have been gratified to see that you have
had the patience to abstain from speaking till you had looked about
you. It was more than I expected from your hot Irish blood. Going
to meet Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk,--are you? Well, I hope you may
meet them in the Cabinet some day. Mind you come and see me when
Parliament meets in February."

Mrs. Bunce was delighted when she found that Phineas had hired a
servant; but Mr. Bunce predicted nothing but evil from so vain an
expense. "Don't tell me; where is it to come from? He ain't no
richer because he's in Parliament. There ain't no wages. M.P. and
M.T.,"--whereby Mr. Bunce, I fear, meant empty,--"are pretty much
alike when a man hasn't a fortune at his back." "But he's going to
stay with all the lords in the Cabinet," said Mrs. Bunce, to whom
Phineas, in his pride, had confided perhaps more than was necessary.
"Cabinet, indeed," said Bunce; "if he'd stick to chambers, and let
alone cabinets, he'd do a deal better. Given up his rooms, has
he,--till February? He don't expect we're going to keep them empty
for him!"

Phineas found that the house was full at Saulsby, although the
sojourn of the visitors would necessarily be so short. There
were three or four there on their way on to Loughlinter, like
himself,--Mr. Bonteen and Mr. Ratler, with Mr. Palliser, the
Chancellor of the Exchequer, and his wife,--and there was Violet
Effingham, who, however, was not going to Loughlinter. "No, indeed,"
she said to our hero, who on the first evening had the pleasure
of taking her in to dinner, "unfortunately I haven't a seat in
Parliament, and therefore I am not asked."

"Lady Laura is going."

"Yes;--but Lady Laura has a Cabinet Minister in her keeping. I've
only one comfort;--you'll be awfully dull."

"I daresay it would be very much nicer to stay here," said Phineas.

"If you want to know my real mind," said Violet, "I would give one of
my little fingers to go. There will be four Cabinet Ministers in the
house, and four un-Cabinet Ministers, and half a dozen other members
of Parliament, and there will be Lady Glencora Palliser, who is the
best fun in the world; and, in point of fact, it's the thing of the
year. But I am not asked. You see I belong to the Baldock faction,
and we don't sit on your side of the House. Mr. Kennedy thinks that I
should tell secrets."

Why on earth had Mr. Kennedy invited him, Phineas Finn, to meet four
Cabinet Ministers and Lady Glencora Palliser? He could only have done
so at the instance of Lady Laura Standish. It was delightful for
Phineas to think that Lady Laura cared for him so deeply; but it was
not equally delightful when he remembered how very close must be
the alliance between Mr. Kennedy and Lady Laura, when she was thus
powerful with him.

At Saulsby Phineas did not see much of his hostess. When they were
making their plans for the one entire day of this visit, she said a
soft word of apology to him. "I am so busy with all these people,
that I hardly know what I am doing. But we shall be able to find a
quiet minute or two at Loughlinter,--unless, indeed, you intend to
be on the mountains all day. I suppose you have brought a gun like
everybody else?"

"Yes;--I have brought a gun. I do shoot; but I am not an inveterate
sportsman."

On that one day there was a great riding party made up, and Phineas
found himself mounted, after luncheon, with some dozen other
equestrians. Among them were Miss Effingham and Lady Glencora, Mr.
Ratler and the Earl of Brentford himself. Lady Glencora, whose
husband was, as has been said, Chancellor of the Exchequer, and who
was still a young woman, and a very pretty woman, had taken lately
very strongly to politics, which she discussed among men and women
of both parties with something more than ordinary audacity. "What a
nice, happy, lazy time you've had of it since you've been in," said
she to the Earl.

"I hope we have been more happy than lazy," said the Earl.

"But you've done nothing. Mr. Palliser has twenty schemes of reform,
all mature; but among you you've not let him bring in one of them.
The Duke and Mr. Mildmay and you will break his heart among you."

"Poor Mr. Palliser!"

"The truth is, if you don't take care he and Mr. Monk and Mr. Gresham
will arise and shake themselves, and turn you all out."

"We must look to ourselves, Lady Glencora."

"Indeed, yes;--or you will be known to all posterity as the fainéant
government."

"Let me tell you, Lady Glencora, that a fainéant government is not
the worst government that England can have. It has been the great
fault of our politicians that they have all wanted to do something."

"Mr. Mildmay is at any rate innocent of that charge," said Lady
Glencora.

They were now riding through a vast wood, and Phineas found himself
delightfully established by the side of Violet Effingham. "Mr. Ratler
has been explaining to me that he must have nineteen next session.
Now, if I were you, Mr. Finn, I would decline to be counted up in
that way as one of Mr. Ratler's sheep."

"But what am I to do?"

"Do something on your own hook. You men in Parliament are so much
like sheep! If one jumps at a gap, all go after him,--and then you
are penned into lobbies, and then you are fed, and then you are
fleeced. I wish I were in Parliament. I'd get up in the middle and
make such a speech. You all seem to me to be so much afraid of one
another that you don't quite dare to speak out. Do you see that
cottage there?"

"What a pretty cottage it is!"

"Yes;--is it not? Twelve years ago I took off my shoes and stockings
and had them dried in that cottage, and when I got back to the house
I was put to bed for having been out all day in the wood."

"Were you wandering about alone?"

"No, I wasn't alone. Oswald Standish was with me. We were children
then. Do you know him?"

"Lord Chiltern;--yes, I know him. He and I have been rather friends
this year."

"He is very good;--is he not?"

"Good,--in what way?"

"Honest and generous!"

"I know no man whom I believe to be more so."

"And he is clever?" asked Miss Effingham.

"Very clever. That is, he talks very well if you will let him talk
after his own fashion. You would always fancy that he was going to
eat you;--but that is his way."

"And you like him?"

"Very much."

"I am so glad to hear you say so."

"Is he a favourite of yours, Miss Effingham?"

"Not now,--not particularly. I hardly ever see him. But his sister is
the best friend I have, and I used to like him so much when he was a
boy! I have not seen that cottage since that day, and I remember it
as though it were yesterday. Lord Chiltern is quite changed, is he
not?"

"Changed,--in what way?"

"They used to say that he was--unsteady you know."

"I think he is changed. But Chiltern is at heart a Bohemian. It is
impossible not to see that at once. He hates the decencies of life."

"I suppose he does," said Violet. "He ought to marry. If he were
married, that would all be cured;--don't you think so?"

"I cannot fancy him with a wife," said Phineas, "There is a savagery
about him which would make him an uncomfortable companion for a
woman."

"But he would love his wife?"

"Yes, as he does his horses. And he would treat her well,--as he does
his horses. But he expects every horse he has to do anything that any
horse can do; and he would expect the same of his wife."

Phineas had no idea how deep an injury he might be doing his friend
by this description, nor did it once occur to him that his companion
was thinking of herself as the possible wife of this Red Indian. Miss
Effingham rode on in silence for some distance, and then she said
but one word more about Lord Chiltern. "He was so good to me in that
cottage."

On the following day the party at Saulsby was broken up, and there
was a regular pilgrimage towards Loughlinter. Phineas resolved upon
sleeping a night at Edinburgh on his way, and he found himself joined
in the bands of close companionship with Mr. Ratler for the occasion.
The evening was by no means thrown away, for he learned much of his
trade from Mr. Ratler. And Mr. Ratler was heard to declare afterwards
at Loughlinter that Mr. Finn was a pleasant young man.

It soon came to be admitted by all who knew Phineas Finn that he had
a peculiar power of making himself agreeable which no one knew how to
analyse or define. "I think it is because he listens so well," said
one man. "But the women would not like him for that," said another.
"He has studied when to listen and when to talk," said a third. The
truth, however, was, that Phineas Finn had made no study in the
matter at all. It was simply his nature to be pleasant.




CHAPTER XIV

Loughlinter


Phineas Finn reached Loughlinter together with Mr. Ratler in a
post-chaise from the neighbouring town. Mr. Ratler, who had done this
kind of thing very often before, travelled without impediments, but
the new servant of our hero's was stuck outside with the driver, and
was in the way. "I never bring a man with me," said Mr. Ratler to his
young friend. "The servants of the house like it much better, because
they get fee'd; you are just as well waited on, and it don't cost
half as much." Phineas blushed as he heard all this; but there was
the impediment, not to be got rid of for the nonce, and Phineas made
the best of his attendant. "It's one of those points," said he, "as
to which a man never quite makes up his mind. If you bring a fellow,
you wish you hadn't brought him; and if you don't, you wish you had."
"I'm a great deal more decided in my ways that that," said Mr.
Ratler.

Loughlinter, as they approached it, seemed to Phineas to be a much
finer place than Saulsby. And so it was, except that Loughlinter
wanted that graceful beauty of age which Saulsby possessed.
Loughlinter was all of cut stone, but the stones had been cut only
yesterday. It stood on a gentle slope, with a greensward falling from
the front entrance down to a mountain lake. And on the other side of
the Lough there rose a mighty mountain to the skies, Ben Linter. At
the foot of it, and all round to the left, there ran the woods of
Linter, stretching for miles through crags and bogs and mountain
lands. No better ground for deer than the side of Ben Linter was
there in all those highlands. And the Linter, rushing down into the
Lough through rocks which, in some places, almost met together above
its waters, ran so near to the house that the pleasant noise of its
cataracts could be heard from the hall door. Behind the house the
expanse of drained park land seemed to be interminable; and then,
again, came the mountains. There were Ben Linn and Ben Lody;--and
the whole territory belonging to Mr. Kennedy. He was laird of Linn
and laird of Linter, as his people used to say. And yet his father
had walked into Glasgow as a little boy,--no doubt with the normal
half-crown in his breeches pocket.

"Magnificent;--is it not?" said Phineas to the Treasury Secretary,
as they were being driven up to the door.

"Very grand;--but the young trees show the new man. A new man may buy
a forest; but he can't get park trees."

Phineas, at the moment, was thinking how far all these things which
he saw, the mountains stretching everywhere around him, the castle,
the lake, the river, the wealth of it all, and, more than the wealth,
the nobility of the beauty, might act as temptations to Lady Laura
Standish. If a woman were asked to have the half of all this, would
it be possible that she should prefer to take the half of his
nothing? He thought it might be possible for a girl who would
confess, or seem to confess, that love should be everything. But it
could hardly be possible for a woman who looked at the world almost
as a man looked at it,--as an oyster to be opened with such weapon
as she could find ready to her hand. Lady Laura professed to have a
care for all the affairs of the world. She loved politics, and could
talk of social science, and had broad ideas about religion, and was
devoted to certain educational views. Such a woman would feel that
wealth was necessary to her, and would be willing, for the sake of
wealth, to put up with a husband without romance. Nay; might it not
be that she would prefer a husband without romance? Thus Phineas was
arguing to himself as he was driven up to the door of Loughlinter
Castle, while Mr. Ratler was eloquent on the beauty of old park
trees. "After all, a Scotch forest is a very scrubby sort of thing,"
said Mr. Ratler.

There was nobody in the house,--at least, they found nobody; and
within half an hour Phineas was walking about the grounds by himself.
Mr. Ratler had declared himself to be delighted at having an
opportunity of writing letters,--and no doubt was writing them by
the dozen, all dated from Loughlinter, and all detailing the facts
that Mr. Gresham, and Mr. Monk, and Plantagenet Palliser, and Lord
Brentford were in the same house with him. Phineas had no letters to
write, and therefore rushed down across the broad lawn to the river,
of which he heard the noisy tumbling waters. There was something in
the air which immediately filled him with high spirits; and, in his
desire to investigate the glories of the place, he forgot that he was
going to dine with four Cabinet Ministers in a row. He soon reached
the stream, and began to make his way up it through the ravine. There
was waterfall over waterfall, and there were little bridges here and
there which looked to be half natural and half artificial, and a path
which required that you should climb, but which was yet a path, and
all was so arranged that not a pleasant splashing rush of the waters
was lost to the visitor. He went on and on, up the stream, till there
was a sharp turn in the ravine, and then, looking upwards, he saw
above his head a man and a woman standing together on one of the
little half-made wooden bridges. His eyes were sharp, and he saw at a
glance that the woman was Lady Laura Standish. He had not recognised
the man, but he had very little doubt that it was Mr. Kennedy. Of
course it was Mr. Kennedy, because he would prefer that it should be
any other man under the sun. He would have turned back at once if he
had thought that he could have done so without being observed; but he
felt sure that, standing as they were, they must have observed him.
He did not like to join them. He would not intrude himself. So he
remained still, and began to throw stones into the river. But he had
not thrown above a stone or two when he was called from above. He
looked up, and then he perceived that the man who called him was his
host. Of course it was Mr. Kennedy. Thereupon he ceased to throw
stones, and went up the path, and joined them upon the bridge. Mr.
Kennedy stepped forward, and bade him welcome to Loughlinter. His
manner was less cold, and he seemed to have more words at command
than was usual with him. "You have not been long," he said, "in
finding out the most beautiful spot about the place."

"Is it not lovely?" said Laura. "We have not been here an hour yet,
and Mr. Kennedy insisted on bringing me here."

"It is wonderfully beautiful," said Phineas.

"It is this very spot where we now stand that made me build the house
where it is," said Mr. Kennedy, "and I was only eighteen when I stood
here and made up my mind. That is just twenty-five years ago." "So he
is forty-three," said Phineas to himself, thinking how glorious it
was to be only twenty-five. "And within twelve months," continued Mr.
Kennedy, "the foundations were being dug and the stone-cutters were
at work."

"What a good-natured man your father must have been," said Lady
Laura.

"He had nothing else to do with his money but to pour it over my
head, as it were. I don't think he had any other enjoyment of it
himself. Will you go a little higher, Lady Laura? We shall get a fine
view over to Ben Linn just now." Lady Laura declared that she would
go as much higher as he chose to take her, and Phineas was rather in
doubt as to what it would become him to do. He would stay where he
was, or go down, or make himself to vanish after any most acceptable
fashion; but if he were to do so abruptly it would seem as though he
were attributing something special to the companionship of the other
two. Mr. Kennedy saw his doubt, and asked him to join them. "You may
as well come on, Mr. Finn. We don't dine till eight, and it is not
much past six yet. The men of business are all writing letters, and
the ladies who have been travelling are in bed, I believe."

"Not all of them, Mr. Kennedy," said Lady Laura. Then they went
on with their walk very pleasantly, and the lord of all that they
surveyed took them from one point of vantage to another, till they
both swore that of all spots upon the earth Loughlinter was surely
the most lovely. "I do delight in it, I own," said the lord. "When
I come up here alone, and feel that in the midst of this little bit
of a crowded island I have all this to myself,--all this with which
no other man's wealth can interfere,--I grow proud of my own, till
I become thoroughly ashamed of myself. After all, I believe it is
better to dwell in cities than in the country,--better, at any rate,
for a rich man." Mr. Kennedy had now spoken more words than Phineas
had heard to fall from his lips during the whole time that they had
been acquainted with each other.

"I believe so too," said Laura, "if one were obliged to choose
between the two. For myself, I think that a little of both is good
for man and woman."

"There is no doubt about that," said Phineas.

"No doubt as far as enjoyment goes," said Mr. Kennedy.

He took them up out of the ravine on to the side of the mountain, and
then down by another path through the woods to the back of the house.
As they went he relapsed into his usual silence, and the conversation
was kept up between the other two. At a point not very far from the
castle,--just so far that one could see by the break of the ground
where the castle stood, Kennedy left them. "Mr. Finn will take you
back in safety, I am sure," said he, "and, as I am here, I'll go up
to the farm for a moment. If I don't show myself now and again when I
am here, they think I'm indifferent about the 'bestials'."

"Now, Mr. Kennedy," said Lady Laura, "you are going to pretend to
understand all about sheep and oxen." Mr. Kennedy, owning that it
was so, went away to his farm, and Phineas with Lady Laura returned
towards the house. "I think, upon the whole," said Lady Laura, "that
that is as good a man as I know."

"I should think he is an idle one," said Phineas.

"I doubt that. He is, perhaps, neither zealous nor active. But he is
thoughtful and high-principled, and has a method and a purpose in the
use which he makes of his money. And you see that he has poetry in
his nature too, if you get him upon the right string. How fond he is
of the scenery of this place!"

"Any man would be fond of that. I'm ashamed to say that it almost
makes me envy him. I certainly never have wished to be Mr. Robert
Kennedy in London, but I should like to be the Laird of Loughlinter."

"'Laird of Linn and Laird of Linter,--Here in summer, gone in
winter.' There is some ballad about the old lairds; but that belongs
to a time when Mr. Kennedy had not been heard of, when some branch of
the Mackenzies lived down at that wretched old tower which you see as
you first come upon the lake. When old Mr. Kennedy bought it there
were hardly a hundred acres on the property under cultivation."

"And it belonged to the Mackenzies."

"Yes;--to the Mackenzie of Linn, as he was called. It was Mr.
Kennedy, the old man, who was first called Loughlinter. That is
Linn Castle, and they lived there for hundreds of years. But these
Highlanders, with all that is said of their family pride, have
forgotten the Mackenzies already, and are quite proud of their rich
landlord."

"That is unpoetical," said Phineas.

"Yes;--but then poetry is so usually false. I doubt whether Scotland
would not have been as prosaic a country as any under the sun but for
Walter Scott;--and I have no doubt that Henry V owes the romance of
his character altogether to Shakspeare."

"I sometimes think you despise poetry," said Phineas.

"When it is false I do. The difficulty is to know when it is false
and when it is true. Tom Moore was always false."

"Not so false as Byron," said Phineas with energy.

"Much more so, my friend. But we will not discuss that now. Have you
seen Mr. Monk since you have been here?"

"I have seen no one. I came with Mr. Ratler."

"Why with Mr. Ratler? You cannot find Mr. Ratler a companion much to
your taste."

"Chance brought us together. But Mr. Ratler is a man of sense, Lady
Laura, and is not to be despised."

"It always seems to me," said Lady Laura, "that nothing is to be
gained in politics by sitting at the feet of the little Gamaliels."

"But the great Gamaliels will not have a novice on their footstools."

"Then sit at no man's feet. Is it not astonishing that the price
generally put upon any article by the world is that which the owner
puts on it?--and that this is specially true of a man's own self? If
you herd with Ratler, men will take it for granted that you are a
Ratlerite, and no more. If you consort with Greshams and Pallisers,
you will equally be supposed to know your own place."

"I never knew a Mentor," said Phineas, "so apt as you are to fill his
Telemachus with pride."

"It is because I do not think your fault lies that way. If it did,
or if I thought so, my Telemachus, you may be sure that I should
resign my position as Mentor. Here are Mr. Kennedy and Lady Glencora
and Mrs. Gresham on the steps." Then they went up through the Ionic
columns on to the broad stone terrace before the door, and there they
found a crowd of men and women. For the legislators and statesmen had
written their letters, and the ladies had taken their necessary rest.

Phineas, as he was dressing, considered deeply all that Lady Laura
had said to him,--not so much with reference to the advice which she
had given him, though that also was of importance, as to the fact
that it had been given by her. She had first called herself his
Mentor; but he had accepted the name and had addressed her as her
Telemachus. And yet he believed himself to be older than she,--if,
indeed, there was any difference in their ages. And was it possible
that a female Mentor should love her Telemachus,--should love him as
Phineas desired to be loved by Lady Laura? He would not say that it
was impossible. Perhaps there had been mistakes between them;--a
mistake in his manner of addressing her, and another in hers of
addressing him. Perhaps the old bachelor of forty-three was not
thinking of a wife. Had this old bachelor of forty-three been really
in love with Lady Laura, would he have allowed her to walk home alone
with Phineas, leaving her with some flimsy pretext of having to look
at his sheep? Phineas resolved that he must at any rate play out his
game,--whether he were to lose it or to win it; and in playing it he
must, if possible, drop something of that Mentor and Telemachus style
of conversation. As to the advice given him of herding with Greshams
and Pallisers, instead of with Ratlers and Fitzgibbons,--he must use
that as circumstances might direct. To him, himself, as he thought
of it all, it was sufficiently astonishing that even the Ratlers and
Fitzgibbons should admit him among them as one of themselves. "When
I think of my father and of the old house at Killaloe, and remember
that hitherto I have done nothing myself, I cannot understand how
it is that I should be at Loughlinter." There was only one way of
understanding it. If Lady Laura really loved him, the riddle might
be read.

The rooms at Loughlinter were splendid, much larger and very much
more richly furnished than those at Saulsby. But there was a certain
stiffness in the movement of things, and perhaps in the manner of
some of those present, which was not felt at Saulsby. Phineas at
once missed the grace and prettiness and cheery audacity of Violet
Effingham, and felt at the same time that Violet Effingham would be
out of her element at Loughlinter. At Loughlinter they were met for
business. It was at least a semi-political, or perhaps rather a
semi-official gathering, and he became aware that he ought not to
look simply for amusement. When he entered the drawing-room before
dinner, Mr. Monk and Mr. Palliser, and Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Gresham,
with sundry others, were standing in a wide group before the
fireplace, and among them were Lady Glencora Palliser and Lady Laura
and Mrs. Bonteen. As he approached them it seemed as though a sort
of opening was made for himself; but he could see, though others did
not, that the movement came from Lady Laura.

"I believe, Mr. Monk," said Lady Glencora, "that you and I are the
only two in the whole party who really know what we would be at."

"If I must be divided from so many of my friends," said Mr. Monk, "I
am happy to go astray in the company of Lady Glencora Palliser."

"And might I ask," said Mr. Gresham, with a peculiar smile for which
he was famous, "what it is that you and Mr. Monk are really at?"

"Making men and women all equal," said Lady Glencora. "That I take to
be the gist of our political theory."

"Lady Glencora, I must cry off," said Mr. Monk.

"Yes;--no doubt. If I were in the Cabinet myself I should not admit
so much. There are reticences,--of course. And there is an official
discretion."

"But you don't mean to say, Lady Glencora, that you would really
advocate equality?" said Mrs. Bonteen.

"I do mean to say so, Mrs. Bonteen. And I mean to go further, and to
tell you that you are no Liberal at heart unless you do so likewise;
unless that is the basis of your political aspirations."

"Pray let me speak for myself, Lady Glencora."

"By no means,--not when you are criticising me and my politics. Do
you not wish to make the lower orders comfortable?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Bonteen.

"And educated, and happy and good?"

"Undoubtedly."

"To make them as comfortable and as good as yourself?"

"Better if possible."

"And I'm sure you wish to make yourself as good and as comfortable as
anybody else,--as those above you, if anybody is above you? You will
admit that?"

"Yes;--if I understand you."

"Then you have admitted everything, and are an advocate for general
equality,--just as Mr. Monk is, and as I am. There is no getting out
of it;--is there, Mr. Kennedy?" Then dinner was announced, and Mr.
Kennedy walked off with the French Republican on his arm. As she
went, she whispered into Mr. Kennedy's ear, "You will understand
me. I am not saying that people are equal; but that the tendency
of all law-making and of all governing should be to reduce the
inequalities." In answer to which Mr. Kennedy said not a word. Lady
Glencora's politics were too fast and furious for his nature.

A week passed by at Loughlinter, at the end of which Phineas found
himself on terms of friendly intercourse with all the political
magnates assembled in the house, but especially with Mr. Monk. He had
determined that he would not follow Lady Laura's advice as to his
selection of companions, if in doing so he should be driven even to
a seeming of intrusion. He made no attempt to sit at the feet of
anybody, and would stand aloof when bigger men than himself were
talking, and was content to be less,--as indeed he was less,--than
Mr. Bonteen or Mr. Ratler. But at the end of a week he found that,
without any effort on his part,--almost in opposition to efforts on
his part,--he had fallen into an easy pleasant way with these men
which was very delightful to him. He had killed a stag in company
with Mr. Palliser, and had stopped beneath a crag to discuss with him
a question as to the duty on Irish malt. He had played chess with Mr.
Gresham, and had been told that gentleman's opinion on the trial of
Mr. Jefferson Davis. Lord Brentford had--at last--called him Finn,
and had proved to him that nothing was known in Ireland about sheep.
But with Mr. Monk he had had long discussions on abstract questions
in politics,--and before the week was over was almost disposed to
call himself a disciple, or, at least, a follower of Mr. Monk. Why
not of Mr. Monk as well as of any one else? Mr. Monk was in the
Cabinet, and of all the members of the Cabinet was the most advanced
Liberal. "Lady Glencora was not so far wrong the other night," Mr.
Monk said to him. "Equality is an ugly word and shouldn't be used. It
misleads, and frightens, and is a bugbear. And she, in using it, had
not perhaps a clearly defined meaning for it in her own mind. But
the wish of every honest man should be to assist in lifting up those
below him, till they be something nearer his own level than he finds
them." To this Phineas assented,--and by degrees he found himself
assenting to a great many things that Mr. Monk said to him.

Mr. Monk was a thin, tall, gaunt man, who had devoted his whole life
to politics, hitherto without any personal reward beyond that which
came to him from the reputation of his name, and from the honour of
a seat in Parliament. He was one of four or five brothers,--and all
besides him were in trade. They had prospered in trade, whereas he
had prospered solely in politics; and men said that he was dependent
altogether on what his relatives supplied for his support. He had now
been in Parliament for more than twenty years, and had been known not
only as a Radical but as a Democrat. Ten years since, when he had
risen to fame, but not to repute, among the men who then governed
England, nobody dreamed that Joshua Monk would ever be a paid servant
of the Crown. He had inveighed against one minister after another
as though they all deserved impeachment. He had advocated political
doctrines which at that time seemed to be altogether at variance
with any possibility of governing according to English rules of
government. He had been regarded as a pestilent thorn in the sides of
all ministers. But now he was a member of the Cabinet, and those whom
he had terrified in the old days began to find that he was not so
much unlike other men. There are but few horses which you cannot put
into harness, and those of the highest spirit will generally do your
work the best.

Phineas, who had his eyes about him, thought that he could perceive
that Mr. Palliser did not shoot a deer with Mr. Ratler, and that Mr.
Gresham played no chess with Mr. Bonteen. Bonteen, indeed, was a
noisy pushing man whom nobody seemed to like, and Phineas wondered
why he should be at Loughlinter, and why he should be in office. His
friend Laurence Fitzgibbon had indeed once endeavoured to explain
this. "A man who can vote hard, as I call it; and who will speak a
few words now and then as they're wanted, without any ambition that
way, may always have his price. And if he has a pretty wife into the
bargain, he ought to have a pleasant time of it." Mr. Ratler no doubt
was a very useful man, who thoroughly knew his business; but yet,
as it seemed to Phineas, no very great distinction was shown to
Mr. Ratler at Loughlinter. "If I got as high as that," he said to
himself, "I should think myself a miracle of luck. And yet nobody
seems to think anything of Ratler. It is all nothing unless one can
go to the very top."

"I believe I did right to accept office," Mr. Monk said to him one
day, as they sat together on a rock close by one of the little
bridges over the Linter. "Indeed, unless a man does so when the bonds
of the office tendered to him are made compatible with his own views,
he declines to proceed on the open path towards the prosecution of
those views. A man who is combating one ministry after another, and
striving to imbue those ministers with his convictions, can hardly
decline to become a minister himself when he finds that those
convictions of his own are henceforth,--or at least for some time to
come,--to be the ministerial convictions of the day. Do you follow
me?"

"Very clearly," said Phineas. "You would have denied your own
children had you refused."

"Unless indeed a man were to feel that he was in some way unfitted
for office work. I very nearly provided for myself an escape on that
plea;--but when I came to sift it, I thought that it would be false.
But let me tell you that the delight of political life is altogether
in opposition. Why, it is freedom against slavery, fire against clay,
movement against stagnation! The very inaccuracy which is permitted
to opposition is in itself a charm worth more than all the patronage
and all the prestige of ministerial power. You'll try them both, and
then say if you do not agree with me. Give me the full swing of the
benches below the gangway, where I needed to care for no one, and
could always enjoy myself on my legs as long as I felt that I was
true to those who sent me there! That is all over now. They have got
me into harness, and my shoulders are sore. The oats, however, are of
the best, and the hay is unexceptionable."




CHAPTER XV

Donald Bean's Pony


Phineas liked being told that the pleasures of opposition and the
pleasures of office were both open to him,--and he liked also to
be the chosen receptacle of Mr. Monk's confidence. He had come to
understand that he was expected to remain ten days at Loughlinter,
and that then there was to be a general movement. Since the first day
he had seen but little of Mr. Kennedy, but he had found himself very
frequently with Lady Laura. And then had come up the question of his
projected trip to Paris with Lord Chiltern. He had received a letter
from Lord Chiltern.


   DEAR FINN,

   Are you going to Paris with me?

   Yours, C.


There had been not a word beyond this, and before he answered it he
made up his mind to tell Lady Laura the truth. He could not go to
Paris because he had no money.

"I've just got that from your brother," said he.

"How like Oswald. He writes to me perhaps three times in the year,
and his letters are just the same. You will go I hope?"

"Well;--no."

"I am sorry for that."

"I wonder whether I may tell you the real reason, Lady Laura."

"Nay;--I cannot answer that; but unless it be some political secret
between you and Mr. Monk, I should think you might."

"I cannot afford to go to Paris this autumn. It seems to be a
shocking admission to make,--though I don't know why it should be."

"Nor I;--but, Mr. Finn, I like you all the better for making it. I
am very sorry, for Oswald's sake. It's so hard to find any companion
for him whom he would like and whom we,--that is I,--should think
altogether--; you know what I mean, Mr. Finn."

"Your wish that I should go with him is a great compliment, and I
thoroughly wish that I could do it. As it is, I must go to Killaloe
and retrieve my finances. I daresay, Lady Laura, you can hardly
conceive how very poor a man I am." There was a melancholy tone
about his voice as he said this, which made her think for the moment
whether or no he had been right in going into Parliament, and whether
she had been right in instigating him to do so. But it was too late
to recur to that question now.

"You must climb into office early, and forego those pleasures of
opposition which are so dear to Mr. Monk," she said, smiling. "After
all, money is an accident which does not count nearly so high as do
some other things. You and Mr. Kennedy have the same enjoyment of
everything around you here."

"Yes; while it lasts."

"And Lady Glencora and I stand pretty much on the same footing, in
spite of all her wealth,--except that she is a married woman. I do
not know what she is worth,--something not to be counted; and I am
worth,--just what papa chooses to give me. A ten-pound note at the
present moment I should look upon as great riches." This was the
first time she had ever spoken to him of her own position as regards
money; but he had heard, or thought that he had heard, that she had
been left a fortune altogether independent of her father.

The last of the ten days had now come, and Phineas was discontented
and almost unhappy. The more he saw of Lady Laura the more he feared
that it was impossible that she should become his wife. And yet from
day to day his intimacy with her became more close. He had never made
love to her, nor could he discover that it was possible for him to
do so. She seemed to be a woman for whom all the ordinary stages of
love-making were quite unsuitable, Of course he could declare his
love and ask her to be his wife on any occasion on which he might
find himself to be alone with her. And on this morning he had made
up his mind that he would do so before the day was over. It might
be possible that she would never speak to him again;--that all the
pleasures and ambitious hopes to which she had introduced him might
be over as soon as that rash word should have been spoken! But,
nevertheless, he would speak it.

On this day there was to be a grouse-shooting party, and the shooters
were to be out early. It had been talked of for some day or two past,
and Phineas knew that he could not escape it. There had been some
rivalry between him and Mr. Bonteen, and there was to be a sort of
match as to which of the two would kill most birds before lunch. But
there had also been some half promise on Lady Laura's part that she
would walk with him up the Linter and come down upon the lake, taking
an opposite direction from that by which they had returned with Mr.
Kennedy.

"But you will be shooting all day," she said, when he proposed it to
her as they were starting for the moor. The waggonet that was to take
them was at the door, and she was there to see them start. Her father
was one of the shooting party, and Mr. Kennedy was another.

"I will undertake to be back in time, if you will not think it too
hot. I shall not see you again till we meet in town next year."

"Then I certainly will go with you,--that is to say, if you are here.
But you cannot return without the rest of the party, as you are going
so far."

"I'll get back somehow," said Phineas, who was resolved that a
few miles more or less of mountain should not detain him from the
prosecution of a task so vitally important to him. "If we start at
five that will be early enough."

"Quite early enough," said Lady Laura.

Phineas went off to the mountains, and shot his grouse, and won his
match, and eat his luncheon. Mr. Bonteen, however, was not beaten by
much, and was in consequence somewhat ill-humoured.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Mr. Bonteen, "I'll back myself for
the rest of the day for a ten-pound note."

Now there had been no money staked on the match at all,--but it had
been simply a trial of skill, as to which would kill the most birds
in a given time. And the proposition for that trial had come from Mr.
Bonteen himself. "I should not think of shooting for money," said
Phineas.

"And why not? A bet is the only way to decide these things."

"Partly because I'm sure I shouldn't hit a bird," said Phineas, "and
partly because I haven't got any money to lose."

"I hate bets," said Mr. Kennedy to him afterwards. "I was annoyed
when Bonteen offered the wager. I felt sure, however, you would not
accept it."

"I suppose such bets are very common."

"I don't think men ought to propose them unless they are quite
sure of their company. Maybe I'm wrong, and I often feel that I am
strait-laced about such things. It is so odd to me that men cannot
amuse themselves without pitting themselves against each other. When
a man tells me that he can shoot better than I, I tell him that my
keeper can shoot better than he."

"All the same, it's a good thing to excel," said Phineas.

"I'm not so sure of that," said Mr. Kennedy. "A man who can kill more
salmon than anybody else, can rarely do anything else. Are you going
on with your match?"

"No; I'm going to make my way to Loughlinter."

"Not alone?"

"Yes, alone."

"It's over nine miles. You can't walk it."

Phineas looked at his watch, and found that it was now two o'clock.
It was a broiling day in August, and the way back to Loughlinter, for
six or seven out of the nine miles, would be along a high road. "I
must do it all the same," said he, preparing for a start. "I have an
engagement with Lady Laura Standish; and as this is the last day that
I shall see her, I certainly do not mean to break it."

"An engagement with Lady Laura," said Mr. Kennedy. "Why did you not
tell me, that I might have a pony ready? But come along. Donald Bean
has a pony. He's not much bigger than a dog, but he'll carry you to
Loughlinter."

"I can walk it, Mr. Kennedy."

"Yes; and think of the state in which you'd reach Loughlinter! Come
along with me."

"But I can't take you off the mountain," said Phineas.

"Then you must allow me to take you off."

So Mr. Kennedy led the way down to Donald Bean's cottage, and before
three o'clock Phineas found himself mounted on a shaggy steed, which,
in sober truth, was not much bigger than a large dog. "If Mr. Kennedy
is really my rival," said Phineas to himself, as he trotted along, "I
almost think that I am doing an unhandsome thing in taking the pony."

At five o'clock he was under the portico before the front door, and
there he found Lady Laura waiting for him,--waiting for him, or at
least ready for him. She had on her hat and gloves and light shawl,
and her parasol was in her hand. He thought that he had never seen
her look so young, so pretty, and so fit to receive a lover's vows.
But at the same moment it occurred to him that she was Lady Laura
Standish, the daughter of an Earl, the descendant of a line of
Earls,--and that he was the son of a simple country doctor in
Ireland. Was it fitting that he should ask such a woman to be his
wife? But then Mr. Kennedy was the son of a man who had walked into
Glasgow with half-a-crown in his pocket. Mr. Kennedy's grandfather
had been,--Phineas thought that he had heard that Mr. Kennedy's
grandfather had been a Scotch drover; whereas his own grandfather
had been a little squire near Ennistimon, in county Clare, and his
own first cousin once removed still held the paternal acres at Finn
Grove. His family was supposed to be descended from kings in that
part of Ireland. It certainly did not become him to fear Lady Laura
on the score of rank, if it was to be allowed to Mr. Kennedy to
proceed without fear on that head. As to wealth, Lady Laura had
already told him that her fortune was no greater than his. Her
statement to himself on that head made him feel that he should not
hesitate on the score of money. They neither had any, and he was
willing to work for both. If she feared the risk, let her say so.

It was thus that he argued with himself; but yet he knew,--knew as
well as the reader will know,--that he was going to do that which he
had no right to do. It might be very well for him to wait,--presuming
him to be successful in his love,--for the opening of that oyster
with his political sword, that oyster on which he proposed that they
should both live; but such waiting could not well be to the taste
of Lady Laura Standish. It could hardly be pleasant to her to look
forward to his being made a junior lord or an assistant secretary
before she could establish herself in her home. So he told himself.
And yet he told himself at the same time that it was incumbent on him
to persevere.

"I did not expect you in the least," said Lady Laura.

"And yet I spoke very positively."

"But there are things as to which a man may be very positive, and yet
may be allowed to fail. In the first place, how on earth did you get
home?"

"Mr. Kennedy got me a pony,--Donald Bean's pony."

"You told him, then?"

"Yes; I told him why I was coming, and that I must be here. Then he
took the trouble to come all the way off the mountain to persuade
Donald to lend me his pony. I must acknowledge that Mr. Kennedy has
conquered me at last."

"I am so glad of that," said Lady Laura. "I knew he would,--unless it
were your own fault."

They went up the path by the brook, from bridge to bridge, till they
found themselves out upon the open mountain at the top. Phineas had
resolved that he would not speak out his mind till he found himself
on that spot; that then he would ask her to sit down, and that while
she was so seated he would tell her everything. At the present moment
he had on his head a Scotch cap with a grouse's feather in it, and he
was dressed in a velvet shooting-jacket and dark knickerbockers; and
was certainly, in this costume, as handsome a man as any woman would
wish to see. And there was, too, a look of breeding about him which
had come to him, no doubt, from the royal Finns of old, which ever
served him in great stead. He was, indeed, only Phineas Finn, and
was known by the world to be no more; but he looked as though he
might have been anybody,--a royal Finn himself. And then he had
that special grace of appearing to be altogether unconscious of his
own personal advantages. And I think that in truth he was barely
conscious of them; that he depended on them very little, if at all;
that there was nothing of personal vanity in his composition. He had
never indulged in any hope that Lady Laura would accept him because
he was a handsome man.

"After all that climbing," he said, "will you not sit down for a
moment?" As he spoke to her she looked at him and told herself that
he was as handsome as a god. "Do sit down for one moment," he said.
"I have something that I desire to say to you, and to say it here."

"I will," she said; "but I also have something to tell you, and will
say it while I am yet standing. Yesterday I accepted an offer of
marriage from Mr. Kennedy."

"Then I am too late," said Phineas, and putting his hands into the
pockets of his coat, he turned his back upon her, and walked away
across the mountain.

What a fool he had been to let her know his secret when her knowledge
of it could be of no service to him,--when her knowledge of it could
only make him appear foolish in her eyes! But for his life he could
not have kept his secret to himself. Nor now could he bring himself
to utter a word of even decent civility. But he went on walking as
though he could thus leave her there, and never see her again. What
an ass he had been in supposing that she cared for him! What a fool
to imagine that his poverty could stand a chance against the wealth
of Loughlinter! But why had she lured him on? How he wished that he
were now grinding, hard at work in Mr. Low's chambers, or sitting
at home at Killaloe with the hand of that pretty little Irish girl
within his own!

Presently he heard a voice behind him,--calling him gently. Then he
turned and found that she was very near him. He himself had then
been standing still for some moments, and she had followed him. "Mr.
Finn," she said.

"Well;--yes: what is it?" And turning round he made an attempt to
smile.

"Will you not wish me joy, or say a word of congratulation? Had I not
thought much of your friendship, I should not have been so quick to
tell you of my destiny. No one else has been told, except papa."

"Of course I hope you will be happy. Of course I do. No wonder he
lent me the pony!"

"You must forget all that."

"Forget what?"

"Well,--nothing. You need forget nothing," said Lady Laura, "for
nothing has been said that need be regretted. Only wish me joy, and
all will be pleasant."

"Lady Laura, I do wish you joy, with all my heart,--but that will not
make all things pleasant. I came up here to ask you to be my wife."

"No;--no, no; do not say it."

"But I have said it, and will say it again. I, poor, penniless, plain
simple fool that I am, have been ass enough to love you, Lady Laura
Standish; and I brought you up here to-day to ask you to share with
me--my nothingness. And this I have done on soil that is to be all
your own. Tell me that you regard me as a conceited fool,--as a
bewildered idiot."

"I wish to regard you as a dear friend,--both of my own and of my
husband," said she, offering him her hand.

"Should I have had a chance, I wonder, if I had spoken a week since?"

"How can I answer such a question, Mr. Finn? Or, rather, I will,
answer it fully. It is not a week since we told each other, you to
me and I to you, that we were both poor,--both without other means
than those which come to us from our fathers. You will make your
way;--will make it surely; but how at present could you marry any
woman unless she had money of her own? For me,--like so many other
girls, it was necessary that I should stay at home or marry some one
rich enough to dispense with fortune in a wife. The man whom in all
the world I think the best has asked me to share everything with
him;--and I have thought it wise to accept his offer."

"And I was fool enough to think that you loved me," said Phineas. To
this she made no immediate answer. "Yes, I was. I feel that I owe it
you to tell you what a fool I have been. I did. I thought you loved
me. At least I thought that perhaps you loved me. It was like a child
wanting the moon;--was it not?"

"And why should I not have loved you?" she said slowly, laying her
hand gently upon his arm.

"Why not? Because Loughlinter--"

"Stop, Mr. Finn; stop. Do not say to me any unkind word that I
have not deserved, and that would make a breach between us. I have
accepted the owner of Loughlinter as my husband, because I verily
believe that I shall thus do my duty in that sphere of life to which
it has pleased God to call me. I have always liked him, and I will
love him. For you,--may I trust myself to speak openly to you?"

"You may trust me as against all others, except us two ourselves."

"For you, then, I will say also that I have always liked you since I
knew you; that I have loved you as a friend;--and could have loved
you otherwise had not circumstances showed me so plainly that it
would be unwise."

"Oh, Lady Laura!"

"Listen a moment. And pray remember that what I say to you now must
never be repeated to any ears. No one knows it but my father, my
brother, and Mr. Kennedy. Early in the spring I paid my brother's
debts. His affection to me is more than a return for what I have done
for him. But when I did this,--when I made up my mind to do it, I
made up my mind also that I could not allow myself the same freedom
of choice which would otherwise have belonged to me. Will that be
sufficient, Mr. Finn?"

"How can I answer you, Lady Laura? Sufficient! And you are not angry
with me for what I have said?"

"No, I am not angry. But it is understood, of course, that nothing
of this shall ever be repeated,--even among ourselves. Is that a
bargain?"

"Oh, yes. I shall never speak of it again."

"And now you will wish me joy?"

"I have wished you joy, Lady Laura. And I will do so again. May you
have every blessing which the world can give you. You cannot expect
me to be very jovial for awhile myself; but there will be nobody to
see my melancholy moods. I shall be hiding myself away in Ireland.
When is the marriage to be?"

"Nothing has been said of that. I shall be guided by him,--but there
must, of course, be delay. There will be settlements and I know not
what. It may probably be in the spring,--or perhaps the summer. I
shall do just what my betters tell me to do."

Phineas had now seated himself on the exact stone on which he had
wished her to sit when he proposed to tell his own story, and was
looking forth upon the lake. It seemed to him that everything had
been changed for him while he had been up there upon the mountain,
and that the change had been marvellous in its nature. When he had
been coming up, there had been apparently two alternatives before
him: the glory of successful love,--which, indeed, had seemed to him
to be a most improbable result of the coming interview,--and the
despair and utter banishment attendant on disdainful rejection. But
his position was far removed from either of these alternatives. She
had almost told him that she would have loved him had she not been
poor,--that she was beginning to love him and had quenched her love,
because it had become impossible to her to marry a poor man. In such
circumstances he could not be angry with her,--he could not quarrel
with her; he could not do other than swear to himself that he would
be her friend. And yet he loved her better than ever;--and she was
the promised wife of his rival! Why had not Donald Bean's pony broken
his neck?

"Shall we go down now?" she said.

"Oh, yes."

"You will not go on by the lake?"

"What is the use? It is all the same now. You will want to be back to
receive him in from shooting."

"Not that, I think. He is above those little cares. But it will be as
well we should go the nearest way, as we have spent so much of our
time here. I shall tell Mr. Kennedy that I have told you,--if you do
not mind."

"Tell him what you please," said Phineas.

"But I won't have it taken in that way, Mr. Finn. Your brusque want
of courtesy to me I have forgiven, but I shall expect you to make up
for it by the alacrity of your congratulations to him. I will not
have you uncourteous to Mr. Kennedy."

"If I have been uncourteous I beg your pardon."

"You need not do that. We are old friends, and may take the liberty
of speaking plainly to each other;--but you will owe it to Mr.
Kennedy to be gracious. Think of the pony."

They walked back to the house together, and as they went down the
path very little was said. Just as they were about to come out upon
the open lawn, while they were still under cover of the rocks and
shrubs, Phineas stopped his companion by standing before her, and
then he made his farewell speech to her.

"I must say good-bye to you. I shall be away early in the morning."

"Good-bye, and God bless you," said Lady Laura.

"Give me your hand," said he. And she gave him her hand. "I don't
suppose you know what it is to love dearly."

"I hope I do."

"But to be in love! I believe you do not. And to miss your love! I
think,--I am bound to think that you have never been so tormented. It
is very sore;--but I will do my best, like a man, to get over it."

"Do, my friend, do. So small a trouble will never weigh heavily on
shoulders such as yours."

"It will weigh very heavily, but I will struggle hard that it may not
crush me. I have loved you so dearly! As we are parting give me one
kiss, that I may think of it and treasure it in my memory!" What
murmuring words she spoke to express her refusal of such a request,
I will not quote; but the kiss had been taken before the denial was
completed, and then they walked on in silence together,--and in
peace, towards the house.

On the next morning six or seven men were going away, and there was
an early breakfast. There were none of the ladies there, but Mr.
Kennedy, the host, was among his friends. A large drag with four
horses was there to take the travellers and their luggage to the
station, and there was naturally a good deal of noise at the front
door as the preparations for the departure were made. In the middle
of them Mr. Kennedy took our hero aside. "Laura has told me," said
Mr. Kennedy, "that she has acquainted you with my good fortune."

"And I congratulate you most heartily," said Phineas, grasping the
other's hand. "You are indeed a lucky fellow."

"I feel myself to be so," said Mr. Kennedy. "Such a wife was all that
was wanting to me, and such a wife is very hard to find. Will you
remember, Finn, that Loughlinter will never be so full but what
there will be a room for you, or so empty but what you will be made
welcome? I say this on Lady Laura's part and on my own."

Phineas, as he was being carried away to the railway station, could
not keep himself from speculating as to how much Kennedy knew of
what had taken place during the walk up the Linter. Of one small
circumstance that had occurred, he felt quite sure that Mr. Kennedy
knew nothing.




CHAPTER XVI

Phineas Finn Returns to Killaloe


Phineas Finn's first session of Parliament was over,--his first
session with all its adventures. When he got back to Mrs. Bunce's
house,--for Mrs. Bunce received him for a night in spite of her
husband's advice to the contrary,--I am afraid he almost felt that
Mrs. Bunce and her rooms were beneath him. Of course he was very
unhappy,--as wretched as a man can be; there were moments in which he
thought that it would hardly become him to live unless he could do
something to prevent the marriage of Lady Laura and Mr. Kennedy. But,
nevertheless, he had his consolations. These were reflections which
had in them much of melancholy satisfaction. He had not been despised
by the woman to whom he had told his love. She had not shown him that
she thought him to be unworthy of her. She had not regarded his love
as an offence. Indeed, she had almost told him that prudence alone
had forbidden her to return his passion. And he had kissed her, and
had afterwards parted from her as a dear friend. I do not know why
there should have been a flavour of exquisite joy in the midst of his
agony as he thought of this;--but it was so. He would never kiss her
again. All future delights of that kind would belong to Mr. Kennedy,
and he had no real idea of interfering with that gentleman in the
fruition of his privileges. But still there was the kiss,--an
eternal fact. And then, in all respects except that of his love, his
visit to Loughlinter had been pre-eminently successful. Mr. Monk had
become his friend, and had encouraged him to speak during the next
session,--setting before him various models, and prescribing for him
a course of reading. Lord Brentford had become intimate with him. He
was on pleasant terms with Mr. Palliser and Mr. Gresham. And as for
Mr. Kennedy,--he and Mr. Kennedy were almost bosom friends. It seemed
to him that he had quite surpassed the Ratlers, Fitzgibbons, and
Bonteens in that politico-social success which goes so far towards
downright political success, and which in itself is so pleasant. He
had surpassed these men in spite of their offices and their acquired
positions, and could not but think that even Mr. Low, if he knew it
all, would confess that he had been right.

As to his bosom friendship with Mr. Kennedy, that of course troubled
him. Ought he not to be driving a poniard into Mr. Kennedy's heart?
The conventions of life forbade that; and therefore the bosom
friendship was to be excused. If not an enemy to the death, then
there could be no reason why he should not be a bosom friend.

He went over to Ireland, staying but one night with Mrs. Bunce, and
came down upon them at Killaloe like a god out of the heavens. Even
his father was well-nigh overwhelmed by admiration, and his mother
and sisters thought themselves only fit to minister to his pleasures.
He had learned, if he had learned nothing else, to look as though he
were master of the circumstances around him, and was entirely free
from internal embarrassment. When his father spoke to him about his
legal studies, he did not exactly laugh at his father's ignorance,
but he recapitulated to his father so much of Mr. Monk's wisdom at
second hand,--showing plainly that it was his business to study the
arts of speech and the technicalities of the House, and not to study
law,--that his father had nothing further to say. He had become a
man of such dimensions that an ordinary father could hardly dare to
inquire into his proceedings; and as for an ordinary mother,--such as
Mrs. Finn certainly was,--she could do no more than look after her
son's linen with awe.

Mary Flood Jones,--the reader I hope will not quite have forgotten
Mary Flood Jones,--was in a great tremor when first she met the hero
of Loughshane after returning from the honours of his first session.
She had been somewhat disappointed because the newspapers had not
been full of the speeches he had made in Parliament. And indeed the
ladies of the Finn household had all been ill at ease on this head.
They could not imagine why Phineas had restrained himself with so
much philosophy. But Miss Flood Jones in discussing the matter
with the Miss Finns had never expressed the slightest doubt of his
capacity or his judgment. And when tidings came,--the tidings came
in a letter from Phineas to his father,--that he did not intend to
speak that session, because speeches from a young member on his first
session were thought to be inexpedient, Miss Flood Jones and the Miss
Finns were quite willing to accept the wisdom of this decision, much
as they might regret the effect of it. Mary, when she met her hero,
hardly dared to look him in the face, but she remembered accurately
all the circumstances of her last interview with him. Could it be
that he wore that ringlet near his heart? Mary had received from
Barbara Finn certain hairs supposed to have come from the head of
Phineas, and these she always wore near her own. And moreover, since
she had seen Phineas she had refused an offer of marriage from Mr.
Elias Bodkin,--had refused it almost ignominiously,--and when doing
so had told herself that she would never be false to Phineas Finn.

"We think it so good of you to come to see us again," she said.

"Good to come home to my own people?"

"Of course you might be staying with plenty of grandees if you liked
it."

"No, indeed, Mary. It did happen by accident that I had to go to the
house of a man whom perhaps you would call a grandee, and to meet
grandees there. But it was only for a few days, and I am very glad to
be taken in again here, I can assure you."

"You know how very glad we all are to have you."

"Are you glad to see me, Mary?"

"Very glad. Why should I not be glad, and Barbara the dearest friend
I have in the world? Of course she talks about you,--and that makes
me think of you."

"If you knew, Mary, how often I think about you." Then Mary, who was
very happy at hearing such words, and who was walking in to dinner
with him at the moment, could not refrain herself from pressing his
arm with her little fingers. She knew that Phineas in his position
could not marry at once; but she would wait for him,--oh, for ever,
if he would only ask her. He of course was a wicked traitor to tell
her that he was wont to think of her. But Jove smiles at lovers'
perjuries;--and it is well that he should do so, as such perjuries
can hardly be avoided altogether in the difficult circumstances of a
successful gentleman's life. Phineas was a traitor, of course, but he
was almost forced to be a traitor, by the simple fact that Lady Laura
Standish was in London, and Mary Flood Jones in Killaloe.

He remained for nearly five months at Killaloe, and I doubt whether
his time was altogether well spent. Some of the books recommended
to him by Mr. Monk he probably did read, and was often to be found
encompassed by blue books. I fear that there was a grain of pretence
about his blue books and parliamentary papers, and that in these days
he was, in a gentle way, something of an impostor. "You must not be
angry with me for not going to you," he said once to Mary's mother
when he had declined an invitation to drink tea; "but the fact is
that my time is not my own." "Pray don't make any apologies. We are
quite aware that we have very little to offer," said Mrs. Flood
Jones, who was not altogether happy about Mary, and who perhaps knew
more about members of Parliament and blue books than Phineas Finn had
supposed. "Mary, you are a fool to think of that man," the mother
said to her daughter the next morning. "I don't think of him, mamma;
not particularly." "He is no better than anybody else that I can see,
and he is beginning to give himself airs," said Mrs. Flood Jones.
Mary made no answer; but she went up into her room and swore before a
figure of the Virgin that she would be true to Phineas for ever and
ever, in spite of her mother, in spite of all the world,--in spite,
should it be necessary, even of himself.

About Christmas time there came a discussion between Phineas and his
father about money. "I hope you find you get on pretty well," said
the doctor, who thought that he had been liberal.

"It's a tight fit," said Phineas,--who was less afraid of his father
than he had been when he last discussed these things.

"I had hoped it would have been ample," said the doctor.

"Don't think for a moment, sir, that I am complaining," said Phineas.
"I know it is much more than I have a right to expect."

The doctor began to make an inquiry within his own breast as to
whether his son had a right to expect anything;--whether the time
had not come in which his son should be earning his own bread. "I
suppose," he said, after a pause, "there is no chance of your doing
anything at the bar now?"

"Not immediately. It is almost impossible to combine the two studies
together." Mr. Low himself was aware of that. "But you are not to
suppose that I have given the profession up."

"I hope not,--after all the money it has cost us."

"By no means, sir. And all that I am doing now will, I trust, be of
assistance to me when I shall come back to work at the law. Of course
it is on the cards that I may go into office,--and if so, public
business will become my profession."

"And be turned out with the Ministry!"

"Yes; that is true, sir. I must run my chance. If the worst comes to
the worst, I hope I might be able to secure some permanent place. I
should think that I can hardly fail to do so. But I trust I may never
be driven to want it. I thought, however, that we had settled all
this before." Then Phineas assumed a look of injured innocence, as
though his father was driving him too hard.

"And in the mean time your money has been enough?" said the doctor,
after a pause.

"I had intended to ask you to advance me a hundred pounds," said
Phineas. "There were expenses to which I was driven on first entering
Parliament."

"A hundred pounds."

"If it be inconvenient, sir, I can do without it." He had not as
yet paid for his gun, or for that velvet coat in which he had been
shooting, or, most probably, for the knickerbockers. He knew he
wanted the hundred pounds badly; but he felt ashamed of himself in
asking for it. If he were once in office,--though the office were but
a sorry junior lordship,--he would repay his father instantly.

"You shall have it, of course," said the doctor; "but do not let the
necessity for asking for more hundreds come oftener than you can
help." Phineas said that he would not, and then there was no further
discourse about money. It need hardly be said that he told his father
nothing of that bill which he had endorsed for Laurence Fitzgibbon.

At last came the time which called him again to London and the
glories of London life,--to lobbies, and the clubs, and the gossip of
men in office, and the chance of promotion for himself; to the glare
of the gas-lamps, the mock anger of rival debaters, and the prospect
of the Speaker's wig. During the idleness of the recess he had
resolved at any rate upon this,--that a month of the session should
not have passed by before he had been seen upon his legs in the
House,--had been seen and heard. And many a time as he had wandered
alone, with his gun, across the bogs which lie on the other side of
the Shannon from Killaloe, he had practised the sort of address which
he would make to the House. He would be short,--always short; and he
would eschew all action and gesticulation; Mr. Monk had been very
urgent in his instructions to him on that head; but he would be
especially careful that no words should escape him which had not in
them some purpose. He might be wrong in his purpose, but purpose
there should be. He had been twitted more than once at Killaloe
with his silence;--for it had been conceived by his fellow-townsmen
that he had been sent to Parliament on the special ground of his
eloquence. They should twit him no more on his next return. He would
speak and would carry the House with him if a human effort might
prevail.

So he packed up his things, and started again for London in the
beginning of February. "Good-bye, Mary," he said with his sweetest
smile. But on this occasion there was no kiss, and no culling of
locks. "I know he cannot help it," said Mary to herself. "It is his
position. But whether it be for good or evil, I will be true to him."

"I am afraid you are unhappy," Babara Finn said to her on the next
morning.

"No; I am not unhappy,--not at all. I have a deal to make me happy
and proud. I don't mean to be a bit unhappy." Then she turned away
and cried heartily, and Barbara Finn cried with her for company.




CHAPTER XVII

Phineas Finn Returns to London


Phineas had received two letters during his recess at Killaloe from
two women who admired him much, which, as they were both short, shall
be submitted to the reader. The first was as follows:--


   Saulsby, October 20, 186--.

   MY DEAR MR. FINN,

   I write a line to tell you that our marriage is to be
   hurried on as quickly as possible. Mr. Kennedy does not
   like to be absent from Parliament; nor will he be content
   to postpone the ceremony till the session be over. The day
   fixed is the 3rd of December, and we then go at once to
   Rome, and intend to be back in London by the opening of
   Parliament.

   Yours most sincerely,

   LAURA STANDISH.

   Our London address will be No. 52, Grosvenor Place.


To this he wrote an answer as short, expressing his ardent wishes
that those winter hymeneals might produce nothing but happiness, and
saying that he would not be in town many days before he knocked at
the door of No. 52, Grosvenor Place.

And the second letter was as follows:--


   Great Marlborough Street, December, 186--.

   DEAR AND HONOURED SIR,

   Bunce is getting ever so anxious about the rooms, and
   says as how he has a young Equity draftsman and wife and
   baby as would take the whole house, and all because Miss
   Pouncefoot said a word about her port wine, which any lady
   of her age might say in her tantrums, and mean nothing
   after all. Me and Miss Pouncefoot's knowed each other for
   seven years, and what's a word or two as isn't meant after
   that? But, honoured sir, it's not about that as I write
   to trouble you, but to ask if I may say for certain that
   you'll take the rooms again in February. It's easy to
   let them for the month after Christmas, because of the
   pantomimes. Only say at once, because Bunce is nagging
   me day after day. I don't want nobody's wife and baby to
   have to do for, and 'd sooner have a Parliament gent like
   yourself than any one else.

   Yours umbly and respectful,

   JANE BUNCE.


To this he replied that he would certainly come back to the rooms
in Great Marlborough Street, should he be lucky enough to find them
vacant, and he expressed his willingness to take them on and from
the 1st of February. And on the 3rd of February he found himself in
the old quarters, Mrs. Bunce having contrived, with much conjugal
adroitness, both to keep Miss Pouncefoot and to stave off the Equity
draftsman's wife and baby. Bunce, however, received Phineas very
coldly, and told his wife the same evening that as far as he could
see their lodger would never turn up to be a trump in the matter of
the ballot. "If he means well, why did he go and stay with them lords
down in Scotland? I knows all about it. I knows a man when I sees
him. Mr. Low, who's looking out to be a Tory judge some of these
days, is a deal better;--because he knows what he's after."

Immediately on his return to town, Phineas found himself summoned to
a political meeting at Mr. Mildmay's house in St. James's Square.
"We're going to begin in earnest this time," Barrington Erle said to
him at the club.

"I am glad of that," said Phineas.

"I suppose you heard all about it down at Loughlinter?"

Now, in truth, Phineas had heard very little of any settled plan down
at Loughlinter. He had played a game of chess with Mr. Gresham, and
had shot a stag with Mr. Palliser, and had discussed sheep with Lord
Brentford, but had hardly heard a word about politics from any one
of those influential gentlemen. From Mr. Monk he had heard much of a
coming Reform Bill; but his communications with Mr. Monk had rather
been private discussions,--in which he had learned Mr. Monk's own
views on certain points,--than revelations on the intention of the
party to which Mr. Monk belonged. "I heard of nothing settled," said
Phineas; "but I suppose we are to have a Reform Bill."

"That is a matter of course."

"And I suppose we are not to touch the question of ballot."

"That's the difficulty," said Barrington Erle. "But of course we
shan't touch it as long as Mr. Mildmay is in the Cabinet. He will
never consent to the ballot as First Minister of the Crown."

"Nor would Gresham, or Palliser," said Phineas, who did not choose to
bring forward his greatest gun at first.

"I don't know about Gresham. It is impossible to say what Gresham
might bring himself to do. Gresham is a man who may go any lengths
before he has done. Planty Pall,"--for such was the name by which Mr.
Plantagenet Palliser was ordinarily known among his friends,--"would
of course go with Mr. Mildmay and the Duke."

"And Monk is opposed to the ballot," said Phineas.

"Ah, that's the question. No doubt he has assented to the proposition
of a measure without the ballot; but if there should come a row, and
men like Turnbull demand it, and the London mob kick up a shindy, I
don't know how far Monk would be steady."

"Whatever he says, he'll stick to."

"He is your leader, then?" asked Barrington.

"I don't know that I have a leader. Mr. Mildmay leads our side; and
if anybody leads me, he does. But I have great faith in Mr. Monk."

"There's one who would go for the ballot to-morrow, if it were
brought forward stoutly," said Barrington Erle to Mr. Ratler a few
minutes afterwards, pointing to Phineas as he spoke.

"I don't think much of that young man," said Ratler.

Mr. Bonteen and Mr. Ratler had put their heads together during that
last evening at Loughlinter, and had agreed that they did not think
much of Phineas Finn. Why did Mr. Kennedy go down off the mountain
to get him a pony? And why did Mr. Gresham play chess with him? Mr.
Ratler and Mr. Bonteen may have been right in making up their minds
to think but little of Phineas Finn, but Barrington Erle had been
quite wrong when he had said that Phineas would "go for the ballot"
to-morrow. Phineas had made up his mind very strongly that he would
always oppose the ballot. That he would hold the same opinion
throughout his life, no one should pretend to say; but in his present
mood, and under the tuition which he had received from Mr. Monk,
he was prepared to demonstrate, out of the House and in it, that
the ballot was, as a political measure, unmanly, ineffective, and
enervating. Enervating had been a great word with Mr. Monk, and
Phineas had clung to it with admiration.

The meeting took place at Mr. Mildmay's on the third day of the
session. Phineas had of course heard of such meetings before, but had
never attended one. Indeed, there had been no such gathering when
Mr. Mildmay's party came into power early in the last session. Mr.
Mildmay and his men had then made their effort in turning out their
opponents, and had been well pleased to rest awhile upon their oars.
Now, however, they must go again to work, and therefore the liberal
party was collected at Mr. Mildmay's house, in order that the liberal
party might be told what it was that Mr. Mildmay and his Cabinet
intended to do.

Phineas Finn was quite in the dark as to what would be the nature
of the performance on this occasion, and entertained some idea that
every gentleman present would be called upon to express individually
his assent or dissent in regard to the measure proposed. He walked to
St. James's Square with Laurence Fitzgibbon; but even with Fitzgibbon
was ashamed to show his ignorance by asking questions. "After all,"
said Fitzgibbon, "this kind of thing means nothing. I know as well as
possible, and so do you, what Mr. Mildmay will say,--and then Gresham
will say a few words; and then Turnbull will make a murmur, and then
we shall all assent,--to anything or to nothing;--and then it will be
over." Still Phineas did not understand whether the assent required
would or would not be an individual personal assent. When the affair
was over he found that he was disappointed, and that he might almost
as well have stayed away from the meeting,--except that he had
attended at Mr. Mildmay's bidding, and had given a silent adhesion to
Mr. Mildmay's plan of reform for that session. Laurence Fitzgibbon
had been very nearly correct in his description of what would occur.
Mr. Mildmay made a long speech. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical of
the day,--the man who was supposed to represent what many called the
Manchester school of politics,--asked half a dozen questions. In
answer to these Mr. Gresham made a short speech. Then Mr. Mildmay
made another speech, and then all was over. The gist of the whole
thing was, that there should be a Reform Bill,--very generous in its
enlargement of the franchise,--but no ballot. Mr. Turnbull expressed
his doubt whether this would be satisfactory to the country; but even
Mr. Turnbull was soft in his tone and complaisant in his manner. As
there was no reporter present,--that plan of turning private meetings
at gentlemen's houses into public assemblies not having been as yet
adopted,--there could be no need for energy or violence. They went to
Mr. Mildmay's house to hear Mr. Mildmay's plan,--and they heard it.

Two days after this Phineas was to dine with Mr. Monk. Mr. Monk had
asked him in the lobby of the House. "I don't give dinner parties,"
he said, "but I should like you to come and meet Mr. Turnbull."
Phineas accepted the invitation as a matter of course. There were
many who said that Mr. Turnbull was the greatest man in the nation,
and that the nation could be saved only by a direct obedience to
Mr. Turnbull's instructions. Others said that Mr. Turnbull was a
demagogue and at heart a rebel; that he was un-English, false and
very dangerous. Phineas was rather inclined to believe the latter
statement; and as danger and dangerous men are always more attractive
than safety and safe men, he was glad to have an opportunity of
meeting Mr. Turnbull at dinner.

In the meantime he went to call on Lady Laura, whom he had not
seen since the last evening which he spent in her company at
Loughlinter,--whom, when he was last speaking to her, he had kissed
close beneath the falls of the Linter. He found her at home, and with
her was her husband. "Here is a Darby and Joan meeting, is it not?"
she said, getting up to welcome him. He had seen Mr. Kennedy before,
and had been standing close to him during the meeting at Mr.
Mildmay's.

"I am very glad to find you both together."

"But Robert is going away this instant," said Lady Laura. "Has he
told you of our adventures at Rome?"

"Not a word."

"Then I must tell you;--but not now. The dear old Pope was so civil
to us. I came to think it quite a pity that he should be in trouble."

"I must be off," said the husband, getting up. "But I shall meet you
at dinner, I believe."

"Do you dine at Mr. Monk's?"

"Yes, and am asked expressly to hear Turnbull make a convert of you.
There are only to be us four. Au revoir." Then Mr. Kennedy went, and
Phineas found himself alone with Lady Laura. He hardly knew how to
address her, and remained silent. He had not prepared himself for the
interview as he ought to have done, and felt himself to be awkward.
She evidently expected him to speak, and for a few seconds sat
waiting for what he might say.

At last she found that it was incumbent on her to begin. "Were you
surprised at our suddenness when you got my note?"

"A little. You had spoken of waiting."

"I had never imagined that he would have been impetuous. And he seems
to think that even the business of getting himself married would not
justify him staying away from Parliament. He is a rigid martinet in
all matters of duty."

"I did not wonder that he should be in a hurry, but that you should
submit."

"I told you that I should do just what the wise people told me. I
asked papa, and he said that it would be better. So the lawyers were
driven out of their minds, and the milliners out of their bodies, and
the thing was done."

"Who was there at the marriage?"

"Oswald was not there. That I know is what you mean to ask. Papa said
that he might come if he pleased. Oswald stipulated that he should be
received as a son. Then my father spoke the hardest word that ever
fell from his mouth."

"What did he say?"

"I will not repeat it,--not altogether. But he said that Oswald was
not entitled to a son's treatment. He was very sore about my money,
because Robert was so generous as to his settlement. So the breach
between them is as wide as ever."

"And where is Chiltern now?" said Phineas.

"Down in Northamptonshire, staying at some inn from whence he hunts.
He tells me that he is quite alone,--that he never dines out, never
has any one to dine with him, that he hunts five or six days a
week,--and reads at night."

"That is not a bad sort of life."

"Not if the reading is any good. But I cannot bear that he should be
so solitary. And if he breaks down in it, then his companions will
not be fit for him. Do you ever hunt?"

"Oh yes,--at home in county Clare. All Irishmen hunt."

"I wish you would go down to him and see him. He would be delighted
to have you."

Phineas thought over the proposition before he answered it, and then
made the reply that he had made once before. "I would do so, Lady
Laura,--but that I have no money for hunting in England."

"Alas, alas!" said she, smiling. "How that hits one on every side!"

"I might manage it,--for a couple of days,--in March."

"Do not do what you think you ought not to do," said Lady Laura.

"No; certainly. But I should like it, and if I can I will."

"He could mount you, I have no doubt. He has no other expense now,
and keeps a stable full of horses. I think he has seven or eight. And
now tell me, Mr. Finn; when are you going to charm the House? Or is
it your first intention to strike terror?"

He blushed,--he knew that he blushed as he answered. "Oh, I suppose I
shall make some sort of attempt before long. I can't bear the idea of
being a bore."

"I think you ought to speak, Mr. Finn."

"I do not know about that, but I certainly mean to try. There will be
lots of opportunities about the new Reform Bill. Of course you know
that Mr. Mildmay is going to bring it in at once. You hear all that
from Mr. Kennedy."

"And papa has told me. I still see papa almost every day. You must
call upon him. Mind you do." Phineas said that he certainly would.
"Papa is very lonely now, and I sometimes feel that I have been
almost cruel in deserting him. And I think that he has a horror of
the house,--especially later in the year,--always fancying that he
will meet Oswald. I am so unhappy about it all, Mr. Finn."

"Why doesn't your brother marry?" said Phineas, knowing nothing as
yet of Lord Chiltern and Violet Effingham. "If he were to marry well,
that would bring your father round."

"Yes,--it would."

"And why should he not?"

Lady Laura paused before she answered; and then she told the whole
story. "He is violently in love, and the girl he loves has refused
him twice."

"Is it with Miss Effingham?" asked Phineas, guessing the truth at
once, and remembering what Miss Effingham had said to him when riding
in the wood.

"Yes;--with Violet Effingham; my father's pet, his favourite, whom he
loves next to myself,--almost as well as myself; whom he would really
welcome as a daughter. He would gladly make her mistress of his
house, and of Saulsby. Everything would then go smoothly."

"But she does not like Lord Chiltern?"

"I believe she loves him in her heart; but she is afraid of him. As
she says herself, a girl is bound to be so careful of herself. With
all her seeming frolic, Violet Effingham is very wise."

Phineas, though not conscious of anything akin to jealousy, was
annoyed at the revelation made to him. Since he had heard that Lord
Chiltern was in love with Miss Effingham, he did not like Lord
Chiltern quite as well as he had done before. He himself had simply
admired Miss Effingham, and had taken pleasure in her society; but,
though this had been all, he did not like to hear of another man
wanting to marry her, and he was almost angry with Lady Laura for
saying that she believed Miss Effingham loved her brother. If Miss
Effingham had twice refused Lord Chiltern, that ought to have been
sufficient. It was not that Phineas was in love with Miss Effingham
himself. As he was still violently in love with Lady Laura, any other
love was of course impossible; but, nevertheless, there was something
offensive to him in the story as it had been told. "If it be wisdom
on her part," said he, answering Lady Laura's last words, "you cannot
find fault with her for her decision."

"I find no fault;--but I think my brother would make her happy."

Lady Laura, when she was left alone, at once reverted to the tone in
which Phineas Finn had answered her remarks about Miss Effingham.
Phineas was very ill able to conceal his thoughts, and wore his heart
almost upon his sleeve. "Can it be possible that he cares for her
himself?" That was the nature of Lady Laura's first question to
herself upon the matter. And in asking herself that question, she
thought nothing of the disparity in rank or fortune between Phineas
Finn and Violet Effingham. Nor did it occur to her as at all
improbable that Violet might accept the love of him who had so lately
been her own lover. But the idea grated against her wishes on two
sides. She was most anxious that Violet should ultimately become her
brother's wife,--and she could not be pleased that Phineas should be
able to love any woman.

I must beg my readers not to be carried away by those last words
into any erroneous conclusion. They must not suppose that Lady Laura
Kennedy, the lately married bride, indulged a guilty passion for the
young man who had loved her. Though she had probably thought often
of Phineas Finn since her marriage, her thoughts had never been of
a nature to disturb her rest. It had never occurred to her even to
think that she regarded him with any feeling that was an offence
to her husband. She would have hated herself had any such idea
presented itself to her mind. She prided herself on being a pure
high-principled woman, who had kept so strong a guard upon herself as
to be nearly free from the dangers of those rocks upon which other
women made shipwreck of their happiness. She took pride in this, and
would then blame herself for her own pride. But though she so blamed
herself, it never occurred to her to think that to her there might be
danger of such shipwreck. She had put away from herself the idea of
love when she had first perceived that Phineas had regarded her with
more than friendship, and had accepted Mr. Kennedy's offer with an
assured conviction that by doing so she was acting best for her own
happiness and for that of all those concerned. She had felt the
romance of the position to be sweet when Phineas had stood with her
at the top of the falls of the Linter, and had told her of the hopes
which he had dared to indulge. And when at the bottom of the falls he
had presumed to take her in his arms, she had forgiven him without
difficulty to herself, telling herself that that would be the alpha
and the omega of the romance of her life. She had not felt herself
bound to tell Mr. Kennedy of what had occurred,--but she had felt
that he could hardly have been angry even had he been told. And she
had often thought of her lover since, and of his love,--telling
herself that she too had once had a lover, never regarding her
husband in that light; but her thoughts had not frightened her as
guilty thoughts will do. There had come a romance which had been
pleasant, and it was gone. It had been soon banished,--but it
had left to her a sweet flavour, of which she loved to taste the
sweetness though she knew that it was gone. And the man should be her
friend, but especially her husband's friend. It should be her care to
see that his life was successful,--and especially her husband's care.
It was a great delight to her to know that her husband liked the man.
And the man would marry, and the man's wife should be her friend. All
this had been very pure and very pleasant. Now an idea had flitted
across her brain that the man was in love with some one else,--and
she did not like it!

But she did not therefore become afraid of herself, or in the least
realise at once the danger of her own position. Her immediate glance
at the matter did not go beyond the falseness of men. If it were so,
as she suspected,--if Phineas had in truth transferred his affections
to Violet Effingham, of how little value was the love of such a man!
It did not occur to her at this moment that she also had transferred
hers to Robert Kennedy, or that, if not, she had done worse. But she
did remember that in the autumn this young Phoebus among men had
turned his back upon her out upon the mountain that he might hide
from her the agony of his heart when he learned that she was to be
the wife of another man; and that now, before the winter was over, he
could not hide from her the fact that his heart was elsewhere! And
then she speculated, and counted up facts, and satisfied herself that
Phineas could not even have seen Violet Effingham since they two had
stood together upon the mountain. How false are men!--how false and
how weak of heart!

"Chiltern and Violet Effingham!" said Phineas to himself, as he
walked away from Grosvenor Place. "Is it fair that she should be
sacrificed because she is rich, and because she is so winning and so
fascinating that Lord Brentford would receive even his son for the
sake of receiving also such a daughter-in-law?" Phineas also liked
Lord Chiltern; had seen or fancied that he had seen fine things in
him; had looked forward to his regeneration, hoping, perhaps, that he
might have some hand in the good work. But he did not recognise the
propriety of sacrificing Violet Effingham even for work so good as
this. If Miss Effingham had refused Lord Chiltern twice, surely that
ought to be sufficient. It did not occur to him that the love of such
a girl as Violet would be a great treasure--to himself. As regarded
himself, he was still in love,--hopelessly in love, with Lady Laura
Kennedy!




CHAPTER XVIII

Mr. Turnbull


It was a Wednesday evening and there was no House;--and at seven
o'clock Phineas was at Mr. Monk's hall door. He was the first of the
guests, and he found Mr. Monk alone in the dining-room. "I am doing
butler," said Mr. Monk, who had a brace of decanters in his hands,
which he proceeded to put down in the neighbourhood of the fire.
"But I have finished, and now we will go up-stairs to receive the
two great men properly."

"I beg your pardon for coming too early," said Finn.

"Not a minute too early. Seven is seven, and it is I who am too late.
But, Lord bless you, you don't think I'm ashamed of being found in
the act of decanting my own wine! I remember Lord Palmerston saying
before some committee about salaries, five or six years ago now, I
daresay, that it wouldn't do for an English Minister to have his hall
door opened by a maid-servant. Now, I'm an English Minister, and
I've got nobody but a maid-servant to open my hall door, and I'm
obliged to look after my own wine. I wonder whether it's improper? I
shouldn't like to be the means of injuring the British Constitution."

"Perhaps if you resign soon, and if nobody follows your example,
grave evil results may be avoided."

"I sincerely hope so, for I do love the British Constitution; and I
love also the respect in which members of the English Cabinet are
held. Now Turnbull, who will be here in a moment, hates it all; but
he is a rich man, and has more powdered footmen hanging about his
house than ever Lord Palmerston had himself."

"He is still in business."

"Oh yes;--and makes his thirty thousand a year. Here he is. How are
you, Turnbull? We were talking about my maid-servant. I hope she
opened the door for you properly."

"Certainly,--as far as I perceived," said Mr. Turnbull, who was
better at a speech than a joke. "A very respectable young woman I
should say."

"There is not one more so in all London," said Mr. Monk; "but Finn
seems to think that I ought to have a man in livery."

"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me," said Mr. Turnbull.
"I am one of those who never think of such things."

"Nor I either," said Mr. Monk. Then the laird of Loughlinter was
announced, and they all went down to dinner.

Mr. Turnbull was a good-looking robust man about sixty, with long
grey hair and a red complexion, with hard eyes, a well-cut nose, and
full lips. He was nearly six feet high, stood quite upright, and
always wore a black swallow-tail coat, black trousers, and a black
silk waistcoat. In the House, at least, he was always so dressed, and
at dinner tables. What difference there might be in his costume when
at home at Staleybridge few of those who saw him in London had the
means of knowing. There was nothing in his face to indicate special
talent. No one looking at him would take him to be a fool; but there
was none of the fire of genius in his eye, nor was there in the lines
of his mouth any of that play of thought or fancy which is generally
to be found in the faces of men and women who have made themselves
great. Mr. Turnbull had certainly made himself great, and could
hardly have done so without force of intellect. He was one of the
most popular, if not the most popular politician in the country. Poor
men believed in him, thinking that he was their most honest public
friend; and men who were not poor believed in his power, thinking
that his counsels must surely prevail. He had obtained the ear of the
House and the favour of the reporters, and opened his voice at no
public dinner, on no public platform, without a conviction that the
words spoken by him would be read by thousands. The first necessity
for good speaking is a large audience; and of this advantage Mr.
Turnbull had made himself sure. And yet it could hardly be said that
he was a great orator. He was gifted with a powerful voice, with
strong, and I may, perhaps, call them broad convictions, with perfect
self-reliance, with almost unlimited powers of endurance, with hot
ambition, with no keen scruples, and with a moral skin of great
thickness. Nothing said against him pained him, no attacks wounded
him, no raillery touched him in the least. There was not a sore spot
about him, and probably his first thoughts on waking every morning
told him that he, at least, was totus teres atque rotundus. He was,
of course, a thorough Radical,--and so was Mr. Monk. But Mr. Monk's
first waking thoughts were probably exactly the reverse of those
of his friend. Mr. Monk was a much hotter man in debate than Mr.
Turnbull;--but Mr. Monk was ever doubting of himself, and never
doubted of himself so much as when he had been most violent, and
also most effective, in debate. When Mr. Monk jeered at himself for
being a Cabinet Minister and keeping no attendant grander than a
parlour-maid, there was a substratum of self-doubt under the joke.

Mr. Turnbull was certainly a great Radical, and as such enjoyed a
great reputation. I do not think that high office in the State had
ever been offered to him; but things had been said which justified
him, or seemed to himself to justify him, in declaring that in
no possible circumstances would he serve the Crown. "I serve the
people," he had said, "and much as I respect the servants of the
Crown, I think that my own office is the higher." He had been greatly
called to task for this speech; and Mr. Mildmay, the present Premier,
had asked him whether he did not recognise the so-called servants of
the Crown as the most hard-worked and truest servants of the people.
The House and the press had supported Mr. Mildmay, but to all that
Mr. Turnbull was quite indifferent; and when an assertion made by him
before three or four thousand persons at Manchester, to the effect
that he,--he specially,--was the friend and servant of the people,
was received with acclamation, he felt quite satisfied that he had
gained his point. Progressive reform in the franchise, of which
manhood suffrage should be the acknowledged and not far distant end,
equal electoral districts, ballot, tenant right for England as well
as Ireland, reduction of the standing army till there should be no
standing army to reduce, utter disregard of all political movements
in Europe, an almost idolatrous admiration for all political
movements in America, free trade in everything except malt, and
an absolute extinction of a State Church,--these were among the
principal articles in Mr. Turnbull's political catalogue. And I
think that when once he had learned the art of arranging his words
as he stood upon his legs, and had so mastered his voice as to
have obtained the ear of the House, the work of his life was not
difficult. Having nothing to construct, he could always deal with
generalities. Being free from responsibility, he was not called upon
either to study details or to master even great facts. It was his
business to inveigh against existing evils, and perhaps there is
no easier business when once the privilege of an audience has been
attained. It was his work to cut down forest-trees, and he had
nothing to do with the subsequent cultivation of the land. Mr.
Monk had once told Phineas Finn how great were the charms of that
inaccuracy which was permitted to the Opposition. Mr. Turnbull no
doubt enjoyed these charms to the full, though he would sooner have
put a padlock on his mouth for a month than have owned as much. Upon
the whole, Mr. Turnbull was no doubt right in resolving that he would
not take office, though some reticence on that subject might have
been more becoming to him.

The conversation at dinner, though it was altogether on political
subjects, had in it nothing of special interest as long as the girl
was there to change the plates; but when she was gone, and the door
was closed, it gradually opened out, and there came on to be a
pleasant sparring match between the two great Radicals,--the Radical
who had joined himself to the governing powers, and the Radical who
stood aloof. Mr. Kennedy barely said a word now and then, and Phineas
was almost as silent as Mr. Kennedy. He had come there to hear some
such discussion, and was quite willing to listen while guns of such
great calibre were being fired off for his amusement.

"I think Mr. Mildmay is making a great step forward," said Mr.
Turnbull.

"I think he is," said Mr. Monk.

"I did not believe that he would ever live to go so far. It will
hardly suffice even for this year; but still coming from him, it is
a great deal. It only shows how far a man may be made to go, if only
the proper force be applied. After all, it matters very little who
are the Ministers."

"That is what I have always declared," said Mr. Monk.

"Very little indeed. We don't mind whether it be Lord de Terrier, or
Mr. Mildmay, or Mr. Gresham, or you yourself, if you choose to get
yourself made First Lord of the Treasury."

"I have no such ambition, Turnbull."

"I should have thought you had. If I went in for that kind of thing
myself, I should like to go to the top of the ladder. I should feel
that if I could do any good at all by becoming a Minister, I could
only do it by becoming first Minister."

"You wouldn't doubt your own fitness for such a position?"

"I doubt my fitness for the position of any Minister," said Mr.
Turnbull.

"You mean that on other grounds," said Mr. Kennedy.

"I mean it on every ground," said Mr. Turnbull, rising on his legs
and standing with his back to the fire. "Of course I am not fit to
have diplomatic intercourse with men who would come to me simply with
the desire of deceiving me. Of course I am unfit to deal with members
of Parliament who would flock around me because they wanted places.
Of course I am unfit to answer every man's question so as to give no
information to any one."

"Could you not answer them so as to give information?" said Mr.
Kennedy.

But Mr. Turnbull was so intent on his speech that it may be doubted
whether he heard this interruption. He took no notice of it as he
went on. "Of course I am unfit to maintain the proprieties of a
seeming confidence between a Crown all-powerless and a people
all-powerful. No man recognises his own unfitness for such work more
clearly than I do, Mr. Monk. But if I took in hand such work at all,
I should like to be the leader, and not the led. Tell us fairly, now,
what are your convictions worth in Mr. Mildmay's Cabinet?"

"That is a question which a man may hardly answer himself," said Mr.
Monk.

"It is a question which a man should at least answer for himself
before he consents to sit there," said Mr. Turnbull, in a tone of
voice which was almost angry.

"And what reason have you for supposing that I have omitted that
duty?" said Mr. Monk.

"Simply this,--that I cannot reconcile your known opinions with the
practices of your colleagues."

"I will not tell you what my convictions may be worth in Mr.
Mildmay's Cabinet. I will not take upon myself to say that they are
worth the chair on which I sit when I am there. But I will tell you
what my aspirations were when I consented to fill that chair, and you
shall judge of their worth. I thought that they might possibly leaven
the batch of bread which we have to bake,--giving to the whole batch
more of the flavour of reform than it would have possessed had I
absented myself. I thought that when I was asked to join Mr. Mildmay
and Mr. Gresham, the very fact of that request indicated liberal
progress, and that if I refused the request I should be declining to
assist in good work."

"You could have supported them, if anything were proposed worthy of
support," said Mr. Turnbull.

"Yes; but I could not have been so effective in taking care that
some measure be proposed worthy of support as I may possibly be now.
I thought a good deal about it, and I believe that my decision was
right."

"I am sure you were right," said Mr. Kennedy.

"There can be no juster object of ambition than a seat in the
Cabinet," said Phineas.

"Sir, I must dispute that," said Mr. Turnbull, turning round upon our
hero. "I regard the position of our high Ministers as most
respectable."

"Thank you for so much," said Mr. Monk. But the orator went on again,
regardless of the interruption:--

"The position of gentlemen in inferior offices,--of gentlemen who
attend rather to the nods and winks of their superiors in Downing
Street than to the interest of their constituents,--I do not regard
as being highly respectable."

"A man cannot begin at the top," said Phineas.

"Our friend Mr. Monk has begun at what you are pleased to call the
top," said Mr. Turnbull. "But I will not profess to think that even
he has raised himself by going into office. To be an independent
representative of a really popular commercial constituency is, in my
estimation, the highest object of an Englishman's ambition."

"But why commercial, Mr. Turnbull?" said Mr. Kennedy.

"Because the commercial constituencies really do elect their own
members in accordance with their own judgments, whereas the counties
and the small towns are coerced either by individuals or by a
combination of aristocratic influences."

"And yet," said Mr. Kennedy, "there are not half a dozen
Conservatives returned by all the counties in Scotland."

"Scotland is very much to be honoured," said Mr. Turnbull.

Mr. Kennedy was the first to take his departure, and Mr. Turnbull
followed him very quickly. Phineas got up to go at the same time, but
stayed at his host's request, and sat for awhile smoking a cigar.

"Turnbull is a wonderful man," said Mr. Monk.

"Does he not domineer too much?"

"His fault is not arrogance, so much as ignorance that there is,
or should be, a difference between public and private life. In the
House of Commons a man in Mr. Turnbull's position must speak with
dictatorial assurance. He is always addressing, not the House only,
but the country at large, and the country will not believe in him
unless he believe in himself. But he forgets that he is not always
addressing the country at large. I wonder what sort of a time Mrs.
Turnbull and the little Turnbulls have of it?"

Phineas, as he went home, made up his mind that Mrs. Turnbull and
the little Turnbulls must probably have a bad time of it.




CHAPTER XIX

Lord Chiltern Rides His Horse Bonebreaker


It was known that whatever might be the details of Mr. Mildmay's
bill, the ballot would not form a part of it; and as there was a
strong party in the House of Commons, and a very numerous party out
of it, who were desirous that voting by ballot should be made a part
of the electoral law, it was decided that an independent motion
should be brought on in anticipation of Mr. Mildmay's bill. The
arrangement was probably one of Mr. Mildmay's own making; so that
he might be hampered by no opposition on that subject by his own
followers if,--as he did not doubt,--the motion should be lost.
It was expected that the debate would not last over one night,
and Phineas resolved that he would make his maiden speech on this
occasion. He had very strong opinions as to the inefficacy of the
ballot for any good purposes, and thought that he might be able to
strike out from his convictions some sparks of that fire which used
to be so plentiful with him at the old debating clubs. But even at
breakfast that morning his heart began to beat quickly at the idea
of having to stand on his legs before so critical an audience.

He knew that it would be well that he should if possible get the
subject off his mind during the day, and therefore went out among the
people who certainly would not talk to him about the ballot. He sat
for nearly an hour in the morning with Mr. Low, and did not even tell
Mr. Low that it was his intention to speak on that day. Then he made
one or two other calls, and at about three went up to Portman Square
to look for Lord Chiltern. It was now nearly the end of February, and
Phineas had often seen Lady Laura. He had not seen her brother, but
had learned from his sister that he had been driven up to London by
the frost, He was told by the porter at Lord Brentford's that Lord
Chiltern was in the house, and as he was passing through the hall he
met Lord Brentford himself. He was thus driven to speak, and felt
himself called upon to explain why he was there. "I am come to see
Lord Chiltern," he said.

"Is Lord Chiltern in the house?" said the Earl, turning to the
servant.

"Yes, my lord; his lordship arrived last night."

"You will find him upstairs, I suppose," said the Earl. "For myself
I know nothing of him." He spoke in an angry tone, as though he
resented the fact that any one should come to his house to call upon
his son; and turned his back quickly upon Phineas. But he thought
better of it before he reached the front door, and turned again.
"By-the-bye," said he, "what majority shall we have to-night, Finn?"

"Pretty nearly as many as you please to name, my lord," said Phineas.

"Well;--yes; I suppose we are tolerably safe. You ought to speak upon
it."

"Perhaps I may," said Phineas, feeling that he blushed as he spoke.

"Do," said the Earl. "Do. If you see Lord Chiltern will you tell him
from me that I should be glad to see him before he leaves London. I
shall be at home till noon to-morrow." Phineas, much astonished at
the commission given to him, of course said that he would do as he
was desired, and then passed on to Lord Chiltern's apartments.

He found his friend standing in the middle of the room, without coat
and waistcoat, with a pair of dumb-bells in his hands. "When there's
no hunting I'm driven to this kind of thing," said Lord Chiltern.

"I suppose it's good exercise," said Phineas.

"And it gives me something to do. When I'm in London I feel like a
gipsy in church, till the time comes for prowling out at night. I've
no occupation for my days whatever, and no place to which I can take
myself. I can't stand in a club window as some men do, and I should
disgrace any decent club if I did stand there. I belong to the
Travellers, but I doubt whether the porter would let me go in."

"I think you pique yourself on being more of an outer Bohemian than
you are," said Phineas.

"I pique myself on this, that whether Bohemian or not, I will go
nowhere that I am not wanted. Though,--for the matter of that, I
suppose I'm not wanted here." Then Phineas gave him the message from
his father. "He wishes to see me to-morrow morning?" continued Lord
Chiltern. "Let him send me word what it is he has to say to me. I do
not choose to be insulted by him, though he is my father."

"I would certainly go, if I were you."

"I doubt it very much, if all the circumstances were the same. Let
him tell me what he wants."

"Of course I cannot ask him, Chiltern."

"I know what he wants very well. Laura has been interfering and doing
no good. You know Violet Effingham?"

"Yes; I know her," said Phineas, much surprised.

"They want her to marry me."

"And you do not wish to marry her?"

"I did not say that. But do you think that such a girl as Miss
Effingham would marry such a man as I am? She would be much more
likely to take you. By George, she would! Do you know that she has
three thousand a year of her own?"

"I know that she has money."

"That's about the tune of it. I would take her without a shilling
to-morrow, if she would have me,--because I like her. She is the only
girl I ever did like. But what is the use of my liking her? They have
painted me so black among them, especially my father, that no decent
girl would think of marrying me."

"Your father can't be angry with you if you do your best to comply
with his wishes."

"I don't care a straw whether he be angry or not. He allows me eight
hundred a year, and he knows that if he stopped it I should go to the
Jews the next day. I could not help myself. He can't leave an acre
away from me, and yet he won't join me in raising money for the sake
of paying Laura her fortune."

"Lady Laura can hardly want money now."

"That detestable prig whom she has chosen to marry, and whom I
hate with all my heart, is richer than ever Croesus was; but
nevertheless Laura ought to have her own money. She shall have it
some day."

"I would see Lord Brentford, if I were you."

"I will think about it. Now tell me about coming down to Willingford.
Laura says you will come some day in March. I can mount you for a
couple of days and should be delighted to have you. My horses all
pull like the mischief, and rush like devils, and want a deal of
riding; but an Irishman likes that."

"I do not dislike it particularly."

"I like it. I prefer to have something to do on horseback. When
a man tells me that a horse is an armchair, I always tell him to
put the brute into his bedroom. Mind you come. The house I stay
at is called the Willingford Bull, and it's just four miles from
Peterborough." Phineas swore that he would go down and ride the
pulling horses, and then took his leave, earnestly advising Lord
Chiltern, as he went, to keep the appointment proposed by his father.

When the morning came, at half-past eleven, the son, who had been
standing for half an hour with his back to the fire in the large
gloomy dining-room, suddenly rang the bell. "Tell the Earl," he said
to the servant, "that I am here and will go to him if he wishes it."
The servant came back, and said that the Earl was waiting. Then Lord
Chiltern strode after the man into his father's room.

"Oswald," said the father, "I have sent for you because I think it
may be as well to speak to you on some business. Will you sit down?"
Lord Chiltern sat down, but did not answer a word. "I feel very
unhappy about your sister's fortune," said the Earl.

"So do I,--very unhappy. We can raise the money between us, and pay
her to-morrow, if you please it."

"It was in opposition to my advice that she paid your debts."

"And in opposition to mine too."

"I told her that I would not pay them, and were I to give her back
to-morrow, as you say, the money that she has so used, I should be
stultifying myself. But I will do so on one condition. I will join
with you in raising the money for your sister, on one condition."

"What is that?"

"Laura tells me,--indeed she has told me often,--that you are
attached to Violet Effingham."

"But Violet Effingham, my lord, is unhappily not attached to me."

"I do not know how that may be. Of course I cannot say. I have never
taken the liberty of interrogating her upon the subject."

"Even you, my lord, could hardly have done that."

"What do you mean by that? I say that I never have," said the Earl,
angrily.

"I simply mean that even you could hardly have asked Miss Effingham
such a question. I have asked her, and she has refused me."

"But girls often do that, and yet accept afterwards the men whom they
have refused. Laura tells me that she believes that Violet would
consent if you pressed your suit."

"Laura knows nothing about it, my lord."

"There you are probably wrong. Laura and Violet are very close
friends, and have no doubt discussed this matter between them. At any
rate, it may be as well that you should hear what I have to say. Of
course I shall not interfere myself. There is no ground on which I
can do so with propriety."

"None whatever," said Lord Chiltern.

The Earl became very angry, and nearly broke down in his anger. He
paused for a moment, feeling disposed to tell his son to go and never
to see him again. But he gulped down his wrath, and went on with his
speech. "My meaning, sir, is this;--that I have so great faith in
Violet Effingham, that I would receive her acceptance of your hand as
the only proof which would be convincing to me of amendment in your
mode of life. If she were to do so, I would join with you in raising
money to pay your sister, would make some further sacrifice with
reference to an income for you and your wife, and--would make you
both welcome to Saulsby,--if you chose to come." The Earl's voice
hesitated much and became almost tremulous as he made the last
proposition. And his eyes had fallen away from his son's gaze, and
he had bent a little over the table, and was moved. But he recovered
himself at once, and added, with all proper dignity, "If you have
anything to say I shall be glad to hear it."

"All your offers would be nothing, my lord, if I did not like the
girl."

"I should not ask you to marry a girl if you did not like her, as you
call it."

"But as to Miss Effingham, it happens that our wishes jump together.
I have asked her, and she has refused me. I don't even know where
to find her to ask her again. If I went to Lady Baldock's house the
servants would not let me in."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Yours partly, my lord. You have told everybody that I am the devil,
and now all the old women believe it."

"I never told anybody so."

"I'll tell you what I'll do. I will go down to Lady Baldock's to-day.
I suppose she is at Baddingham. And if I can get speech of Miss
Effingham--"

"Miss Effingham is not at Baddingham. Miss Effingham is staying with
your sister in Grosvenor Place. I saw her yesterday."

"She is in London?"

"I tell you that I saw her yesterday."

"Very well, my lord. Then I will do the best I can. Laura will tell
you of the result."

The father would have given the son some advice as to the mode in
which he should put forward his claim upon Violet's hand, but the son
would not wait to hear it. Choosing to presume that the conference
was over, he went back to the room in which he had kept his
dumb-bells, and for a minute or two went to work at his favourite
exercise. But he soon put the dumb-bells down, and began to prepare
himself for his work. If this thing was to be done, it might as
well be done at once. He looked out of his window, and saw that the
streets were in a mess of slush. White snow was becoming black mud,
as it will do in London; and the violence of frost was giving way to
the horrors of thaw. All would be soft and comparatively pleasant in
Northamptonshire on the following morning, and if everything went
right he would breakfast at the Willingford Bull. He would go down by
the hunting train, and be at the inn by ten. The meet was only six
miles distant, and all would be pleasant. He would do this whatever
might be the result of his work to-day;--but in the meantime he would
go and do his work. He had a cab called, and within half an hour of
the time at which he had left his father, he was at the door of his
sister's house in Grosvenor Place. The servants told him that the
ladies were at lunch. "I can't eat lunch," he said. "Tell them that I
am in the drawing-room."

"He has come to see you," said Lady Laura, as soon as the servant had
left the room.

"I hope not," said Violet.

"Do not say that."

"But I do say it. I hope he has not come to see me;--that is, not to
see me specially. Of course I cannot pretend not to know what you
mean."

"He may think it civil to call if he has heard that you are in town,"
said Lady Laura, after a pause.

"If it be only that, I will be civil in return;--as sweet as May to
him. If it be really only that, and if I were sure of it, I should
be really glad to see him." Then they finished their lunch, and Lady
Laura got up and led the way to the drawing-room.

"I hope you remember," said she, gravely, "that you might be a
saviour to him."

"I do not believe in girls being saviours to men. It is the man who
should be the saviour to the girl. If I marry at all, I have the
right to expect that protection shall be given to me,--not that I
shall have to give it."

"Violet, you are determined to misrepresent what I mean."

Lord Chiltern was walking about the room, and did not sit down when
they entered. The ordinary greetings took place, and Miss Effingham
made some remark about the frost. "But it seems to be going," she
said, "and I suppose that you will soon be at work again?"

"Yes;--I shall hunt to-morrow," said Lord Chiltern.

"And the next day, and the next, and the next," said Violet, "till
about the middle of April;--and then your period of misery will
begin!"

"Exactly," said Lord Chiltern. "I have nothing but hunting that I can
call an occupation."

"Why don't you make one?" said his sister.

"I mean to do so, if it be possible. Laura, would you mind leaving me
and Miss Effingham alone for a few minutes?"

Lady Laura got up, and so also did Miss Effingham. "For what
purpose?" said the latter. "It cannot be for any good purpose."

"At any rate I wish it, and I will not harm you." Lady Laura was now
going, but paused before she reached the door. "Laura, will you do as
I ask you?" said the brother. Then Lady Laura went.

"It was not that I feared you would harm me, Lord Chiltern," said
Violet.

"No;--I know it was not. But what I say is always said awkwardly. An
hour ago I did not know that you were in town, but when I was told
the news I came at once. My father told me."

"I am so glad that you see your father."

"I have not spoken to him for months before, and probably may not
speak to him for months again. But there is one point, Violet, on
which he and I agree."

"I hope there will soon be many."

"It is possible,--but I fear not probable. Look here, Violet,"--and
he looked at her with all his eyes, till it seemed to her that he was
all eyes, so great was the intensity of his gaze;--"I should scorn
myself were I to permit myself to come before you with a plea for
your favour founded on my father's whims. My father is unreasonable,
and has been very unjust to me. He has ever believed evil of me, and
has believed it often when all the world knew that he was wrong. I
care little for being reconciled to a father who has been so cruel to
me."

"He loves me dearly, and is my friend. I would rather that you should
not speak against him to me."

"You will understand, at least, that I am asking nothing from you
because he wishes it. Laura probably has told you that you may make
things straight by becoming my wife."

"She has,--certainly, Lord Chiltern."

"It is an argument that she should never have used. It is an argument
to which you should not listen for a moment. Make things straight
indeed! Who can tell? There would be very little made straight by
such a marriage, if it were not that I loved you. Violet, that is
my plea, and my only one. I love you so well that I do believe that
if you took me I should return to the old ways, and become as other
men are, and be in time as respectable, as stupid,--and perhaps as
ill-natured as old Lady Baldock herself."

"My poor aunt!"

"You know she says worse things of me than that. Now, dearest, you
have heard all that I have to say to you." As he spoke he came close
to her, and put out his hand,--but she did not touch it. "I have no
other argument to use,--not a word more to say. As I came here in
the cab I was turning it over in my mind that I might find what best
I should say. But, after all, there is nothing more to be said than
that."

"The words make no difference," she replied.

"Not unless they be so uttered as to force a belief. I do love you. I
know no other reason but that why you should be my wife. I have no
other excuse to offer for coming to you again. You are the one thing
in the world that to me has any charm. Can you be surprised that I
should be persistent in asking for it?" He was looking at her still
with the same gaze, and there seemed to be a power in his eye from
which she could not escape. He was still standing with his right hand
out, as though expecting, or at least hoping, that her hand might be
put into his.

"How am I to answer you?" she said.

"With your love, if you can give it to me. Do you remember how you
swore once that you would love me for ever and always?"

"You should not remind me of that. I was a child then,--a naughty
child," she added, smiling; "and was put to bed for what I did on
that day."

"Be a child still."

"Ah, if we but could!"

"And have you no other answer to make me?"

"Of course I must answer you. You are entitled to an answer. Lord
Chiltern, I am sorry that I cannot give you the love for which you
ask."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Is it myself personally, or what you have heard of me, that is so
hateful to you?"

"Nothing is hateful to me. I have never spoken of hate. I shall
always feel the strongest regard for my old friend and playfellow.
But there are many things which a woman is bound to consider before
she allows herself so to love a man that she can consent to become
his wife."

"Allow herself! Then it is a matter entirely of calculation."

"I suppose there should be some thought in it, Lord Chiltern."

There was now a pause, and the man's hand was at last allowed to
drop, as there came no response to the proffered grasp. He walked
once or twice across the room before he spoke again, and then he
stopped himself closely opposite to her.

"I shall never try again," he said.

"It will be better so," she replied.

"There is something to me unmanly in a man's persecuting a girl. Just
tell Laura, will you, that it is all over; and she may as well tell
my father. Good-bye."

She then tendered her hand to him, but he did not take it,--probably
did not see it, and at once left the room and the house.

"And yet I believe you love him," Lady Laura said to her friend
in her anger, when they discussed the matter immediately on Lord
Chiltern's departure.

"You have no right to say that, Laura."

"I have a right to my belief, and I do believe it. I think you love
him, and that you lack the courage to risk yourself in trying to save
him."

"Is a woman bound to marry a man if she love him?"

"Yes, she is," replied Lady Laura impetuously, without thinking of
what she was saying; "that is, if she be convinced that she also is
loved."

"Whatever be the man's character;--whatever be the circumstances?
Must she do so, whatever friends may say to the contrary? Is there to
be no prudence in marriage?"

"There may be a great deal too much prudence," said Lady Laura.

"That is true. There is certainly too much prudence if a woman
marries prudently, but without love." Violet intended by this no
attack upon her friend,--had not had present in her mind at the
moment any idea of Lady Laura's special prudence in marrying Mr.
Kennedy; but Lady Laura felt it keenly, and knew at once that an
arrow had been shot which had wounded her.

"We shall get nothing," she said, "by descending to personalities
with each other."

"I meant none, Laura."

"I suppose it is always hard," said Lady Laura, "for any one person
to judge altogether of the mind of another. If I have said anything
severe of your refusal of my brother, I retract it. I only wish that
it could have been otherwise."

Lord Chiltern, when he left his sister's house, walked through the
slush and dirt to a haunt of his in the neighbourhood of Covent
Garden, and there he remained through the whole afternoon and
evening. A certain Captain Clutterbuck joined him, and dined with
him. He told nothing to Captain Clutterbuck of his sorrow, but
Captain Clutterbuck could see that he was unhappy.

"Let's have another bottle of 'cham,'" said Captain Clutterbuck, when
their dinner was nearly over. "'Cham' is the only thing to screw one
up when one is down a peg."

"You can have what you like," said Lord Chiltern; "but I shall have
some brandy-and-water."

"The worst of brandy-and-water is, that one gets tired of it before
the night is over," said Captain Clutterbuck.

Nevertheless, Lord Chiltern did go down to Peterborough the next day
by the hunting train, and rode his horse Bonebreaker so well in that
famous run from Sutton springs to Gidding that after the run young
Piles,--of the house of Piles, Sarsnet, and Gingham,--offered him
three hundred pounds for the animal.

"He isn't worth above fifty," said Lord Chiltern.

"But I'll give you the three hundred," said Piles.

"You couldn't ride him if you'd got him," said Lord Chiltern.

"Oh, couldn't I!" said Piles. But Mr. Piles did not continue the
conversation, contenting himself with telling his friend Grogram that
that red devil Chiltern was as drunk as a lord.




CHAPTER XX

The Debate on the Ballot


Phineas took his seat in the House with a consciousness of much
inward trepidation of heart on that night of the ballot debate. After
leaving Lord Chiltern he went down to his club and dined alone. Three
or four men came and spoke to him; but he could not talk to them at
his ease, nor did he quite know what they were saying to him. He
was going to do something which he longed to achieve, but the very
idea of which, now that it was so near to him, was a terror to him.
To be in the House and not to speak would, to his thinking, be a
disgraceful failure. Indeed, he could not continue to keep his seat
unless he spoke. He had been put there that he might speak. He would
speak. Of course he would speak. Had he not already been conspicuous
almost as a boy orator? And yet, at this moment he did not know
whether he was eating mutton or beef, or who was standing opposite to
him and talking to him, so much was he in dread of the ordeal which
he had prepared for himself. As he went down to the House after
dinner, he almost made up his mind that it would be a good thing to
leave London by one of the night mail trains. He felt himself to be
stiff and stilted as he walked, and that his clothes were uneasy to
him. When he turned into Westminster Hall he regretted more keenly
than ever he had done that he had seceded from the keeping of Mr.
Low. He could, he thought, have spoken very well in court, and would
there have learned that self-confidence which now failed him so
terribly. It was, however, too late to think of that. He could only
go in and take his seat.

He went in and took his seat, and the chamber seemed to him to be
mysteriously large, as though benches were crowded over benches, and
galleries over galleries. He had been long enough in the House to
have lost the original awe inspired by the Speaker and the clerks of
the House, by the row of Ministers, and by the unequalled importance
of the place. On ordinary occasions he could saunter in and out, and
whisper at his ease to a neighbour. But on this occasion he went
direct to the bench on which he ordinarily sat, and began at once to
rehearse to himself his speech. He had in truth been doing this all
day, in spite of the effort that he had made to rid himself of all
memory of the occasion. He had been collecting the heads of his
speech while Mr. Low had been talking to him, and refreshing his
quotations in the presence of Lord Chiltern and the dumb-bells. He
had taxed his memory and his intellect with various tasks, which,
as he feared, would not adjust themselves one with another. He had
learned the headings of his speech,--so that one heading might follow
the other, and nothing be forgotten. And he had learned verbatim the
words which he intended to utter under each heading,--with a hope
that if any one compact part should be destroyed or injured in its
compactness by treachery of memory, or by the course of the debate,
each other compact part might be there in its entirety, ready for
use;--or at least so many of the compact parts as treachery of
memory and the accidents of the debate might leave to him; so
that his speech might be like a vessel, watertight in its various
compartments, that would float by the buoyancy of its stern and bow,
even though the hold should be waterlogged. But this use of his
composed words, even though he should be able to carry it through,
would not complete his work;--for it would be his duty to answer in
some sort those who had gone before him, and in order to do this he
must be able to insert, without any prearrangement of words or ideas,
little intercalatory parts between those compact masses of argument
with which he had been occupying himself for many laborious hours. As
he looked round upon the House and perceived that everything was dim
before him, that all his original awe of the House had returned, and
with it a present quaking fear that made him feel the pulsations
of his own heart, he became painfully aware that the task he had
prepared for himself was too great. He should, on this the occasion
of his rising to his maiden legs, have either prepared for himself
a short general speech, which could indeed have done little for his
credit in the House, but which might have served to carry off the
novelty of the thing, and have introduced him to the sound of his own
voice within those walls,--or he should have trusted to what his wit
and spirit would produce for him on the spur of the moment, and not
have burdened himself with a huge exercise of memory. During the
presentation of a few petitions he tried to repeat to himself the
first of his compact parts,--a compact part on which, as it might
certainly be brought into use let the debate have gone as it might,
he had expended great care. He had flattered himself that there
was something of real strength in his words as he repeated them to
himself in the comfortable seclusion of his own room, and he had made
them so ready to his tongue that he thought it to be impossible that
he should forget even an intonation. Now he found that he could not
remember the first phrases without unloosing and looking at a small
roll of paper which he held furtively in his hand. What was the good
of looking at it? He would forget it again in the next moment. He had
intended to satisfy the most eager of his friends, and to astound his
opponents. As it was, no one would be satisfied,--and none astounded
but they who had trusted in him.

The debate began, and if the leisure afforded by a long and tedious
speech could have served him, he might have had leisure enough. He
tried at first to follow all that this advocate for the ballot might
say, hoping thence to acquire the impetus of strong interest; but he
soon wearied of the work, and began to long that the speech might
be ended, although the period of his own martyrdom would thereby
be brought nearer to him. At half-past seven so many members had
deserted their seats, that Phineas began to think that he might be
saved all further pains by a "count out." He reckoned the members
present and found that they were below the mystic forty,--first by
two, then by four, by five, by seven, and at one time by eleven.
It was not for him to ask the Speaker to count the House, but he
wondered that no one else should do so. And yet, as the idea of this
termination to the night's work came upon him, and as he thought of
his lost labour, he almost took courage again,--almost dreaded rather
than wished for the interference of some malicious member. But there
was no malicious member then present, or else it was known that Lords
of the Treasury and Lords of the Admiralty would flock in during
the Speaker's ponderous counting,--and thus the slow length of the
ballot-lover's verbosity was permitted to evolve itself without
interruption. At eight o'clock he had completed his catalogue of
illustrations, and immediately Mr. Monk rose from the Treasury bench
to explain the grounds on which the Government must decline to
support the motion before the House.

Phineas was aware that Mr. Monk intended to speak, and was aware also
that his speech would be very short. "My idea is," he had said to
Phineas, "that every man possessed of the franchise should dare to
have and to express a political opinion of his own; that otherwise
the franchise is not worth having; and that men will learn that when
all so dare, no evil can come from such daring. As the ballot would
make any courage of that kind unnecessary, I dislike the ballot. I
shall confine myself to that, and leave the illustration to younger
debaters." Phineas also had been informed that Mr. Turnbull would
reply to Mr. Monk, with the purpose of crushing Mr. Monk into dust,
and Phineas had prepared his speech with something of an intention of
subsequently crushing Mr. Turnbull. He knew, however, that he could
not command his opportunity. There was the chapter of accidents to
which he must accommodate himself; but such had been his programme
for the evening.

Mr. Monk made his speech,--and though he was short, he was very fiery
and energetic. Quick as lightning words of wrath and scorn flew from
him, in which he painted the cowardice, the meanness, the falsehood
of the ballot. "The ballot-box," he said, "was the grave of all true
political opinion." Though he spoke hardly for ten minutes, he seemed
to say more than enough, ten times enough, to slaughter the argument
of the former speaker. At every hot word as it fell Phineas was
driven to regret that a paragraph of his own was taken away from him,
and that his choicest morsels of standing ground were being cut from
under his feet. When Mr. Monk sat down, Phineas felt that Mr. Monk
had said all that he, Phineas Finn, had intended to say.

Then Mr. Turnbull rose slowly from the bench below the gangway. With
a speaker so frequent and so famous as Mr. Turnbull no hurry is
necessary. He is sure to have his opportunity. The Speaker's eye is
ever travelling to the accustomed spots. Mr. Turnbull rose slowly and
began his oration very mildly. "There was nothing," he said, "that he
admired so much as the poetic imagery and the high-flown sentiment
of his right honourable friend the member for West Bromwich,"--Mr.
Monk sat for West Bromwich,--"unless it were the stubborn facts and
unanswered arguments of his honourable friend who had brought forward
this motion." Then Mr. Turnbull proceeded after his fashion to crush
Mr. Monk. He was very prosaic, very clear both in voice and language,
very harsh, and very unscrupulous. He and Mr. Monk had been joined
together in politics for over twenty years;--but one would have
thought, from Mr. Turnbull's words, that they had been the bitterest
of enemies. Mr. Monk was taunted with his office, taunted with his
desertion of the liberal party, taunted with his ambition,--and
taunted with his lack of ambition. "I once thought," said Mr.
Turnbull,--"nay, not long ago I thought, that he and I would have
fought this battle for the people, shoulder to shoulder, and knee to
knee;--but he has preferred that the knee next to his own shall wear
a garter, and that the shoulder which supports him shall be decked
with a blue ribbon,--as shoulders, I presume, are decked in those
closet conferences which are called Cabinets."

Just after this, while Mr. Turnbull was still going on with a variety
of illustrations drawn from the United States, Barrington Erle
stepped across the benches up to the place where Phineas was sitting,
and whispered a few words into his ear. "Bonteen is prepared to
answer Turnbull, and wishes to do it. I told him that I thought you
should have the opportunity, if you wish it." Phineas was not ready
with a reply to Erle at the spur of the moment. "Somebody told
me," continued Erle, "that you had said that you would like to speak
to-night."

"So I did," said Phineas.

"Shall I tell Bonteen that you will do it?"

The chamber seemed to swim round before our hero's eyes. Mr. Turnbull
was still going on with his clear, loud, unpleasant voice, but there
was no knowing how long he might go on. Upon Phineas, if he should
now consent, might devolve the duty, within ten minutes, within three
minutes, of rising there before a full House to defend his great
friend, Mr. Monk, from a gross personal attack. Was it fit that
such a novice as he should undertake such a work as that? Were he
to do so, all that speech which he had prepared, with its various
self-floating parts, must go for nothing. The task was exactly that
which, of all tasks, he would best like to have accomplished, and
to have accomplished well. But if he should fail! And he felt that
he would fail. For such work a man should have all his senses
about him,--his full courage, perfect confidence, something almost
approaching to contempt for listening opponents, and nothing of fear
in regard to listening friends. He should be as a cock in his own
farmyard, master of all the circumstances around him. But Phineas
Finn had not even as yet heard the sound of his own voice in that
room. At this moment, so confused was he, that he did not know where
sat Mr. Mildmay, and where Mr. Daubeny. All was confused, and there
arose as it were a sound of waters in his ears, and a feeling as of a
great hell around him. "I had rather wait," he said at last. "Bonteen
had better reply." Barrington Erle looked into his face, and then
stepping back across the benches, told Mr. Bonteen that the
opportunity was his.

Mr. Turnbull continued speaking quite long enough to give poor
Phineas time for repentance; but repentance was of no use. He had
decided against himself, and his decision could not be reversed. He
would have left the House, only it seemed to him that had he done so
every one would look at him. He drew his hat down over his eyes, and
remained in his place, hating Mr. Bonteen, hating Barrington Erle,
hating Mr. Turnbull,--but hating no one so much as he hated himself.
He had disgraced himself for ever and could never recover the
occasion which he had lost.

Mr. Bonteen's speech was in no way remarkable. Mr. Monk, he said, had
done the State good service by adding his wisdom and patriotism to
the Cabinet. The sort of argument which Mr. Bonteen used to prove
that a man who has gained credit as a legislator should in process of
time become a member of the executive, is trite and common, and was
not used by Mr. Bonteen with any special force. Mr. Bonteen was glib
of tongue and possessed that familiarity with the place which poor
Phineas had lacked so sorely. There was one moment, however, which
was terrible to Phineas. As soon as Mr. Bonteen had shown the purpose
for which he was on his legs, Mr. Monk looked round at Phineas, as
though in reproach. He had expected that this work should fall into
the hands of one who would perform it with more warmth of heart than
could be expected from Mr. Bonteen. When Mr. Bonteen ceased, two or
three other short speeches were made and members fired off their
little guns. Phineas having lost so great an opportunity, would not
now consent to accept one that should be comparatively valueless.
Then there came a division. The motion was lost by a large
majority,--by any number you might choose to name, as Phineas had
said to Lord Brentford; but in that there was no triumph to the poor
wretch who had failed through fear, and who was now a coward in his
own esteem.

He left the House alone, carefully avoiding all speech with any one.
As he came out he had seen Laurence Fitzgibbon in the lobby, but he
had gone on without pausing a moment, so that he might avoid his
friend. And when he was out in Palace Yard, where was he to go next?
He looked at his watch, and found that it was just ten. He did not
dare to go to his club, and it was impossible for him to go home and
to bed. He was very miserable, and nothing would comfort him but
sympathy. Was there any one who would listen to his abuse of himself,
and would then answer him with kindly apologies for his own weakness?
Mrs. Bunce would do it if she knew how, but sympathy from Mrs. Bunce
would hardly avail. There was but one person in the world to whom he
could tell his own humiliation with any hope of comfort, and that
person was Lady Laura Kennedy. Sympathy from any man would have been
distasteful to him. He had thought for a moment of flinging himself
at Mr. Monk's feet and telling all his weakness;--but he could not
have endured pity even from Mr. Monk. It was not to be endured from
any man.

He thought that Lady Laura Kennedy would be at home, and probably
alone. He knew, at any rate, that he might be allowed to knock at her
door, even at that hour. He had left Mr. Kennedy in the House, and
there he would probably remain for the next hour. There was no man
more constant than Mr. Kennedy in seeing the work of the day,--or of
the night,--to its end. So Phineas walked up Victoria Street, and
from thence into Grosvenor Place, and knocked at Lady Laura's door.
"Yes; Lady Laura was at home; and alone." He was shown up into the
drawing-room, and there he found Lady Laura waiting for her husband.

"So the great debate is over," she said, with as much of irony as she
knew how to throw into the epithet.

"Yes; it is over."

"And what have they done,--those leviathans of the people?"

Then Phineas told her what was the majority.

"Is there anything the matter with you, Mr. Finn?" she said, looking
at him suddenly. "Are you not well?"

"Yes; I am very well."

"Will you not sit down? There is something wrong, I know. What is
it?"

"I have simply been the greatest idiot, the greatest coward, the most
awkward ass that ever lived!"

"What do you mean?"

"I do not know why I should come to tell you of it at this hour at
night, but I have come that I might tell you. Probably because there
is no one else in the whole world who would not laugh at me."

"At any rate, I shall not laugh at you," said Lady Laura.

"But you will despise me."

"That I am sure I shall not do."

"You cannot help it. I despise myself. For years I have placed before
myself the ambition of speaking in the House of Commons;--for years I
have been thinking whether there would ever come to me an opportunity
of making myself heard in that assembly, which I consider to be
the first in the world. To-day the opportunity has been offered to
me,--and, though the motion was nothing, the opportunity was great.
The subject was one on which I was thoroughly prepared. The manner
in which I was summoned was most flattering to me. I was especially
called on to perform a task which was most congenial to my
feelings;--and I declined because I was afraid."

"You had thought too much about it, my friend," said Lady Laura.

"Too much or too little, what does it matter?" replied Phineas, in
despair. "There is the fact. I could not do it. Do you remember the
story of Conachar in the 'Fair Maid of Perth;'--how his heart refused
to give him blood enough to fight? He had been suckled with the milk
of a timid creature, and, though he could die, there was none of the
strength of manhood in him. It is about the same thing with me, I
take it."

"I do not think you are at all like Conachar," said Lady Laura.

"I am equally disgraced, and I must perish after the same fashion. I
shall apply for the Chiltern Hundreds in a day or two."

"You will do nothing of the kind," said Lady Laura, getting up from
her chair and coming towards him. "You shall not leave this room till
you have promised me that you will do nothing of the kind. I do not
know as yet what has occurred to-night; but I do know that that
modesty which has kept you silent is more often a grace than a
disgrace."

This was the kind of sympathy which he wanted, She drew her chair
nearer to him, and then he explained to her as accurately as he could
what had taken place in the House on this evening,--how he had
prepared his speech, how he had felt that his preparation was vain,
how he perceived from the course of the debate that if he spoke
at all his speech must be very different from what he had first
intended; how he had declined to take upon himself a task which
seemed to require so close a knowledge of the ways of the House and
of the temper of the men, as the defence of such a man as Mr. Monk.
In accusing himself he, unconsciously, excused himself, and his
excuse, in Lady Laura's ears, was more valid than his accusation.

"And you would give it all up for that?" she said.

"Yes; I think I ought."

"I have very little doubt but that you were right in allowing Mr.
Bonteen to undertake such a task. I should simply explain to Mr. Monk
that you felt too keen an interest in his welfare to stand up as an
untried member in his defence. It is not, I think, the work for a man
who is not at home in the House. I am sure Mr. Monk will feel this,
and I am quite certain that Mr. Kennedy will think that you have been
right."

"I do not care what Mr. Kennedy may think."

"Why do you say that, Mr. Finn? That is not courteous."

"Simply because I care so much what Mr. Kennedy's wife may think.
Your opinion is all in all to me,--only that I know you are too kind
to me."

"He would not be too kind to you. He is never too kind to any one. He
is justice itself."

Phineas, as he heard the tones of her voice, could not but feel that
there was in Lady Laura's words something of an accusation against
her husband.

"I hate justice," said Phineas. "I know that justice would condemn
me. But love and friendship know nothing of justice. The value of
love is that it overlooks faults, and forgives even crimes."

"I, at any rate," said Lady Laura, "will forgive the crime of your
silence in the House. My strong belief in your success will not be in
the least affected by what you tell me of your failure to-night. You
must await another opportunity; and, if possible, you should be less
anxious as to your own performance. There is Violet." As Lady Laura
spoke the last words, there was a sound of a carriage stopping in the
street, and the front door was immediately opened. "She is staying
here, but has been dining with her uncle, Admiral Effingham." Then
Violet Effingham entered the room, rolled up in pretty white furs,
and silk cloaks, and lace shawls. "Here is Mr. Finn, come to tell us
of the debate about the ballot."

"I don't care twopence about the ballot," said Violet, as she put out
her hand to Phineas. "Are we going to have a new iron fleet built?
That's the question."

"Sir Simeon has come out strong to-night," said Lady Laura.

"There is no political question of any importance except the question
of the iron fleet," said Violet. "I am quite sure of that, and so, if
Mr. Finn can tell me nothing about the iron fleet, I'll go to bed."

"Mr. Kennedy will tell you everything when he comes home," said
Phineas.

"Oh, Mr. Kennedy! Mr. Kennedy never tells one anything. I doubt
whether Mr. Kennedy thinks that any woman knows the meaning of the
British Constitution."

"Do you know what it means, Violet?" asked Lady Laura.

"To be sure I do. It is liberty to growl about the iron fleet, or
the ballot, or the taxes, or the peers, or the bishops,--or anything
else, except the House of Commons. That's the British Constitution.
Good-night, Mr. Finn."

"What a beautiful creature she is!" said Phineas.

"Yes, indeed," said Lady Laura.

"And full of wit and grace and pleasantness. I do not wonder at your
brother's choice."

It will be remembered that this was said on the day before Lord
Chiltern had made his offer for the third time.

"Poor Oswald! he does not know as yet that she is in town."

After that Phineas went, not wishing to await the return of Mr.
Kennedy. He had felt that Violet Effingham had come into the room
just in time to remedy a great difficulty. He did not wish to speak
of his love to a married woman,--to the wife of the man who called
him friend,--to a woman who he felt sure would have rebuked him. But
he could hardly have restrained himself had not Miss Effingham been
there.

But as he went home he thought more of Miss Effingham than he did of
Lady Laura; and I think that the voice of Miss Effingham had done
almost as much towards comforting him as had the kindness of the
other.

At any rate, he had been comforted.




CHAPTER XXI

"Do be punctual"


On the very morning after his failure in the House of Commons, when
Phineas was reading in the _Telegraph_,--he took the _Telegraph_ not
from choice but for economy,--the words of that debate which he had
heard and in which he should have taken a part, a most unwelcome
visit was paid to him. It was near eleven, and the breakfast things
were still on the table. He was at this time on a Committee of the
House with reference to the use of potted peas in the army and
navy, at which he had sat once,--at a preliminary meeting,--and in
reference to which he had already resolved that as he had failed so
frightfully in debate, he would certainly do his duty to the utmost
in the more easy but infinitely more tedious work of the Committee
Room. The Committee met at twelve, and he intended to walk down to
the Reform Club, and then to the House. He had just completed his
reading of the debate and of the leaders in the _Telegraph_ on the
subject. He had told himself how little the writer of the article
knew about Mr. Turnbull, how little about Mr. Monk, and how little
about the people,--such being his own ideas as to the qualifications
of the writer of that leading article,--and was about to start. But
Mrs. Bunce arrested him by telling him that there was a man below who
wanted to see him.

"What sort of a man, Mrs. Bunce?"

"He ain't a gentleman, sir."

"Did he give his name?"

"He did not, sir; but I know it's about money. I know the ways of
them so well. I've seen this one's face before somewhere."

"You had better show him up," said Phineas. He knew well the business
on which the man was come. The man wanted money for that bill which
Laurence Fitzgibbon had sent afloat, and which Phineas had endorsed.
Phineas had never as yet fallen so deeply into troubles of money as
to make it necessary that he need refuse himself to any callers on
that score, and he did not choose to do so now. Nevertheless he most
heartily wished that he had left his lodgings for the club before the
man had come. This was not the first he had heard of the bill being
overdue and unpaid. The bill had been brought to him noted a month
since, and then he had simply told the youth who brought it that he
would see Mr. Fitzgibbon and have the matter settled. He had spoken
to his friend Laurence, and Laurence had simply assured him that all
should be made right in two days,--or, at furthest, by the end of
a week. Since that time he had observed that his friend had been
somewhat shy of speaking to him when no others were with them.
Phineas would not have alluded to the bill had he and Laurence been
alone together; but he had been quick enough to guess from his
friend's manner that the matter was not settled. Now, no doubt,
serious trouble was about to commence.

The visitor was a little man with grey hair and a white cravat, some
sixty years of age, dressed in black, with a very decent hat,--which,
on entering the room, he at once put down on the nearest chair,--with
reference to whom, any judge on the subject would have concurred at
first sight in the decision pronounced by Mrs. Bunce, though none
but a judge very well used to sift the causes of his own conclusions
could have given the reasons for that early decision. "He ain't a
gentleman," Mrs. Bunce had said. And the man certainly was not a
gentleman. The old man in the white cravat was very neatly dressed,
and carried himself without any of that humility which betrays one
class of uncertified aspirants to gentility, or of that assumed
arrogance which is at once fatal to another class. But, nevertheless,
Mrs. Bunce had seen at a glance that he was not a gentleman,--had
seen, moreover, that such a man could have come only upon one
mission. She was right there too. This visitor had come about money.

"About this bill, Mr. Finn," said the visitor, proceeding to take
out of his breast coat-pocket a rather large leathern case, as he
advanced up towards the fire. "My name is Clarkson, Mr. Finn. If I
may venture so far, I'll take a chair."

"Certainly, Mr. Clarkson," said Phineas, getting up and pointing to
a seat.

"Thankye, Mr. Finn, thankye. We shall be more comfortable doing
business sitting, shan't we?" Whereupon the horrid little man drew
himself close in to the fire, and spreading out his leathern case
upon his knees, began to turn over one suspicious bit of paper after
another, as though he were uncertain in what part of his portfolio
lay this identical bit which he was seeking. He seemed to be quite
at home, and to feel that there was no ground whatever for hurry
in such comfortable quarters. Phineas hated him at once,--with a
hatred altogether unconnected with the difficulty which his friend
Fitzgibbon had brought upon him.

"Here it is," said Mr. Clarkson at last. "Oh, dear me, dear me! the
third of November, and here we are in March! I didn't think it was
so bad as this;--I didn't indeed. This is very bad,--very bad! And
for Parliament gents, too, who should be more punctual than anybody,
because of the privilege. Shouldn't they now, Mr. Finn?"

"All men should be punctual, I suppose," said Phineas.

"Of course they should; of course they should. I always say to my
gents, 'Be punctual, and I'll do anything for you.' But, perhaps, Mr.
Finn, you can hand me a cheque for this amount, and then you and I
will begin square."

"Indeed I cannot, Mr. Clarkson."

"Not hand me a cheque for it!"

"Upon my word, no."

"That's very bad;--very bad indeed. Then I suppose I must take the
half, and renew for the remainder, though I don't like it;--I don't
indeed."

"I can pay no part of that bill, Mr. Clarkson."

"Pay no part of it!" and Mr. Clarkson, in order that he might the
better express his surprise, arrested his hand in the very act of
poking his host's fire.

"If you'll allow me, I'll manage the fire," said Phineas, putting out
his hand for the poker.

But Mr. Clarkson was fond of poking fires, and would not surrender
the poker. "Pay no part of it!" he said again, holding the poker away
from Phineas in his left hand. "Don't say that, Mr. Finn. Pray don't
say that. Don't drive me to be severe. I don't like to be severe with
my gents. I'll do anything, Mr. Finn, if you'll only be punctual."

"The fact is, Mr. Clarkson, I have never had one penny of
consideration for that bill, and--"

"Oh, Mr. Finn! oh, Mr. Finn!" and then Mr. Clarkson had his will of
the fire.

"I never had one penny of consideration for that bill," continued
Phineas. "Of course, I don't deny my responsibility."

"No, Mr. Finn; you can't deny that. Here it is;--Phineas Finn;--and
everybody knows you, because you're a Parliament gent."

"I don't deny it. But I had no reason to suppose that I should
be called upon for the money when I accommodated my friend, Mr.
Fitzgibbon, and I have not got it. That is the long and the short
of it. I must see him and take care that arrangements are made."

"Arrangements!"

"Yes, arrangements for settling the bill."

"He hasn't got the money, Mr. Finn. You know that as well as I do."

"I know nothing about it, Mr. Clarkson."

"Oh yes, Mr. Finn; you know; you know."

"I tell you I know nothing about it," said Phineas, waxing angry.

"As to Mr. Fitzgibbon, he's the pleasantest gent that ever lived.
Isn't he now? I've know'd him these ten years. I don't suppose that
for ten years I've been without his name in my pocket. But, bless
you, Mr. Finn, there's an end to everything. I shouldn't have looked
at this bit of paper if it hadn't been for your signature. Of course
not. You're just beginning, and it's natural you should want a little
help. You'll find me always ready, if you'll only be punctual."

"I tell you again, sir, that I never had a shilling out of that for
myself, and do not want any such help." Here Mr. Clarkson smiled
sweetly. "I gave my name to my friend simply to oblige him."

"I like you Irish gents because you do hang together so close," said
Mr. Clarkson.

"Simply to oblige him," continued Phineas. "As I said before, I know
that I am responsible; but, as I said before also, I have not the
means of taking up that bill. I will see Mr. Fitzgibbon, and let
you know what we propose to do." Then Phineas got up from his seat
and took his hat. It was full time that he should go down to his
Committee. But Mr. Clarkson did not get up from his seat. "I'm afraid
I must ask you to leave me now, Mr. Clarkson, as I have business down
at the House."

"Business at the House never presses, Mr. Finn," said Mr. Clarkson.
"That's the best of Parliament. I've known Parliament gents this
thirty years and more. Would you believe it--I've had a Prime
Minister's name in that portfolio; that I have; and a Lord
Chancellor's; that I have;--and an Archbishop's too. I know
what Parliament is, Mr. Finn. Come, come; don't put me off with
Parliament."

There he sat before the fire with his pouch open before him, and
Phineas had no power of moving him. Could Phineas have paid him the
money which was manifestly due to him on the bill, the man would of
course have gone; but failing in that, Phineas could not turn him
out. There was a black cloud on the young member's brow, and great
anger at his heart,--against Fitzgibbon rather than against the man
who was sitting there before him. "Sir," he said, "it is really
imperative that I should go. I am pledged to an appointment at the
House at twelve, and it wants now only a quarter. I regret that your
interview with me should be so unsatisfactory, but I can only promise
you that I will see Mr. Fitzgibbon."

"And when shall I call again, Mr. Finn?"

"Perhaps I had better write to you," said Phineas.

"Oh dear, no," said Mr. Clarkson. "I should much prefer to look in.
Looking in is always best. We can get to understand one another in
that way. Let me see. I daresay you're not particular. Suppose I say
Sunday morning."

"Really, I could not see you on Sunday morning, Mr. Clarkson."

"Parliament gents ain't generally particular,--'speciaily not among
the Catholics," pleaded Mr. Clarkson.

"I am always engaged on Sundays," said Phineas.

"Suppose we say Monday,--or Tuesday. Tuesday morning at eleven. And
do be punctual, Mr. Finn. At Tuesday morning I'll come, and then no
doubt I shall find you ready." Whereupon Mr. Clarkson slowly put up
his bills within his portfolio, and then, before Phineas knew where
he was, had warmly shaken that poor dismayed member of Parliament by
the hand. "Only do be punctual, Mr. Finn," he said, as he made his
way down the stairs.

It was now twelve, and Phineas rushed off to a cab. He was in such
a fervour of rage and misery that he could hardly think of his
position, or what he had better do, till he got into the Committee
Room; and when there he could think of nothing else. He intended to
go deeply into the question of potted peas, holding an equal balance
between the assailed Government offices on the one hand, and the
advocates of the potted peas on the other. The potters of the peas,
who wanted to sell their article to the Crown, declared that an
extensive,--perhaps we may say, an unlimited,--use of the article
would save the whole army and navy from the scourges of scurvy,
dyspepsia, and rheumatism, would be the best safeguard against
typhus and other fevers, and would be an invaluable aid in all other
maladies to which soldiers and sailors are peculiarly subject. The
peas in question were grown on a large scale in Holstein, and their
growth had been fostered with the special object of doing good to the
British army and navy. The peas were so cheap that there would be a
great saving in money,--and it really had seemed to many that the
officials of the Horse Guards and the Admiralty had been actuated
by some fiendish desire to deprive their men of salutary fresh
vegetables, simply because they were of foreign growth. But the
officials of the War Office and the Admiralty declared that the
potted peas in question were hardly fit for swine. The motion for the
Committee had been made by a gentleman of the opposition, and Phineas
had been put upon it as an independent member. He had resolved to
give it all his mind, and, as far as he was concerned, to reach a
just decision, in which there should be no favour shown to the
Government side. New brooms are proverbial for thorough work,
and in this Committee work Phineas was as yet a new broom. But,
unfortunately, on this day his mind was so harassed that he could
hardly understand what was going on. It did not, perhaps, much
signify, as the witnesses examined were altogether agricultural. They
only proved the production of peas in Holstein,--a fact as to which
Phineas had no doubt. The proof was naturally slow, as the evidence
was given in German, and had to be translated into English. And
the work of the day was much impeded by a certain member who
unfortunately spoke German, who seemed to be fond of speaking German
before his brethren of the Committee, and who was curious as to
agriculture in Holstein generally. The chairman did not understand
German, and there was a difficulty in checking this gentleman, and
in making him understand that his questions were not relevant to the
issue.

Phineas could not keep his mind during the whole afternoon from the
subject of his misfortune. What should he do if this horrid man came
to him once or twice a week? He certainly did owe the man the money.
He must admit that to himself. The man no doubt was a dishonest
knave who had discounted the bill probably at fifty per cent; but,
nevertheless, Phineas had made himself legally responsible for the
amount. The privilege of the House prohibited him from arrest. He
thought of that very often, but the thought only made him the more
unhappy. Would it not be said, and might it not be said truly, that
he had incurred this responsibility,--a responsibility which he was
altogether unequal to answer,--because he was so protected? He did
feel that a certain consciousness of his privilege had been present
to him when he had put his name across the paper, and there had been
dishonesty in that very consciousness. And of what service would his
privilege be to him, if this man could harass every hour of his
life? The man was to be with him again in a day or two, and when the
appointment had been proposed, he, Phineas, had not dared to negative
it. And how was he to escape? As for paying the bill, that with him
was altogether impossible. The man had told him,--and he had believed
the man,--that payment by Fitzgibbon was out of the question. And
yet Fitzgibbon was the son of a peer, whereas he was only the son of
a country doctor! Of course Fitzgibbon must make some effort,--some
great effort,--and have the thing settled. Alas, alas! He knew enough
of the world already to feel that the hope was vain.

He went down from the Committee Room into the House, and he dined
at the House, and remained there until eight or nine at night; but
Fitzgibbon did not come. He then went to the Reform Club, but he was
not there. Both at the club and in the House many men spoke to him
about the debate of the previous night, expressing surprise that he
had not spoken,--making him more and more wretched. He saw Mr. Monk,
but Mr. Monk was walking arm in arm with his colleague, Mr. Palliser,
and Phineas could do no more than just speak to them. He thought that
Mr. Monk's nod of recognition was very cold. That might be fancy, but
it certainly was a fact that Mr. Monk only nodded to him. He would
tell Mr. Monk the truth, and then, if Mr. Monk chose to quarrel with
him, he at any rate would take no step to renew their friendship.

From the Reform Club he went to the Shakspeare, a smaller club to
which Fitzgibbon belonged,--and of which Phineas much wished to
become a member,--and to which he knew that his friend resorted when
he wished to enjoy himself thoroughly, and to be at ease in his
inn. Men at the Shakspeare could do as they pleased. There were no
politics there, no fashion, no stiffness, and no rules,--so men said;
but that was hardly true. Everybody called everybody by his Christian
name, and members smoked all over the house. They who did not belong
to the Shakspeare thought it an Elysium upon earth; and they who
did, believed it to be among Pandemoniums the most pleasant. Phineas
called at the Shakspeare, and was told by the porter that Mr.
Fitzgibbon was up-stairs. He was shown into the strangers room, and
in five minutes his friend came down to him.

"I want you to come down to the Reform with me," said Phineas.

"By jingo, my dear fellow, I'm in the middle of a rubber of whist."

"There has been a man with me about that bill."

"What;--Clarkson?"

"Yes, Clarkson," said Phineas.

"Don't mind him," said Fitzgibbon.

"That's nonsense. How am I to help minding him? I must mind him. He
is coming to me again on Tuesday morning."

"Don't see him."

"How can I help seeing him?"

"Make them say you're not at home."

"He has made an appointment. He has told me that he'll never leave me
alone. He'll be the death of me if this is not settled."

"It shall be settled, my dear fellow. I'll see about it. I'll see
about it and write you a line. You must excuse me now, because those
fellows are waiting. I'll have it all arranged."

Again as Phineas went home he thoroughly wished that he had not
seceded from Mr. Low.




CHAPTER XXII

Lady Baldock at Home


About the middle of March Lady Baldock came up from Baddingham to
London, coerced into doing so, as Violet Effingham declared, in
thorough opposition to all her own tastes, by the known wishes of her
friends and relatives. Her friends and relatives, so Miss Effingham
insinuated, were unanimous in wishing that Lady Baldock should
remain at Baddingham Park, and therefore,--that wish having been
indiscreetly expressed,--she had put herself to great inconvenience,
and had come to London in March. "Gustavus will go mad," said Violet
to Lady Laura. The Gustavus in question was the Lord Baldock of the
present generation, Miss Effingham's Lady Baldock being the peer's
mother. "Why does not Lord Baldock take a house himself?" asked Lady
Laura. "Don't you know, my dear," Violet answered, "how much we
Baddingham people think of money? We don't like being vexed and
driven mad, but even that is better than keeping up two households."
As regarded Violet, the injury arising from Lady Baldock's early
migration was very great, for she was thus compelled to move from
Grosvenor Place to Lady Baldock's house in Berkeley Square. "As you
are so fond of being in London, Augusta and I have made up our minds
to come up before Easter," Lady Baldock had written to her.

"I shall go to her now," Violet had said to her friend, "because I
have not quite made up my mind as to what I will do for the future."

"Marry Oswald, and be your own mistress."

"I mean to be my own mistress without marrying Oswald, though I don't
see my way quite clearly as yet. I think I shall set up a little
house of my own, and let the world say what it pleases. I suppose
they couldn't make me out to be a lunatic."

"I shouldn't wonder if they were to try," said Lady Laura.

"They could not prevent me in any other way. But I am in the dark as
yet, and so I shall be obedient and go to my aunt."

Miss Effingham went to Berkeley Square, and Phineas Finn was
introduced to Lady Baldock. He had been often in Grosvenor Place,
and had seen Violet frequently. Mr. Kennedy gave periodical
dinners,--once a week,--to which everybody went who could get an
invitation; and Phineas had been a guest more than once. Indeed, in
spite of his miseries he had taken to dining out a good deal, and was
popular as an eater of dinners. He could talk when wanted, and did
not talk too much, was pleasant in manners and appearance, and had
already achieved a certain recognised position in London life. Of
those who knew him intimately, not one in twenty were aware from
whence he came, what was his parentage, or what his means of living.
He was a member of Parliament, a friend of Mr. Kennedy's, was
intimate with Mr. Monk, though an Irishman did not as a rule herd
with other Irishmen, and was the right sort of person to have at your
house. Some people said he was a cousin of Lord Brentford's, and
others declared that he was Lord Chiltern's earliest friend. There he
was, however, with a position gained, and even Lady Baldock asked him
to her house.

Lady Baldock had evenings. People went to her house, and stood about
the room and on the stairs, talked to each other for half an hour,
and went away. In these March days there was no crowding, but still
there were always enough of people there to show that Lady Baldock
was successful. Why people should have gone to Lady Baldock's I
cannot explain;--but there are houses to which people go without
any reason. Phineas received a little card asking him to go, and he
always went.

"I think you like my friend, Mr. Finn," Lady Laura said to Miss
Effingham, after the first of these evenings.

"Yes, I do. I like him decidedly."

"So do I. I should hardly have thought that you would have taken a
fancy to him."

"I hardly know what you call taking a fancy," said Violet. "I am not
quite sure I like to be told that I have taken a fancy for a young
man."

"I mean no offence, my dear."

"Of course you don't But, to speak truth, I think I have rather taken
a fancy to him. There is just enough of him, but not too much. I
don't mean materially,--in regard to his inches; but as to his mental
belongings. I hate a stupid man who can't talk to me, and I hate a
clever man who talks me down. I don't like a man who is too lazy to
make any effort to shine; but I particularly dislike the man who is
always striving for effect. I abominate a humble man, but yet I love
to perceive that a man acknowledges the superiority of my sex, and
youth, and all that kind of thing."

"You want to be flattered without plain flattery."

"Of course I do. A man who would tell me that I am pretty, unless he
is over seventy, ought to be kicked out of the room. But a man who
can't show me that he thinks me so without saying a word about it,
is a lout. Now in all those matters, your friend, Mr. Finn, seems to
know what he is about. In other words, he makes himself pleasant,
and, therefore, one is glad to see him."

"I suppose you do not mean to fall in love with him?"

"Not that I know of, my dear. But when I do, I'll be sure to give you
notice."

I fear that there was more of earnestness in Lady Laura's last
question than Miss Effingham had supposed. She had declared to
herself over and over again that she had never been in love with
Phineas Finn. She had acknowledged to herself, before Mr. Kennedy had
asked her hand in marriage, that there had been danger,--that she
could have learned to love the man if such love would not have been
ruinous to her,--that the romance of such a passion would have been
pleasant to her. She had gone farther than this, and had said to
herself that she would have given way to that romance, and would have
been ready to accept such love if offered to her, had she not put
it out of her own power to marry a poor man by her generosity to
her brother. Then she had thrust the thing aside, and had clearly
understood,--she thought that she had clearly understood,--that life
for her must be a matter of business. Was it not the case with nine
out of every ten among mankind, with nine hundred and ninety-nine out
of every thousand, that life must be a matter of business and not of
romance? Of course she could not marry Mr. Finn, knowing, as she did,
that neither of them had a shilling. Of all men in the world she
esteemed Mr. Kennedy the most, and when these thoughts were passing
through her mind, she was well aware that he would ask her to be
his wife. Had she not resolved that she would accept the offer, she
would not have gone to Loughlinter. Having put aside all romance as
unfitted to her life, she could, she thought, do her duty as Mr.
Kennedy's wife. She would teach herself to love him. Nay,--she had
taught herself to love him. She was at any rate so sure of her
own heart that she would never give her husband cause to rue the
confidence he placed in her. And yet there was something sore within
her when she thought that Phineas Finn was fond of Violet Effingham.

It was Lady Baldock's second evening, and Phineas came to the house
at about eleven o'clock. At this time he had encountered a second
and a third interview with Mr. Clarkson, and had already failed in
obtaining any word of comfort from Laurence Fitzgibbon about the
bill. It was clear enough now that Laurence felt that they were both
made safe by their privilege, and that Mr. Clarkson should be treated
as you treat the organ-grinders. They are a nuisance and must be
endured. But the nuisance is not so great but what you can live in
comfort,--if only you are not too sore as to the annoyance. "My dear
fellow," Laurence had said to him, "I have had Clarkson almost living
in my rooms. He used to drink nearly a pint of sherry a day for me.
All I looked to was that I didn't live there at the same time. If you
wish it, I'll send in the sherry." This was very bad, and Phineas
tried to quarrel with his friend; but he found that it was difficult
to quarrel with Laurence Fitzgibbon.

But though on this side Phineas was very miserable, on another side
he had obtained great comfort. Mr. Monk and he were better friends
than ever. "As to what Turnbull says about me in the House," Mr.
Monk had said, laughing; "he and I understand each other perfectly.
I should like to see you on your legs, but it is just as well,
perhaps, that you have deferred it. We shall have the real question
on immediately after Easter, and then you'll have plenty of
opportunities." Phineas had explained how he had attempted, how he
had failed, and how he had suffered;--and Mr. Monk had been generous
in his sympathy. "I know all about it," said he, "and have gone
through it all myself. The more respect you feel for the House,
the more satisfaction you will have in addressing it when you have
mastered this difficulty."

The first person who spoke to Phineas at Lady Baldock's was Miss
Fitzgibbon, Laurence's sister. Aspasia Fitzgibbon was a warm woman as
regarded money, and as she was moreover a most discreet spinster,
she was made welcome by Lady Baldock, in spite of the well-known
iniquities of her male relatives. "Mr. Finn," said she, "how d'ye do?
I want to say a word to ye. Just come here into the corner." Phineas,
not knowing how to escape, did retreat into the corner with Miss
Fitzgibbon. "Tell me now, Mr. Finn;--have ye been lending money to
Laurence?"

"No; I have lent him no money," said Phineas, much astonished by the
question.

"Don't. That's my advice to ye. Don't. On any other matter Laurence
is the best creature in the world,--but he's bad to lend money to.
You ain't in any hobble with him, then?"

"Well;--nothing to speak of. What makes you ask?"

"Then you are in a hobble? Dear, dear! I never saw such a man as
Laurence;--never. Good-bye. I wouldn't do it again, if I were
you;--that's all." Then Miss Fitzgibbon came out of the corner and
made her way down-stairs.

Phineas immediately afterwards came across Miss Effingham. "I did not
know," said she, "that you and the divine Aspasia were such close
allies."

"We are the dearest friends in the world, but she has taken my breath
away now."

"May a body be told how she has done that?" Violet asked.

"Well, no; I'm afraid not, even though the body be Miss Effingham. It
was a profound secret;--really a secret concerning a third person,
and she began about it just as though she were speaking about the
weather!"

"How charming! I do so like her. You haven't heard, have you, that
Mr. Ratler proposed to her the other day?"

"No!"

"But he did;--at least, so she tells everybody. She said she'd take
him if he would promise to get her brother's salary doubled."

"Did she tell you?"

"No; not me. And of course I don't believe a word of it. I suppose
Barrington Erle made up the story. Are you going out of town next
week, Mr. Finn?" The week next to this was Easter-week. "I heard you
were going into Northamptonshire."

"From Lady Laura?"

"Yes;--from Lady Laura."

"I intend to spend three days with Lord Chiltern at Willingford. It
is an old promise. I am going to ride his horses,--that is, if I am
able to ride them."

"Take care what you are about, Mr. Finn;--they say his horses are so
dangerous!"

"I'm rather good at falling, I flatter myself."

"I know that Lord Chiltern rides anything he can sit, so long as it
is some animal that nobody else will ride. It was always so with him.
He is so odd; is he not?"

Phineas knew, of course, that Lord Chiltern had more than once asked
Violet Effingham to be his wife,--and he believed that she, from her
intimacy with Lady Laura, must know that he knew it. He had also
heard Lady Laura express a very strong wish that, in spite of these
refusals, Violet might even yet become her brother's wife. And
Phineas also knew that Violet Effingham was becoming, in his own
estimation, the most charming woman of his acquaintance. How was he
to talk to her about Lord Chiltern?

"He is odd," said Phineas; "but he is an excellent fellow,--whom his
father altogether misunderstands."

"Exactly,--just so; I am so glad to hear you say that,--you who have
never had the misfortune to have anything to do with a bad set. Why
don't you tell Lord Brentford? Lord Brentford would listen to you."

"To me?"

"Yes;--of course he would,--for you are just the link that is
wanting. You are Chiltern's intimate friend, and you are also the
friend of big-wigs and Cabinet Ministers."

"Lord Brentford would put me down at once if I spoke to him on such a
subject."

"I am sure he would not. You are too big to be put down, and no man
can really dislike to hear his son well spoken of by those who are
well spoken of themselves. Won't you try, Mr. Finn?" Phineas said
that he would think of it,--that he would try if any fit opportunity
could be found. "Of course you know how intimate I have been with the
Standishes," said Violet; "that Laura is to me a sister, and that
Oswald used to be almost a brother."

"Why do not you speak to Lord Brentford;--you who are his favourite?"

"There are reasons, Mr. Finn. Besides, how can any girl come forward
and say that she knows the disposition of any man? You can live with
Lord Chiltern, and see what he is made of, and know his thoughts, and
learn what is good in him, and also what is bad. After all, how is
any girl really to know anything of a man's life?"

"If I can do anything, Miss Effingham, I will," said Phineas.

"And then we shall all of us be so grateful to you," said Violet,
with her sweetest smile.

Phineas, retreating from this conversation, stood for a while alone,
thinking of it. Had she spoken thus of Lord Chiltern because she did
love him or because she did not? And the sweet commendations which
had fallen from her lips upon him,--him, Phineas Finn,--were they
compatible with anything like a growing partiality for himself, or
were they incompatible with any such feeling? Had he most reason to
be comforted or to be discomfited by what had taken place? It seemed
hardly possible to his imagination that Violet Effingham should
love such a nobody as he. And yet he had had fair evidence that one
standing as high in the world as Violet Effingham would fain have
loved him could she have followed the dictates of her heart. He had
trembled when he had first resolved to declare his passion to Lady
Laura,--fearing that she would scorn him as being presumptuous. But
there had been no cause for such fear as that. He had declared his
love, and she had not thought him to be presumptuous. That now was
ages ago,--eight months since; and Lady Laura had become a married
woman. Since he had become so warmly alive to the charms of Violet
Effingham he had determined, with stern propriety, that a passion for
a married woman was disgraceful. Such love was in itself a sin, even
though it was accompanied by the severest forbearance and the most
rigid propriety of conduct. No;--Lady Laura had done wisely to check
the growing feeling of partiality which she had admitted; and now
that she was married, he would be as wise as she. It was clear to him
that, as regarded his own heart, the way was open to him for a new
enterprise. But what if he were to fail again, and be told by Violet,
when he declared his love, that she had just engaged herself to Lord
Chiltern!

"What were you and Violet talking about so eagerly?" said Lady Laura
to him, with a smile that, in its approach to laughter, almost
betrayed its mistress.

"We were talking about your brother."

"You are going to him, are you not?"

"Yes; I leave London on Sunday night;--but only for a day or two."

"Has he any chance there, do you think?"

"What, with Miss Effingham?"

"Yes;--with Violet. Sometimes I think she loves him."

"How can I say? In such a matter you can judge better than I can do.
One woman with reference to another can draw the line between love
and friendship. She certainly likes Chiltern."

"Oh, I believe she loves him. I do indeed. But she fears him. She
does not quite understand how much there is of tenderness with that
assumed ferocity. And Oswald is so strange, so unwise, so impolitic,
that though he loves her better than all the world beside, he will
not sacrifice even a turn of a word to win her. When he asks her to
marry him, he almost flies at her throat, as an angry debtor who
applies for instant payment. Tell him, Mr. Finn, never to give it
over;--and teach him that he should be soft with her. Tell him, also,
that in her heart she likes him. One woman, as you say, knows another
woman; and I am certain he would win her if he would only be gentle
with her." Then, again, before they parted, Lady Laura told him that
this marriage was the dearest wish of her heart, and that there would
be no end to her gratitude if Phineas could do anything to promote
it. All which again made our hero unhappy.




CHAPTER XXIII

Sunday in Grosvenor Place


Mr. Kennedy, though he was a most scrupulously attentive member of
Parliament, was a man very punctual to hours and rules in his own
house,--and liked that his wife should be as punctual as himself.
Lady Laura, who in marrying him had firmly resolved that she would do
her duty to him in all ways, even though the ways might sometimes be
painful,--and had been perhaps more punctilious in this respect than
she might have been had she loved him heartily,--was not perhaps
quite so fond of accurate regularity as her husband; and thus, by
this time, certain habits of his had become rather bonds than habits
to her. He always had prayers at nine, and breakfasted at a quarter
past nine, let the hours on the night before have been as late as
they might before the time for rest had come. After breakfast he
would open his letters in his study, but he liked her to be with
him, and desired to discuss with her every application he got from
a constituent. He had his private secretary in a room apart, but he
thought that everything should be filtered to his private secretary
through his wife. He was very anxious that she herself should
superintend the accounts of their own private expenditure, and had
taken some trouble to teach her an excellent mode of book-keeping.
He had recommended to her a certain course of reading,--which was
pleasant enough; ladies like to receive such recommendations; but Mr.
Kennedy, having drawn out the course, seemed to expect that his wife
should read the books he had named, and, worse still, that she should
read them in the time he had allocated for the work. This, I think,
was tyranny. Then the Sundays became very wearisome to Lady Laura.
Going to church twice, she had learnt, would be a part of her duty;
and though in her father's household attendance at church had never
been very strict, she had made up her mind to this cheerfully. But
Mr. Kennedy expected also that he and she should always dine together
on Sundays, that there should be no guests, and that there should be
no evening company. After all, the demand was not very severe, but
yet she found that it operated injuriously upon her comfort. The
Sundays were very wearisome to her, and made her feel that her lord
and master was--her lord and master. She made an effort or two to
escape, but the efforts were all in vain. He never spoke a cross word
to her. He never gave a stern command. But yet he had his way. "I
won't say that reading a novel on a Sunday is a sin," he said; "but
we must at any rate admit that it is a matter on which men disagree,
that many of the best of men are against such occupation on Sunday,
and that to abstain is to be on the safe side." So the novels were
put away, and Sunday afternoon with the long evening became rather
a stumbling-block to Lady Laura.

Those two hours, moreover, with her husband in the morning became
very wearisome to her. At first she had declared that it would be her
greatest ambition to help her husband in his work, and she had read
all the letters from the MacNabs and MacFies, asking to be made
gaugers and landing-waiters, with an assumed interest. But the work
palled upon her very quickly. Her quick intellect discovered soon
that there was nothing in it which she really did. It was all form
and verbiage, and pretence at business. Her husband went through it
all with the utmost patience, reading every word, giving orders as
to every detail, and conscientiously doing that which he conceived
he had undertaken to do. But Lady Laura wanted to meddle with high
politics, to discuss reform bills, to assist in putting up Mr. This
and putting down my Lord That. Why should she waste her time in
doing that which the lad in the next room, who was called a private
secretary, could do as well?

Still she would obey. Let the task be as hard as it might, she would
obey. If he counselled her to do this or that, she would follow his
counsel,--because she owed him so much. If she had accepted the half
of all his wealth without loving him, she owed him the more on that
account. But she knew,--she could not but know,--that her intellect
was brighter than his; and might it not be possible for her to lead
him? Then she made efforts to lead her husband, and found that he was
as stiff-necked as an ox. Mr. Kennedy was not, perhaps, a clever man;
but he was a man who knew his own way, and who intended to keep it.

"I have got a headache, Robert," she said to him one Sunday after
luncheon. "I think I will not go to church this afternoon."

"It is not serious, I hope."

"Oh dear no. Don't you know how one feels sometimes that one has got
a head? And when that is the case one's armchair is the best place."

"I am not sure of that," said Mr. Kennedy.

"If I went to church I should not attend," said Lady Laura.

"The fresh air would do you more good than anything else, and we
could walk across the park."

"Thank you;--I won't go out again to-day." This she said with
something almost of crossness in her manner, and Mr. Kennedy went to
the afternoon service by himself.

Lady Laura when she was left alone began to think of her position.
She was not more than four or five months married, and she was
becoming very tired of her life. Was it not also true that she was
becoming tired of her husband? She had twice told Phineas Finn that
of all men in the world she esteemed Mr. Kennedy the most. She did
not esteem him less now. She knew no point or particle in which
he did not do his duty with accuracy. But no person can live
happily with another,--not even with a brother or a sister or a
friend,--simply upon esteem. All the virtues in the calendar,
though they exist on each side, will not make a man and woman happy
together, unless there be sympathy. Lady Laura was beginning to
find out that there was a lack of sympathy between herself and her
husband.

She thought of this till she was tired of thinking of it, and then,
wishing to divert her mind, she took up the book that was lying
nearest to her hand. It was a volume of a new novel which she had
been reading on the previous day, and now, without much thought about
it, she went on with her reading. There came to her, no doubt, some
dim, half-formed idea that, as she was freed from going to church by
the plea of a headache, she was also absolved by the same plea from
other Sunday hindrances. A child, when it is ill, has buttered toast
and a picture-book instead of bread-and-milk and lessons. In this
way, Lady Laura conceived herself to be entitled to her novel.

While she was reading it, there came a knock at the door, and
Barrington Erle was shown upstairs. Mr. Kennedy had given no orders
against Sunday visitors, but had simply said that Sunday visiting was
not to his taste. Barrington, however, was Lady Laura's cousin, and
people must be very strict if they can't see their cousins on Sunday.
Lady Laura soon lost her headache altogether in the animation
of discussing the chances of the new Reform Bill with the Prime
Minister's private secretary; and had left her chair, and was
standing by the table with the novel in her hand, protesting this
and denying that, expressing infinite confidence in Mr. Monk, and
violently denouncing Mr. Turnbull, when her husband returned from
church and came up into the drawing-room. Lady Laura had forgotten
her headache altogether, and had in her composition none of that
thoughtfulness of hypocrisy which would have taught her to moderate
her political feeling at her husband's return.

"I do declare," she said, "that if Mr. Turnbull opposes the
Government measure now, because he can't have his own way in
everything, I will never again put my trust in any man who calls
himself a popular leader."

"You never should," said Barrington Erle.

"That's all very well for you, Barrington, who are an aristocratic
Whig of the old official school, and who call yourself a Liberal
simply because Fox was a Liberal a hundred years ago. My heart's in
it."

"Heart should never have anything to do with politics; should it?"
said Erle, turning round to Mr. Kennedy.

Mr. Kennedy did not wish to discuss the matter on a Sunday, nor yet
did he wish to say before Barrington Erle that he thought it wrong
to do so. And he was desirous of treating his wife in some way
as though she were an invalid,--that she thereby might be, as it
were, punished; but he did not wish to do this in such a way that
Barrington should be aware of the punishment.

"Laura had better not disturb herself about it now," he said.

"How is a person to help being disturbed?" said Lady Laura, laughing.

"Well, well; we won't mind all that now," said Mr. Kennedy, turning
away. Then he took up the novel which Lady Laura had just laid down
from her hand, and, having looked at it, carried it aside, and placed
it on a book-shelf which was remote from them. Lady Laura watched him
as he did this, and the whole course of her husband's thoughts on the
subject was open to her at once. She regretted the novel, and she
regretted also the political discussion. Soon afterwards Barrington
Erle went away, and the husband and wife were alone together.

"I am glad that your head is so much better," said he. He did not
intend to be severe, but he spoke with a gravity of manner which
almost amounted to severity.

"Yes; it is," she said, "Barrington's coming in cheered me up."

"I am sorry that you should have wanted cheering."

"Don't you know what I mean, Robert?"

"No; I do not think that I do, exactly."

"I suppose your head is stronger. You do not get that feeling
of dazed, helpless imbecility of brain, which hardly amounts to
headache, but which yet--is almost as bad."

"Imbecility of brain may be worse than headache, but I don't think it
can produce it."

"Well, well;--I don't know how to explain it."

"Headache comes, I think, always from the stomach, even when produced
by nervous affections. But imbecility of the brain--"

"Oh, Robert, I am so sorry that I used the word."

"I see that it did not prevent your reading," he said, after a pause.

"Not such reading as that. I was up to nothing better."

Then there was another pause.

"I won't deny that it may be a prejudice," he said, "but I confess
that the use of novels in my own house on Sundays is a pain to me.
My mother's ideas on the subject are very strict, and I cannot think
that it is bad for a son to hang on to the teaching of his mother."
This he said in the most serious tone which he could command.

"I don't know why I took it up," said Lady Laura. "Simply, I believe,
because it was there. I will avoid doing so for the future."

"Do, my dear," said the husband. "I shall be obliged and grateful if
you will remember what I have said." Then he left her, and she sat
alone, first in the dusk and then in the dark, for two hours, doing
nothing. Was this to be the life which she had procured for herself
by marrying Mr. Kennedy of Loughlinter? If it was harsh and
unendurable in London, what would it be in the country?




CHAPTER XXIV

The Willingford Bull


Phineas left London by a night mail train on Easter Sunday, and found
himself at the Willingford Bull about half an hour after midnight.
Lord Chiltern was up and waiting for him, and supper was on the
table. The Willingford Bull was an English inn of the old stamp,
which had now, in these latter years of railway travelling, ceased
to have a road business,--for there were no travellers on the road,
and but little posting--but had acquired a new trade as a dépôt for
hunters and hunting men. The landlord let out horses and kept hunting
stables, and the house was generally filled from the beginning of
November till the middle of April. Then it became a desert in the
summer, and no guests were seen there, till the pink coats flocked
down again into the shires.

"How many days do you mean to give us?" said Lord Chiltern, as he
helped his friend to a devilled leg of turkey.

"I must go back on Wednesday," said Phineas.

"That means Wednesday night. I'll tell you what we'll do. We've the
Cottesmore to-morrow. We'll get into Tailby's country on Tuesday, and
Fitzwilliam will be only twelve miles off on Wednesday. We shall be
rather short of horses."

"Pray don't let me put you out. I can hire something here, I
suppose?"

"You won't put me out at all. There'll be three between us each day,
and we'll run our luck. The horses have gone on to Empingham for
to-morrow. Tailby is rather a way off,--at Somerby; but we'll manage
it. If the worst comes to the worst, we can get back to Stamford by
rail. On Wednesday we shall have everything very comfortable. They're
out beyond Stilton and will draw home our way. I've planned it all
out. I've a trap with a fast stepper, and if we start to-morrow at
half-past nine, we shall be in plenty of time. You shall ride Meg
Merrilies, and if she don't carry you, you may shoot her."

"Is she one of the pulling ones?"

"She is heavy in hand if you are heavy at her, but leave her mouth
alone and she'll go like flowing water. You'd better not ride more
in a crowd than you can help. Now what'll you drink?"

They sat up half the night smoking and talking, and Phineas learned
more about Lord Chiltern then than ever he had learned before. There
was brandy and water before them, but neither of them drank. Lord
Chiltern, indeed, had a pint of beer by his side from which he sipped
occasionally. "I've taken to beer," he said, "as being the best drink
going. When a man hunts six days a week he can afford to drink beer.
I'm on an allowance,--three pints a day. That's not too much."

"And you drink nothing else?"

"Nothing when I'm alone,--except a little cherry-brandy when I'm out.
I never cared for drink;--never in my life. I do like excitement, and
have been less careful than I ought to have been as to what it has
come from. I could give up drink to-morrow, without a struggle,--if
it were worth my while to make up my mind to do it. And it's the same
with gambling. I never do gamble now, because I've got no money; but
I own I like it better than anything in the world. While you are at
it, there is life in it."

"You should take to politics, Chiltern."

"And I would have done so, but my father would not help me. Never
mind, we will not talk about him. How does Laura get on with her
husband?"

"Very happily, I should say."

"I don't believe it," said Lord Chiltern. "Her temper is too much
like mine to allow her to be happy with such a log of wood as Robert
Kennedy. It is such men as he who drive me out of the pale of decent
life. If that is decency, I'd sooner be indecent. You mark my words.
They'll come to grief. She'll never be able to stand it."

"I should think she had her own way in everything," said Phineas.

"No, no. Though he's a prig, he's a man; and she will not find it
easy to drive him."

"But she may bend him."

"Not an inch;--that is if I understand his character. I suppose you
see a good deal of them?"

"Yes,--pretty well. I'm not there so often as I used to be in the
Square."

"You get sick of it, I suppose. I should. Do you see my father
often?"

"Only occasionally. He is always very civil when I do see him."

"He is the very pink of civility when he pleases, but the most unjust
man I ever met."

"I should not have thought that."

"Yes, he is," said the Earl's son, "and all from lack of judgment to
discern the truth. He makes up his mind to a thing on insufficient
proof, and then nothing will turn him. He thinks well of you,--would
probably believe your word on any indifferent subject without thought
of a doubt; but if you were to tell him that I didn't get drunk every
night of my life and spend most of my time in thrashing policemen, he
would not believe you. He would smile incredulously and make you a
little bow. I can see him do it."

"You are too hard on him, Chiltern."

"He has been too hard on me, I know. Is Violet Effingham still in
Grosvenor Place?"

"No; she's with Lady Baldock."

"That old grandmother of evil has come to town,--has she? Poor
Violet! When we were young together we used to have such fun about
that old woman."

"The old woman is an ally of mine now," said Phineas.

"You make allies everywhere. You know Violet Effingham of course?"

"Oh yes. I know her."

"Don't you think her very charming?" said Lord Chiltern.

"Exceedingly charming."

"I have asked that girl to marry me three times, and I shall never
ask her again. There is a point beyond which a man shouldn't go.
There are many reasons why it would be a good marriage. In the first
place, her money would be serviceable. Then it would heal matters in
our family, for my father is as prejudiced in her favour as he is
against me. And I love her dearly. I've loved her all my life,--since
I used to buy cakes for her. But I shall never ask her again."

"I would if I were you," said Phineas,--hardly knowing what it might
be best for him to say.

"No; I never will. But I'll tell you what. I shall get into some
desperate scrape about her. Of course she'll marry, and that soon.
Then I shall make a fool of myself. When I hear that she is engaged I
shall go and quarrel with the man, and kick him,--or get kicked. All
the world will turn against me, and I shall be called a wild beast."

"A dog in the manger is what you should be called."

"Exactly;--but how is a man to help it? If you loved a girl, could
you see another man take her?" Phineas remembered of course that he
had lately come through this ordeal. "It is as though he were to come
and put his hand upon me, and wanted my own heart out of me. Though
I have no property in her at all, no right to her,--though she never
gave me a word of encouragement, it is as though she were the most
private thing in the world to me. I should be half mad, and in my
madness I could not master the idea that I was being robbed. I should
resent it as a personal interference."

"I suppose it will come to that if you give her up yourself," said
Phineas.

"It is no question of giving up. Of course I cannot make her marry
me. Light another cigar, old fellow."

Phineas, as he lit the other cigar, remembered that he owed a certain
duty in this matter to Lady Laura. She had commissioned him to
persuade her brother that his suit with Violet Effingham would not be
hopeless, if he could only restrain himself in his mode of conducting
it. Phineas was disposed to do his duty, although he felt it to be
very hard that he should be called upon to be eloquent against his
own interest. He had been thinking for the last quarter of an hour
how he must bear himself if it might turn out that he should be the
man whom Lord Chiltern was resolved to kick. He looked at his friend
and host, and became aware that a kicking-match with such a one would
not be pleasant pastime. Nevertheless, he would be happy enough to be
subject to Lord Chiltern's wrath for such a reason. He would do his
duty by Lord Chiltern; and then, when that had been adequately done,
he would, if occasion served, fight a battle for himself.

"You are too sudden with her, Chiltern," he said, after a pause.

"What do you mean by too sudden?" said Lord Chiltern, almost angrily.

"You frighten her by being so impetuous. You rush at her as though
you wanted to conquer her by a single blow."

"So I do."

"You should be more gentle with her. You should give her time to find
out whether she likes you or not."

"She has known me all her life, and has found that out long ago. Not
but what you are right. I know you are right. If I were you, and had
your skill in pleasing, I should drop soft words into her ear till I
had caught her. But I have no gifts in that way. I am as awkward as
a pig at what is called flirting. And I have an accursed pride which
stands in my own light. If she were in this house this moment, and
if I knew she were to be had for asking, I don't think I could bring
myself to ask again. But we'll go to bed. It's half-past two, and we
must be off at half-past nine, if we're to be at Exton Park gates at
eleven."

Phineas, as he went up-stairs, assured himself that he had done his
duty. If there ever should come to be anything between him and Violet
Effingham, Lord Chiltern might quarrel with him,--might probably
attempt that kicking encounter to which allusion had been made,--but
nobody could justly say that he had not behaved honourably to his
friend.

On the next morning there was a bustle and a scurry, as there always
is on such occasions, and the two men got off about ten minutes after
time. But Lord Chiltern drove hard, and they reached the meet before
the master had moved off. They had a fair day's sport with the
Cottesmore; and Phineas, though he found that Meg Merrilies did
require a good deal of riding, went through his day's work with
credit. He had been riding since he was a child, as is the custom
with all boys in Munster, and had an Irishman's natural aptitude for
jumping. When they got back to the Willingford Bull he felt pleased
with the day and rather proud of himself. "It wasn't fast, you know,"
said Chiltern, "and I don't call that a stiff country. Besides, Meg
is very handy when you've got her out of the crowd. You shall ride
Bonebreaker to-morrow at Somerby, and you'll find that better fun."

"Bonebreaker? Haven't I heard you say he rushes like mischief?"

"Well, he does rush. But, by George! you want a horse to rush in that
country. When you have to go right through four or five feet of stiff
green wood, like a bullet through a target, you want a little force,
or you're apt to be left up a tree."

"And what do you ride?"

"A brute I never put my leg on yet. He was sent down to Wilcox here,
out of Lincolnshire, because they couldn't get anybody to ride him
there. They say he goes with his head up in the air, and won't look
at a fence that isn't as high as his breast. But I think he'll do
here. I never saw a better made beast, or one with more power. Do you
look at his shoulders. He's to be had for seventy pounds, and these
are the sort of horses I like to buy."

Again they dined alone, and Lord Chiltern explained to Phineas that
he rarely associated with the men of either of the hunts in which
he rode. "There is a set of fellows down here who are poison to me,
and there is another set, and I am poison to them. Everybody is
very civil, as you see, but I have no associates. And gradually I am
getting to have a reputation as though I were the devil himself. I
think I shall come out next year dressed entirely in black."

"Are you not wrong to give way to that kind of thing?"

"What the deuce am I to do? I can't make civil little speeches. When
once a man gets a reputation as an ogre, it is the most difficult
thing in the world to drop it. I could have a score of men here every
day if I liked it,--my title would do that for me;--but they would
be men I should loathe, and I should be sure to tell them so,
even though I did not mean it. Bonebreaker, and the new horse,
and another, went on at twelve to-day. You must expect hard work
to-morrow, as I daresay we shan't be home before eight."

The next day's meet was in Leicestershire, not far from Melton, and
they started early. Phineas, to tell the truth of him, was rather
afraid of Bonebreaker, and looked forward to the probability of an
accident. He had neither wife nor child, and nobody had a better
right to risk his neck. "We'll put a gag on 'im," said the groom,
"and you'll ride 'im in a ring,--so that you may well-nigh break
his jaw; but he is a rum un, sir." "I'll do my best," said Phineas.
"He'll take all that," said the groom. "Just let him have his own way
at everything," said Lord Chiltern, as they moved away from the meet
to Pickwell Gorse; "and if you'll only sit on his back, he'll carry
you through as safe as a church." Phineas could not help thinking
that the counsels of the master and of the groom were very different.
"My idea is," continued Lord Chiltern, "that in hunting you should
always avoid a crowd. I don't think a horse is worth riding that
will go in a crowd. It's just like yachting,--you should have plenty
of sea-room. If you're to pull your horse up at every fence till
somebody else is over, I think you'd better come out on a donkey."
And so they went away to Pickwell Gorse.

There were over two hundred men out, and Phineas began to think that
it might not be so easy to get out of the crowd. A crowd in a fast
run no doubt quickly becomes small by degrees and beautifully less;
but it is very difficult, especially for a stranger, to free himself
from the rush at the first start. Lord Chiltern's horse plunged about
so violently, as they stood on a little hill-side looking down upon
the cover, that he was obliged to take him to a distance, and Phineas
followed him. "If he breaks down wind," said Lord Chiltern, "we can't
be better than we are here. If he goes up wind, he must turn before
long, and we shall be all right." As he spoke an old hound opened
true and sharp,--an old hound whom all the pack believed,--and in a
moment there was no doubt that the fox had been found. "There are not
above eight or nine acres in it," said Lord Chiltern, "and he can't
hang long. Did you ever see such an uneasy brute as this in your
life? But I feel certain he'll go well when he gets away."

Phineas was too much occupied with his own horse to think much of
that on which Lord Chiltern was mounted. Bonebreaker, the very moment
that he heard the old hound's note, stretched out his head, and put
his mouth upon the bit, and began to tremble in every muscle. "He's
a great deal more anxious for it than you and I are," said Lord
Chiltern. "I see they've given you that gag. But don't you ride him
on it till he wants it. Give him lots of room, and he'll go in the
snaffle." All which caution made Phineas think that any insurance
office would charge very dear on his life at the present moment.

The fox took two rings of the gorse, and then he went,--up wind.
"It's not a vixen, I'll swear," said Lord Chiltern. "A vixen in cub
never went away like that yet. Now then, Finn, my boy, keep to the
right." And Lord Chiltern, with the horse out of Lincolnshire, went
away across the brow of the hill, leaving the hounds to the left, and
selected, as his point of exit into the next field, a stiff rail,
which, had there been an accident, must have put a very wide margin
of ground between the rider and his horse. "Go hard at your fences,
and then you'll fall clear," he had said to Phineas. I don't think,
however, that he would have ridden at the rail as he did, but
that there was no help for him. "The brute began in his own way,
and carried on after in the same fashion all through," he said
afterwards. Phineas took the fence a little lower down, and what
it was at which he rode he never knew. Bonebreaker sailed over it,
whatever it was, and he soon found himself by his friend's side.

The ruck of the men were lower down than our two heroes, and there
were others far away to the left, and others, again, who had been at
the end of the gorse, and were now behind. Our friends were not near
the hounds, not within two fields of them, but the hounds were below
them, and therefore could be seen. "Don't be in a hurry, and they'll
be round upon us," Lord Chiltern said. "How the deuce is one to help
being in a hurry?" said Phineas, who was doing his very best to ride
Bonebreaker with the snaffle, but had already began to feel that
Bonebreaker cared nothing for that weak instrument. "By George, I
should like to change with you," said Lord Chiltern. The Lincolnshire
horse was going along with his head very low, boring as he galloped,
but throwing his neck up at his fences, just when he ought to have
kept himself steady. After this, though Phineas kept near Lord
Chiltern throughout the run, they were not again near enough to
exchange words; and, indeed, they had but little breath for such
purpose.

Lord Chiltern rode still a little in advance, and Phineas, knowing
his friend's partiality for solitude when taking his fences, kept a
little to his left. He began to find that Bonebreaker knew pretty
well what he was about. As for not using the gag rein, that was
impossible. When a horse puts out what strength he has against a
man's arm, a man must put out what strength he has against the
horse's mouth. But Bonebreaker was cunning, and had had a gag rein
on before. He contracted his lip here, and bent out his jaw there,
till he had settled it to his mind, and then went away after his
own fashion. He seemed to have a passion for smashing through big,
high-grown ox-fences, and by degrees his rider came to feel that if
there was nothing worse coming, the fun was not bad.

The fox ran up wind for a couple of miles or so, as Lord Chiltern had
prophesied, and then turned,--not to the right, as would best have
served him and Phineas, but to the left,--so that they were forced
to make their way through the ruck of horses before they could place
themselves again. Phineas found himself crossing a road, in and out
of it, before he knew where he was, and for a while he lost sight of
Lord Chiltern. But in truth he was leading now, whereas Lord Chiltern
had led before. The two horses having been together all the morning,
and on the previous day, were willing enough to remain in company,
if they were allowed to do so. They both crossed the road, not very
far from each other, going in and out amidst a crowd of horses, and
before long were again placed well, now having the hunt on their
right, whereas hitherto it had been on their left. They went over
large pasture fields, and Phineas began to think that as long as
Bonebreaker would be able to go through the thick grown-up hedges,
all would be right. Now and again he came to a cut fence, a fence
that had been cut and laid, and these were not so pleasant. Force
was not sufficient for them, and they admitted of a mistake. But the
horse, though he would rush at them unpleasantly, took them when they
came without touching them. It might be all right yet,--unless the
beast should tire with him; and then, Phineas thought, a misfortune
might probably occur. He remembered, as he flew over one such
impediment, that he rode a stone heavier than his friend. At the end
of forty-five minutes Bonebreaker also might become aware of the
fact.

The hounds were running well in sight to their right, and Phineas
began to feel some of that pride which a man indulges when he becomes
aware that he has taken his place comfortably, has left the squad
behind, and is going well. There were men nearer the hounds than he
was, but he was near enough even for ambition. There had already been
enough of the run to make him sure that it would be a "good thing",
and enough to make him aware also that probably it might be too good.
When a run is over, men are very apt to regret the termination, who
a minute or two before were anxiously longing that the hounds might
pull down their game. To finish well is everything in hunting. To
have led for over an hour is nothing, let the pace and country have
been what they might, if you fall away during the last half mile.
Therefore it is that those behind hope that the fox may make this
or that cover, while the forward men long to see him turned over in
every field. To ride to hounds is very glorious; but to have ridden
to hounds is more glorious still. They had now crossed another road,
and a larger one, and had got into a somewhat closer country. The
fields were not so big, and the fences were not so high. Phineas got
a moment to look about him, and saw Lord Chiltern riding without his
cap. He was very red in the face, and his eyes seemed to glare, and
he was tugging at his horse with all his might. But the animal seemed
still to go with perfect command of strength, and Phineas had too
much work on his own hands to think of offering Quixotic assistance
to any one else. He saw some one, a farmer, as he thought, speak to
Lord Chiltern as they rode close together; but Chiltern only shook
his head and pulled at his horse.

There were brooks in those parts. The river Eye forms itself
thereabouts, or some of its tributaries do so; and these tributaries,
though small as rivers, are considerable to men on one side who are
called by the exigencies of the occasion to place themselves quickly
on the other. Phineas knew nothing of these brooks; but Bonebreaker
had gone gallantly over two, and now that there came a third in the
way, it was to be hoped that he might go gallantly over that also.
Phineas, at any rate, had no power to decide otherwise. As long as
the brute would go straight with him he could sit him; but he had
long given up the idea of having a will of his own. Indeed, till he
was within twenty yards of the brook, he did not see that it was
larger than the others. He looked around, and there was Chiltern
close to him, still fighting with his horse;--but the farmer had
turned away. He thought that Chiltern nodded to him, as much as to
tell him to go on. On he went at any rate. The brook, when he came to
it, seemed to be a huge black hole, yawning beneath him. The banks
were quite steep, and just where he was to take off there was an
ugly stump. It was too late to think of anything. He stuck his knees
against his saddle,--and in a moment was on the other side. The
brute, who had taken off a yard before the stump, knowing well the
danger of striking it with his foot, came down with a grunt, and did,
I think, begin to feel the weight of that extra stone. Phineas, as
soon as he was safe, looked back, and there was Lord Chiltern's horse
in the very act of his spring,--higher up the rivulet, where it was
even broader. At that distance Phineas could see that Lord Chiltern
was wild with rage against the beast. But whether he wished to take
the leap or wished to avoid it, there was no choice left to him. The
animal rushed at the brook, and in a moment the horse and horseman
were lost to sight. It was well then that that extra stone should
tell, as it enabled Phineas to arrest his horse and to come back to
his friend.

The Lincolnshire horse had chested the further bank, and of course
had fallen back into the stream. When Phineas got down he found that
Lord Chiltern was wedged in between the horse and the bank, which was
better, at any rate, than being under the horse in the water. "All
right, old fellow," he said, with a smile, when he saw Phineas. "You
go on; it's too good to lose." But he was very pale, and seemed to be
quite helpless where he lay. The horse did not move,--and never did
move again. He had smashed his shoulder to pieces against a stump on
the bank, and was afterwards shot on that very spot.

When Phineas got down he found that there was but little water where
the horse lay. The depth of the stream had been on the side from
which they had taken off, and the thick black mud lay within a foot
of the surface, close to the bank against which Lord Chiltern was
propped. "That's the worst one I ever was on," said Lord Chiltern;
"but I think he's gruelled now."

"Are you hurt?"

"Well;--I fancy there is something amiss. I can't move my arms; and I
catch my breath. My legs are all right if I could get away from this
accursed brute."

"I told you so," said the farmer, coming and looking down upon them
from the bank. "I told you so, but you wouldn't be said." Then he too
got down, and between them both they extricated Lord Chiltern from
his position, and got him on to the bank.

"That un's a dead un," said the farmer, pointing to the horse.

"So much the better," said his lordship. "Give us a drop of sherry,
Finn."

He had broken his collar-bone and three of his ribs. They got a
farmer's trap from Wissindine and took him into Oakham. When there,
he insisted on being taken on through Stamford to the Willingford
Bull before he would have his bones set,--picking up, however, a
surgeon at Stamford. Phineas remained with him for a couple of days,
losing his run with the Fitzwilliams and a day at the potted peas,
and became very fond of his patient as he sat by his bedside.

"That was a good run, though, wasn't it?" said Lord Chiltern
as Phineas took his leave. "And, by George, Phineas, you rode
Bonebreaker so well, that you shall have him as often as you'll come
down. I don't know how it is, but you Irish fellows always ride."




CHAPTER XXV

Mr. Turnbull's Carriage Stops the Way


When Phineas got back to London, a day after his time, he found that
there was already a great political commotion in the metropolis.
He had known that on Easter Monday and Tuesday there was to be
a gathering of the people in favour of the ballot, and that on
Wednesday there was to be a procession with a petition which Mr.
Turnbull was to receive from the hands of the people on Primrose
Hill. It had been at first intended that Mr. Turnbull should receive
the petition at the door of Westminster Hall on the Thursday; but he
had been requested by the Home Secretary to put aside this intention,
and he had complied with the request made to him. Mr. Mildmay was
to move the second reading of his Reform Bill on that day, the
preliminary steps having been taken without any special notice; but
the bill of course included no clause in favour of the ballot; and
this petition was the consequence of that omission. Mr. Turnbull had
predicted evil consequences, both in the House and out of it, and
was now doing the best in his power to bring about the verification
of his own prophecies. Phineas, who reached his lodgings late on the
Thursday, found that the town had been in a state of ferment for
three days, that on the Wednesday forty or fifty thousand persons had
been collected at Primrose Hill, and that the police had been forced
to interfere,--and that worse was expected on the Friday. Though Mr.
Turnbull had yielded to the Government as to receiving the petition,
the crowd was resolved that they would see the petition carried into
the House. It was argued that the Government would have done better
to have refrained from interfering as to the previously intended
arrangement. It would have been easier to deal with a procession than
with a mob of men gathered together without any semblance of form.
Mr. Mildmay had been asked to postpone the second reading of his
bill; but the request had come from his opponents, and he would
not yield to it. He said that it would be a bad expedient to close
Parliament from fear of the people. Phineas found at the Reform Club
on the Thursday evening that members of the House of Commons were
requested to enter on the Friday by the door usually used by the
peers, and to make their way thence to their own House. He found that
his landlord, Mr. Bunce, had been out with the people during the
entire three days;--and Mrs. Bunce, with a flood of tears, begged
Phineas to interfere as to the Friday. "He's that headstrong that
he'll be took if anybody's took; and they say that all Westminster is
to be lined with soldiers." Phineas on the Friday morning did have
some conversation with his landlord; but his first work on reaching
London was to see Lord Chiltern's friends, and tell them of the
accident.

The potted peas Committee sat on the Thursday, and he ought to have
been there. His absence, however, was unavoidable, as he could not
have left his friend's bed-side so soon after the accident. On the
Wednesday he had written to Lady Laura, and on the Thursday evening
he went first to Portman Square and then to Grosvenor Place.

"Of course he will kill himself some day," said the Earl,--with a
tear, however, in each eye.

"I hope not, my lord. He is a magnificent horseman; but accidents of
course will happen."

"How many of his bones are there not broken, I wonder?" said the
father. "It is useless to talk, of course. You think he is not in
danger?"

"Certainly not."

"I should fear that he would be so liable to inflammation."

"The doctor says that there is none. He has been taking an enormous
deal of exercise," said Phineas, "and drinking no wine. All that is
in his favour."

"What does he drink, then?" asked the Earl.

"Nothing. I rather think, my lord, you are mistaken a little about
his habits. I don't fancy he ever drinks unless he is provoked to do
it."

"Provoked! Could anything provoke you to make a brute of yourself?
But I am glad that he is in no danger. If you hear of him, let me
know how he goes on."

Lady Laura was of course full of concern. "I wanted to go down to
him," she said, "but Mr. Kennedy thought that there was no occasion."

"Nor is there any;--I mean in regard to danger. He is very solitary
there."

"You must go to him again. Mr. Kennedy will not let me go unless I
can say that there is danger. He seems to think that because Oswald
has had accidents before, it is nothing. Of course I cannot leave
London without his leave."

"Your brother makes very little of it, you know."

"Ah;--he would make little of anything. But if I were ill he would be
in London by the first train."

"Kennedy would let you go if you asked him."

"But he advises me not to go. He says my duty does not require it,
unless Oswald be in danger. Don't you know, Mr. Finn, how hard it is
for a wife not to take advice when it is so given?" This she said,
within six months of her marriage, to the man who had been her
husband's rival!

Phineas asked her whether Violet had heard the news, and learned that
she was still ignorant of it. "I got your letter only this morning,
and I have not seen her," said Lady Laura. "Indeed, I am so angry
with her that I hardly wish to see her." Thursday was Lady Baldock's
night, and Phineas went from Grosvenor Place to Berkeley Square.
There he saw Violet, and found that she had heard of the accident.

"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Finn," she said. "Do tell me;--is it
much?"

"Much in inconvenience, certainly; but not much in danger."

"I think Laura was so unkind not to send me word! I only heard it
just now. Did you see it?"

"I was close to him, and helped him up. The horse jumped into a river
with him, and crushed him up against the bank."

"How lucky that you should be there! Had you jumped the river?"

"Yes;--almost unintentionally, for my horse was rushing so that I
could not hold him. Chiltern was riding a brute that no one should
have ridden. No one will again."

"Did he destroy himself?"

"He had to be killed afterwards. He broke his shoulder."

"How very lucky that you should have been near him,--and, again, how
lucky that you should not have been hurt yourself!"

"It was not likely that we should both come to grief at the same
fence."

"But it might have been you. And you think there is no danger?"

"None whatever,--if I may believe the doctor. His hunting is done for
this year, and he will be very desolate. I shall go down again to him
in a few days, and try to bring him up to town."

"Do;--do. If he is laid up in his father's house, his father must
see him." Phineas had not looked at the matter in that light; but he
thought that Miss Effingham might probably be right.

Early on the next morning he saw Mr. Bunce, and used all his
eloquence to keep that respectable member of society at home;--but
in vain. "What good do you expect to do, Mr. Bunce?" he said, with
perhaps some little tone of authority in his voice.

"To carry my point," said Bunce.

"And what is your point?"

"My present point is the ballot, as a part of the Government
measure."

"And you expect to carry that by going out into the streets with all
the roughs of London, and putting yourself in direct opposition to
the authority of the magistrates? Do you really believe that the
ballot will become the law of the land any sooner because you incur
this danger and inconvenience?"

"Look here, Mr. Finn; I don't believe the sea will become any fuller
because the Piddle runs into it out of the Dorsetshire fields; but I
do believe that the waters from all the countries is what makes the
ocean. I shall help; and it's my duty to help."

"It's your duty as a respectable citizen, with a wife and family, to
stay at home."

"If everybody with a wife and family was to say so, there'd be
none there but roughs, and then where should we be? What would the
Government people say to us then? If every man with a wife and family
was to show hisself in the streets to-night, we should have the
ballot before Parliament breaks up, and if none of 'em don't do it,
we shall never have the ballot. Ain't that so?" Phineas, who intended
to be honest, was not prepared to dispute the assertion on the spur
of the moment. "If that's so," said Bunce, triumphantly, "a man's
duty's clear enough. He ought to go, though he'd two wives and
families." And he went.

The petition was to be presented at six o'clock, but the crowd, who
collected to see it carried into Westminster Hall, began to form
itself by noon. It was said afterwards that many of the houses in
the neighbourhood of Palace Yard and the Bridge were filled with
soldiers; but if so, the men did not show themselves. In the course
of the evening three or four companies of the Guards in St. James's
Park did show themselves, and had some rough work to do, for many of
the people took themselves away from Westminster by that route. The
police, who were very numerous in Palace Yard, had a hard time of it
all the afternoon, and it was said afterwards that it would have been
much better to have allowed the petition to have been brought up by
the procession on Wednesday. A procession, let it be who it will that
proceeds, has in it, of its own nature something of order. But now
there was no order. The petition, which was said to fill fifteen
cabs,--though the absolute sheets of signatures were carried into
the House by four men,--was being dragged about half the day and it
certainly would have been impossible for a member to have made his
way into the House through Westminster Hall between the hours of four
and six. To effect an entrance at all they were obliged to go round
at the back of the Abbey, as all the spaces round St. Margaret's
Church and Canning's monument were filled with the crowd. Parliament
Street was quite impassable at five o clock, and there was no traffic
across the bridge from that hour till after eight. As the evening
went on, the mob extended itself to Downing Street and the front
of the Treasury Chambers, and before the night was over all the
hoardings round the new Government offices had been pulled down. The
windows also of certain obnoxious members of Parliament were broken,
when those obnoxious members lived within reach. One gentleman who
unfortunately held a house in Richmond Terrace, and who was said
to have said that the ballot was the resort of cowards, fared very
badly;--for his windows were not only broken, but his furniture and
mirrors were destroyed by the stones that were thrown. Mr. Mildmay,
I say, was much blamed. But after all, it may be a doubt whether the
procession on Wednesday might not have ended worse. Mr. Turnbull was
heard to say afterwards that the number of people collected would
have been much greater.

Mr. Mildmay moved the second reading of his bill, and made his
speech. He made his speech with the knowledge that the Houses of
Parliament were surrounded by a mob, and I think that the fact added
to its efficacy. It certainly gave him an appropriate opportunity
for a display which was not difficult. His voice faltered on two or
three occasions, and faltered through real feeling; but this sort of
feeling, though it be real, is at the command of orators on certain
occasions, and does them yeoman's service. Mr. Mildmay was an
old man, nearly worn out in the service of his country, who was
known to have been true and honest, and to have loved his country
well,--though there were of course they who declared that his
hand had been too weak for power, and that his services had been
naught;--and on this evening his virtues were remembered. Once when
his voice failed him the whole House got up and cheered. The nature
of a Whig Prime Minister's speech on such an occasion will be
understood by most of my readers without further indication. The bill
itself had been read before, and it was understood that no objection
would be made to the extent of the changes provided in it by the
liberal side of the House. The opposition coming from liberal members
was to be confined to the subject of the ballot. And even as yet
it was not known whether Mr. Turnbull and his followers would vote
against the second reading, or whether they would take what was
given, and declare their intention of obtaining the remainder on a
separate motion. The opposition of a large party of Conservatives was
a matter of certainty; but to this party Mr. Mildmay did not conceive
himself bound to offer so large an amount of argument as he would
have given had there been at the moment no crowd in Palace Yard. And
he probably felt that that crowd would assist him with his old Tory
enemies. When, in the last words of his speech, he declared that
under no circumstances would he disfigure the close of his political
career by voting for the ballot,--not though the people, on whose
behalf he had been fighting battles all his life, should be there in
any number to coerce him,--there came another round of applause from
the opposition benches, and Mr. Daubeny began to fear that some young
horses in his team might get loose from their traces. With great
dignity Mr. Daubeny had kept aloof from Mr. Turnbull and from Mr.
Turnbull's tactics; but he was not the less alive to the fact
that Mr. Turnbull, with his mob and his big petition, might be of
considerable assistance to him in this present duel between himself
and Mr. Mildmay. I think Mr. Daubeny was in the habit of looking at
these contests as duels between himself and the leader on the other
side of the House,--in which assistance from any quarter might be
accepted if offered.

Mr. Mildmay's speech did not occupy much over an hour, and at
half-past seven Mr. Turnbull got up to reply. It was presumed that he
would do so, and not a member left his place, though that time of the
day is an interesting time, and though Mr. Turnbull was accustomed to
be long. There soon came to be but little ground for doubting what
would be the nature of Mr. Turnbull's vote on the second reading.
"How may I dare," said he, "to accept so small a measure of reform as
this with such a message from the country as is now conveyed to me
through the presence of fifty thousand of my countrymen, who are at
this moment demanding their measure of reform just beyond the frail
walls of this chamber? The right honourable gentleman has told us
that he will never be intimidated by a concourse of people. I do not
know that there was any need that he should speak of intimidation.
No one has accused the right honourable gentleman of political
cowardice. But, as he has so said, I will follow in his footsteps.
Neither will I be intimidated by the large majority which this House
presented the other night against the wishes of the people. I will
support no great measure of reform which does not include the ballot
among its clauses." And so Mr. Turnbull threw down the gauntlet.

Mr. Turnbull spoke for two hours, and then the debate was adjourned
till the Monday. The adjournment was moved by an independent member,
who, as was known, would support the Government, and at once received
Mr. Turnbull's assent. There was no great hurry with the bill, and
it was felt that it would be well to let the ferment subside. Enough
had been done for glory when Mr. Mildmay moved the second reading,
and quite enough in the way of debate,--with such an audience almost
within hearing,--when Mr. Turnbull's speech had been made. Then the
House emptied itself at once. The elderly, cautious members made
their exit through the peers' door. The younger men got out into
the crowd through Westminster Hall, and were pushed about among the
roughs for an hour or so. Phineas, who made his way through the hall
with Laurence Fitzgibbon, found Mr. Turnbull's carriage waiting at
the entrance with a dozen policemen round it.

"I hope he won't get home to dinner before midnight," said Phineas.

"He understands all about it," said Laurence. "He had a good meal at
three, before he left home, and you'd find sandwiches and sherry in
plenty if you were to search his carriage. He knows how to remedy the
costs of mob popularity."

At that time poor Bunce was being hustled about in the crowd in the
vicinity of Mr. Turnbull's carriage. Phineas and Fitzgibbon made
their way out, and by degrees worked a passage for themselves into
Parliament Street. Mr. Turnbull had been somewhat behind them in
coming down the hall, and had not been without a sense of enjoyment
in the ovation which was being given to him. There can be no doubt
that he was wrong in what he was doing. That affair of the carriage
was altogether wrong, and did Mr. Turnbull much harm for many a day
afterwards. When he got outside the door, where were the twelve
policemen guarding his carriage, a great number of his admirers
endeavoured to shake hands with him. Among them was the devoted
Bunce. But the policemen seemed to think that Mr. Turnbull was to be
guarded, even from the affection of his friends, and were as careful
that he should be ushered into his carriage untouched, as though he
had been the favourite object of political aversion for the moment.
Mr. Turnbull himself, when he began to perceive that men were
crowding close upon the gates, and to hear the noise, and to feel, as
it were, the breath of the mob, stepped on quickly into his carriage.
He said a word or two in a loud voice. "Thank you, my friends. I
trust you may obtain all your just demands." But he did not pause
to speak. Indeed, he could hardly have done so, as the policemen
were manifestly in a hurry. The carriage was got away at a snail's
pace;--but there remained in the spot where the carriage had stood
the makings of a very pretty street row.

Bunce had striven hard to shake hands with his hero,--Bunce and some
other reformers as ardent and as decent as himself. The police were
very determinate that there should be no such interruption to their
programme for getting Mr. Turnbull off the scene. Mr. Bunce, who had
his own ideas as to his right to shake hands with any gentleman at
Westminster Hall who might choose to shake hands with him, became
uneasy under the impediments that were placed in his way, and
expressed himself warmly as to his civil rights. Now a London
policeman in a political row is, I believe, the most forbearing
of men. So long as he meets with no special political opposition,
ordinary ill-usage does not even put him out of temper. He is paid
for rough work among roughs, and takes his rubs gallantly. But he
feels himself to be an instrument for the moment of despotic power
as opposed to civil rights, and he won't stand what he calls "jaw."
Trip up a policeman in such a scramble, and he will take it in good
spirit; but mention the words "Habeas Corpus," and he'll lock you up
if he can. As a rule, his instincts are right; for the man who talks
about "Habeas Corpus" in a political crowd will generally do more
harm than can be effected by the tripping up of any constable. But
these instincts may be the means of individual injustice. I think
they were so when Mr. Bunce was arrested and kept a fast prisoner.
His wife had shown her knowledge of his character when she declared
that he'd be "took" if any one was "took."

Bunce was taken into custody with some three or four others like
himself,--decent men, who meant no harm, but who thought that as men
they were bound to show their political opinions, perhaps at the
expense of a little martyrdom,--and was carried into a temporary
stronghold, which had been provided for the necessities of the
police, under the clock-tower.

"Keep me, at your peril!" said Bunce, indignantly.

"We means it," said the sergeant who had him in custody.

"I've done no ha'porth to break the law," said Bunce.

"You was breaking the law when you was upsetting my men, as I saw
you," said the sergeant.

"I've upset nobody," said Bunce.

"Very well," rejoined the sergeant; "you can say it all before the
magistrate, to-morrow."

"And am I to be locked up all night?" said Bunce.

"I'm afraid you will," replied the sergeant.

Bunce, who was not by nature a very talkative man, said no more; but
he swore in his heart that there should be vengeance. Between eleven
and twelve he was taken to the regular police-station, and from
thence he was enabled to send word to his wife.

"Bunce has been taken," said she, with something of the tragic queen,
and something also of the injured wife in the tone of her voice, as
soon as Phineas let himself in with the latchkey between twelve and
one. And then, mingled with, and at last dominant over, those severer
tones, came the voice of the loving woman whose beloved one was in
trouble. "I knew how it'd be, Mr. Finn. Didn't I? And what must we
do? I don't suppose he'd had a bit to eat from the moment he went
out;--and as for a drop of beer, he never thinks of it, except what
I puts down for him at his meals. Them nasty police always take the
best. That's why I was so afeard."

Phineas said all that he could to comfort her, and promised to go
to the police-office early in the morning and look after Bunce. No
serious evil would, he thought, probably come of it; but still Bunce
had been wrong to go.

"But you might have been took yourself," argued Mrs. Bunce, "just as
well as he." Then Phineas explained that he had gone forth in the
execution of a public duty. "You might have been took, all the same,"
said Mrs. Bunce, "for I'm sure Bunce didn't do nothing amiss."




CHAPTER XXVI

"The First Speech"


On the following morning, which was Saturday, Phineas was early at
the police-office at Westminster looking after the interests of his
landlord; but there had been a considerable number of men taken up
during the row, and our friend could hardly procure that attention
for Mr. Bunce's case to which he thought the decency of his client
and his own position as a member of Parliament were entitled. The men
who had been taken up were taken in batches before the magistrates;
but as the soldiers in the park had been maltreated, and a
considerable injury had been done in the neighbourhood of Downing
Street, there was a good deal of strong feeling against the mob, and
the magistrates were disposed to be severe. If decent men chose to go
out among such companions, and thereby get into trouble, decent men
must take the consequences. During the Saturday and Sunday a very
strong feeling grew up against Mr. Turnbull. The story of the
carriage was told, and he was declared to be a turbulent demagogue,
only desirous of getting popularity. And together with this feeling
there arose a general verdict of "Serve them right" against all who
had come into contact with the police in the great Turnbull row; and
thus it came to pass that Mr. Bunce had not been liberated up to
the Monday morning. On the Sunday Mrs. Bunce was in hysterics, and
declared her conviction that Mr. Bunce would be imprisoned for life.
Poor Phineas had an unquiet time with her on the morning of that day.
In every ecstasy of her grief she threw herself into his arms, either
metaphorically or materially, according to the excess of her agony at
the moment, and expressed repeatedly an assured conviction that all
her children would die of starvation, and that she herself would be
picked up under the arches of one of the bridges. Phineas, who was
soft-hearted, did what he could to comfort her, and allowed himself
to be worked up to strong parliamentary anger against the magistrates
and police. "When they think that they have public opinion on their
side, there is nothing in the way or arbitrary excess which is too
great for them." This he said to Barrington Erle, who angered him and
increased the warmth of his feeling by declaring that a little close
confinement would be good for the Bunces of the day. "If we don't
keep the mob down, the mob will keep us down," said the Whig private
secretary. Phineas had no opportunity of answering this, but declared
to himself that Barrington Erle was no more a Liberal at heart than
was Mr. Daubeny. "He was born on that side of the question, and has
been receiving Whig wages all his life. That is the history of his
politics!"

On the Sunday afternoon Phineas went to Lord Brentford's in Portman
Square, intending to say a word or two about Lord Chiltern, and
meaning also to induce, if possible, the Cabinet Minister to take
part with him against the magistrates,--having a hope also, in which
he was not disappointed, that he might find Lady Laura Kennedy with
her father. He had come to understand that Lady Laura was not to be
visited at her own house on Sundays. So much indeed she had told
him in so many words. But he had come to understand also, without
any plain telling, that she rebelled in heart against this Sabbath
tyranny,--and that she would escape from it when escape was possible.
She had now come to talk to her father about her brother, and had
brought Violet Effingham with her. They had walked together across
the park after church, and intended to walk back again. Mr. Kennedy
did not like to have any carriage out on a Sunday, and to this
arrangement his wife made no objection.

Phineas had received a letter from the Stamford surgeon, and was able
to report favourably of Lord Chiltern. "The man says that he had
better not be moved for a month," said Phineas. "But that means
nothing. They always say that."

"Will it not be best for him to remain where he is?" said the Earl.

"He has not a soul to speak to," said Phineas.

"I wish I were with him," said his sister.

"That is, of course, out of the question," said the Earl. "They know
him at that inn, and it really seems to me best that he should stay
there. I do not think he would be so much at his ease here."

"It must be dreadful for a man to be confined to his room without
a creature near him, except the servants," said Violet. The Earl
frowned, but said nothing further. They all perceived that as soon as
he had learned that there was no real danger as to his son's life, he
was determined that this accident should not work him up to any show
of tenderness. "I do so hope he will come up to London," continued
Violet, who was not afraid of the Earl, and was determined not to be
put down.

"You don't know what you are talking about, my dear," said Lord
Brentford.

After this Phineas found it very difficult to extract any sympathy
from the Earl on behalf of the men who had been locked up. He was
moody and cross, and could not be induced to talk on the great
subject of the day. Violet Effingham declared that she did not care
how many Bunces were locked up; nor for how long,--adding, however,
a wish that Mr. Turnbull himself had been among the number of the
prisoners. Lady Laura was somewhat softer than this, and consented to
express pity in the case of Mr. Bunce himself; but Phineas perceived
that the pity was awarded to him and not to the sufferer. The feeling
against Mr. Turnbull was at the present moment so strong among all
the upper classes, that Mr. Bunce and his brethren might have been
kept in durance for a week without commiseration from them.

"It is very hard certainly on a man like Mr. Bunce," said Lady Laura.

"Why did not Mr. Bunce stay at home and mind his business?" said the
Earl.

Phineas spent the remainder of that day alone, and came to a
resolution that on the coming occasion he certainly would speak in
the House. The debate would be resumed on the Monday, and he would
rise to his legs on the very first moment that it became possible
for him to do so. And he would do nothing towards preparing a
speech;--nothing whatever. On this occasion he would trust entirely
to such words as might come to him at the moment;--ay, and to such
thoughts. He had before burdened his memory with preparations, and
the very weight of the burden had been too much for his mind. He had
feared to trust himself to speak, because he had felt that he was
not capable of performing the double labour of saying his lesson
by heart, and of facing the House for the first time. There should
be nothing now for him to remember. His thoughts were full of his
subject. He would support Mr. Mildmay's bill with all his eloquence,
but he would implore Mr. Mildmay, and the Home Secretary, and the
Government generally, to abstain from animosity against the populace
of London, because they desired one special boon which Mr. Mildmay
did not think that it was his duty to give them. He hoped that ideas
and words would come to him. Ideas and words had been free enough
with him in the old days of the Dublin debating society. If they
failed him now, he must give the thing up, and go back to Mr. Low.

On the Monday morning Phineas was for two hours at the police-court
in Westminster, and at about one on that day Mr. Bunce was liberated.
When he was brought up before the magistrate, Mr. Bunce spoke his
mind very freely as to the usage he had received, and declared his
intention of bringing an action against the sergeant who had detained
him. The magistrate, of course, took the part of the police, and
declared that, from the evidence of two men who were examined, Bunce
had certainly used such violence in the crowd as had justified his
arrest.

"I used no violence," said Bunce.

"According to your own showing, you endeavoured to make your way up
to Mr. Turnbull's carriage," said the magistrate.

"I was close to the carriage before the police even saw me," said
Bunce.

"But you tried to force your way round to the door."

"I used no force till a man had me by the collar to push me back; and
I wasn't violent, not then. I told him I was doing what I had a right
to do,--and it was that as made him hang on to me."

"You were not doing what you had a right to do. You were assisting to
create a riot," said the magistrate, with that indignation which a
London magistrate should always know how to affect.

Phineas, however, was allowed to give evidence as to his landlord's
character, and then Bunce was liberated. But before he went he
again swore that that should not be the last of it, and he told the
magistrate that he had been ill-used. When liberated, he was joined
by a dozen sympathising friends, who escorted him home, and among
them were one or two literary gentlemen, employed on those excellent
penny papers, the _People's Banner_ and the _Ballot-box_. It was
their intention that Mr. Bunce's case should not be allowed to sleep.
One of these gentlemen made a distinct offer to Phineas Finn of
unbounded popularity during life and of immortality afterwards,
if he, as a member of Parliament, would take up Bunce's case with
vigour. Phineas, not quite understanding the nature of the offer, and
not as yet knowing the profession of the gentleman, gave some general
reply.

"You come out strong, Mr. Finn, and we'll see that you are properly
reported. I'm on the _Banner_, sir, and I'll answer for that."

Phineas, who had been somewhat eager in expressing his sympathy
with Bunce, and had not given very close attention to the gentleman
who was addressing him, was still in the dark. The nature of the
_Banner_, which the gentleman was on, did not at once come home to
him.

"Something ought to be done, certainly," said Phineas.

"We shall take it up strong," said the gentleman, "and we shall be
happy to have you among us. You'll find, Mr. Finn, that in public
life there's nothing like having a horgan to back you. What is the
most you can do in the 'Ouse? Nothing, if you're not reported. You're
speaking to the country;--ain't you? And you can't do that without a
horgan, Mr. Finn. You come among us on the _Banner_, Mr. Finn. You
can't do better."

Then Phineas understood the nature of the offer made to him. As they
parted, the literary gentleman gave our hero his card. "Mr. Quintus
Slide." So much was printed. Then, on the corner of the card was
written, "_Banner_ Office, 137, Fetter Lane." Mr. Quintus Slide
was a young man, under thirty, not remarkable for clean linen, and
who always talked of the "'Ouse." But he was a well-known and not
undistinguished member of a powerful class of men. He had been a
reporter, and as such knew the "'Ouse" well, and was a writer for the
press. And, though he talked of "'Ouses" and "horgans", he wrote good
English with great rapidity, and was possessed of that special sort
of political fervour which shows itself in a man's work rather than
in his conduct. It was Mr. Slide's taste to be an advanced reformer,
and in all his operations on behalf of the _People's Banner_ he
was a reformer very much advanced. No man could do an article on the
people's indefeasible rights with more pronounced vigour than Mr.
Slide. But it had never occurred to him as yet that he ought to care
for anything else than the fight,--than the advantage of having a
good subject on which to write slashing articles. Mr. Slide was an
energetic but not a thoughtful man; but in his thoughts on politics,
as far as they went with him, he regarded the wrongs of the people as
being of infinitely greater value than their rights. It was not that
he was insincere in all that he was daily saying;--but simply that
he never thought about it. Very early in life he had fallen among
"people's friends," and an opening on the liberal press had come in
his way. To be a "people's friend" suited the turn of his ambition,
and he was a "people's friend." It was his business to abuse
Government, and to express on all occasions an opinion that as a
matter of course the ruling powers were the "people's enemies." Had
the ruling powers ceased to be the "people's enemies," Mr. Slide's
ground would have been taken from under his feet. But such a
catastrophe was out of the question. That excellent old arrangement
that had gone on since demagogues were first invented was in
full vigour. There were the ruling powers and there were the
people,--devils on one side and angels on the other,--and as long
as a people's friend had a pen in his hand all was right.

Phineas, when he left the indignant Bunce to go among his friends,
walked to the House thinking a good deal of what Mr. Slide had said
to him. The potted peas Committee was again on, and he had intended
to be in the Committee Room by twelve punctually: but he had been
unable to leave Mr. Bunce in the lurch, and it was now past one.
Indeed, he had, from one unfortunate circumstance after another,
failed hitherto in giving to the potted peas that resolute attention
which the subject demanded. On the present occasion his mind was full
of Mr. Quintus Slide and the _People's Banner_. After all, was there
not something in Mr. Slide's proposition? He, Phineas, had come into
Parliament as it were under the wing of a Government pack, and his
friendships, which had been very successful, had been made with
Ministers, and with the friends of Ministers. He had made up his mind
to be Whig Ministerial, and to look for his profession in that line.
He had been specially fortified in this resolution by his dislike
to the ballot,--which dislike had been the result of Mr. Monk's
teaching. Had Mr. Turnbull become his friend instead, it may well be
that he would have liked the ballot. On such subjects men must think
long, and be sure that they have thought in earnest, before they are
justified in saying that their opinions are the results of their
own thoughts. But now he began to reflect how far this ministerial
profession would suit him. Would it be much to be a Lord of the
Treasury, subject to the dominion of Mr. Ratler? Such lordship and
such subjection would be the result of success. He told himself
that he was at heart a true Liberal. Would it not be better for him
to abandon the idea of office trammels, and go among them on the
_People's Banner_? A glow of enthusiasm came over him as he thought
of it. But what would Violet Effingham say to the _People's Banner_
and Mr. Quintus Slide? And he would have liked the _Banner_ better
had not Mr. Slide talked about the 'Ouse.

From the Committee Room, in which, alas! he took no active part in
reference to the potted peas, he went down to the House, and was
present when the debate was resumed. Not unnaturally, one speaker
after another made some allusion to the row in the streets, and the
work which had fallen to the lot of the magistrates. Mr. Turnbull
had declared that he would vote against the second reading of Mr.
Mildmay's bill, and had explained that he would do so because he
could consent to no Reform Bill which did not include the ballot as
one of its measures. The debate fashioned itself after this speech of
Mr. Turnbull's, and turned again very much upon the ballot,--although
it had been thought that the late debate had settled that question.
One or two of Mr. Turnbull's followers declared that they also would
vote against the bill,--of course, as not going far enough; and one
or two gentlemen from the Conservative benches extended a spoken
welcome to these new colleagues. Then Mr. Palliser got up and
addressed the House for an hour, struggling hard to bring back the
real subject, and to make the House understand that the ballot,
whether good or bad, had been knocked on the head, and that members
had no right at the present moment to consider anything but the
expediency or inexpediency of so much Reform as Mr. Mildmay presented
to them in the present bill.

Phineas was determined to speak, and to speak on this evening if he
could catch the Speaker's eye. Again the scene before him was going
round before him; again things became dim, and again he felt his
blood beating hard at his heart. But things were not so bad with
him as they had been before, because he had nothing to remember. He
hardly knew, indeed, what he intended to say. He had an idea that he
was desirous of joining in earnest support of the measure, with a
vehement protest against the injustice which had been done to the
people in general, and to Mr. Bunce in particular. He had firmly
resolved that no fear of losing favour with the Government should
induce him to hold his tongue as to the Buncean cruelties. Sooner
than do so he would certainly "go among them" at the _Banner_ office.

He started up, wildly, when Mr. Palliser had completed his speech;
but the Speaker's eye, not unnaturally, had travelled to the other
side of the House, and there was a Tory of the old school upon his
legs,--Mr. Western, the member for East Barsetshire, one of the
gallant few who dared to vote against Sir Robert Peel's bill for
repealing the Corn Laws in 1846. Mr. Western spoke with a slow,
ponderous, unimpressive, but very audible voice, for some twenty
minutes, disdaining to make reference to Mr. Turnbull and his
politics, but pleading against any Reform, with all the old
arguments. Phineas did not hear a word that he said;--did not attempt
to hear. He was keen in his resolution to make another attempt at the
Speaker's eye, and at the present moment was thinking of that, and
of that only. He did not even give himself a moment's reflection as
to what his own speech should be. He would dash at it and take his
chance, resolved that at least he would not fail in courage. Twice he
was on his legs before Mr. Western had finished his slow harangue,
and twice he was compelled to reseat himself,--thinking that he had
subjected himself to ridicule. At last the member for East Barset sat
down, and Phineas was conscious that he had lost a moment or two in
presenting himself again to the Speaker.

He held his ground, however, though he saw that he had various rivals
for the right of speech. He held his ground, and was instantly aware
that he had gained his point. There was a slight pause, and as
some other urgent member did not reseat himself, Phineas heard the
president of that august assembly call upon himself to address the
House. The thing was now to be done. There he was with the House of
Commons at his feet,--a crowded House, bound to be his auditors as
long as he should think fit to address them, and reporters by tens
and twenties in the gallery ready and eager to let the country know
what the young member for Loughshane would say in this his maiden
speech.

Phineas Finn had sundry gifts, a powerful and pleasant voice, which
he had learned to modulate, a handsome presence, and a certain
natural mixture of modesty and self-reliance, which would certainly
protect him from the faults of arrogance and pomposity, and which,
perhaps, might carry him through the perils of his new position. And
he had also the great advantage of friends in the House who were
anxious that he should do well. But he had not that gift of slow
blood which on the former occasion would have enabled him to remember
his prepared speech, and which would now have placed all his own
resources within his own reach. He began with the expression of an
opinion that every true reformer ought to accept Mr. Mildmay's bill,
even if it were accepted only as an instalment,--but before he had
got through these sentences, he became painfully conscious that he
was repeating his own words.

He was cheered almost from the outset, and yet he knew as he went
on that he was failing. He had certain arguments at his fingers'
ends,--points with which he was, in truth, so familiar that he need
hardly have troubled himself to arrange them for special use,--and he
forgot even these. He found that he was going on with one platitude
after another as to the benefit of reform, in a manner that would
have shamed him six or seven years ago at a debating club. He pressed
on, fearing that words would fail him altogether if he paused;--but
he did in truth speak very much too fast, knocking his words together
so that no reporter could properly catch them. But he had nothing to
say for the bill except what hundreds had said before, and hundreds
would say again. Still he was cheered, and still he went on; and as
he became more and more conscious of his failure there grew upon him
the idea,--the dangerous hope, that he might still save himself from
ignominy by the eloquence of his invective against the police.

He tried it, and succeeded thoroughly in making the House understand
that he was very angry,--but he succeeded in nothing else. He could
not catch the words to express the thoughts of his mind. He could not
explain his idea that the people out of the House had as much right
to express their opinion in favour of the ballot as members in the
House had to express theirs against it; and that animosity had been
shown to the people by the authorities because they had so expressed
their opinion. Then he attempted to tell the story of Mr. Bunce in a
light and airy way, failed, and sat down in the middle of it. Again
he was cheered by all around him,--cheered as a new member is usually
cheered,--and in the midst of the cheer would have blown out his
brains had there been a pistol there ready for such an operation.

That hour with him was very bad. He did not know how to get up and
go away, or how to keep his place. For some time he sat with his
hat off, forgetful of his privilege of wearing it; and then put it
on hurriedly, as though the fact of his not wearing it must have
been observed by everybody. At last, at about two, the debate was
adjourned, and then as he was slowly leaving the House, thinking how
he might creep away without companionship, Mr. Monk took him by the
arm.

"Are you going to walk?" said Mr. Monk.

"Yes", said Phineas; "I shall walk."

"Then we may go together as far as Pall Mall. Come along." Phineas
had no means of escape, and left the House hanging on Mr. Monk's arm,
without a word. Nor did Mr. Monk speak till they were out in Palace
Yard. "It was not much amiss," said Mr. Monk; "but you'll do better
than that yet."

"Mr. Monk," said Phineas, "I have made an ass of myself so
thoroughly, that there will at any rate be this good result, that I
shall never make an ass of myself again after the same fashion."

"Ah!--I thought you had some such feeling as that, and therefore I
was determined to speak to you. You may be sure, Finn, that I do not
care to flatter you, and I think you ought to know that, as far as I
am able, I will tell you the truth. Your speech, which was certainly
nothing great, was about on a par with other maiden speeches in the
House of Commons. You have done yourself neither good nor harm. Nor
was it desirable that you should. My advice to you now is, never to
avoid speaking on any subject that interests you, but never to speak
for above three minutes till you find yourself as much at home on
your legs as you are when sitting. But do not suppose that you have
made an ass of yourself,--that is, in any special degree. Now,
good-night."




CHAPTER XXVII

Phineas Discussed


Lady Laura Kennedy heard two accounts of her friend's speech,--and
both from men who had been present. Her husband was in his place, in
accordance with his constant practice, and Lord Brentford had been
seated, perhaps unfortunately, in the peers' gallery.

"And you think it was a failure?" Lady Laura said to her husband.

"It certainly was not a success. There was nothing particular about
it. There was a good deal of it you could hardly hear."

After that she got the morning newspapers, and turned with great
interest to the report. Phineas Finn had been, as it were, adopted by
her as her own political offspring,--or at any rate as her political
godchild. She had made promises on his behalf to various personages
of high political standing,--to her father, to Mr. Monk, to the Duke
of St. Bungay, and even to Mr. Mildmay himself. She had thoroughly
intended that Phineas Finn should be a political success from the
first; and since her marriage, she had, I think, been more intent
upon it than before. Perhaps there was a feeling on her part that
having wronged him in one way, she would repay him in another. She
had become so eager for his success,--for a while scorning to conceal
her feeling,--that her husband had unconsciously begun to entertain
a dislike to her eagerness. We know how quickly women arrive at an
understanding of the feelings of those with whom they live; and now,
on that very occasion, Lady Laura perceived that her husband did not
take in good part her anxiety on behalf of her friend. She saw that
it was so as she turned over the newspaper looking for the report of
the speech. It was given in six lines, and at the end of it there was
an intimation,--expressed in the shape of advice,--that the young
orator had better speak more slowly if he wished to be efficacious
either with the House or with the country.

"He seems to have been cheered a good deal," said Lady Laura.

"All members are cheered at their first speech," said Mr. Kennedy.

"I've no doubt he'll do well yet," said Lady Laura.

"Very likely," said Mr. Kennedy. Then he turned to his newspaper, and
did not take his eyes off it as long as his wife remained with him.

Later in the day Lady Laura saw her father, and Miss Effingham was
with her at the time. Lord Brentford said something which indicated
that he had heard the debate on the previous evening, and Lady Laura
instantly began to ask him about Phineas.

"The less said the better," was the Earl's reply.

"Do you mean that it was so bad as that?" asked Lady Laura.

"It was not very bad at first;--though indeed nobody could say it was
very good. But he got himself into a mess about the police and the
magistrates before he had done, and nothing but the kindly feeling
always shown to a first effort saved him from being coughed down."
Lady Laura had not a word more to say about Phineas to her father;
but, womanlike, she resolved that she would not abandon him. How
many first failures in the world had been the precursors of ultimate
success! "Mildmay will lose his bill," said the Earl, sorrowfully.
"There does not seem to be a doubt about that."

"And what will you all do?" asked Lady Laura.

"We must go to the country, I suppose," said the Earl.

"What's the use? You can't have a more liberal House than you have
now," said Lady Laura.

"We may have one less liberal,--or rather less radical,--with fewer
men to support Mr. Turnbull. I do not see what else we can do. They
say that there are no less than twenty-seven men on our side of the
House who will either vote with Turnbull against us, or will decline
to vote at all."

"Every one of them ought to lose his seat," said Lady Laura.

"But what can we do? How is the Queen's Government to be carried on?"
We all know the sad earnestness which impressed itself on the Earl's
brow as he asked these momentous questions. "I don't suppose that Mr.
Turnbull can form a Ministry."

"With Mr. Daubeny as whipper-in, perhaps he might," said Lady Laura.

"And will Mr. Finn lose his seat?" asked Violet Effingham. "Most
probably," said the Earl. "He only got it by an accident."

"You must find him a seat somewhere in England," said Violet.

"That might be difficult," said the Earl, who then left the room.

The two women remained together for some quarter of an hour before
they spoke again. Then Lady Laura said something about her brother.
"If there be a dissolution, I hope Oswald will stand for Loughton."
Loughton was a borough close to Saulsby, in which, as regarded its
political interests, Lord Brentford was supposed to have considerable
influence. To this Violet said nothing. "It is quite time," continued
Lady Laura, "that old Mr. Standish should give way. He has had the
seat for twenty-five years, and has never done anything, and he
seldom goes to the House now."

"He is not your uncle, is he?"

"No; he is papa's cousin; but he is ever so much older than
papa;--nearly eighty, I believe."

"Would not that be just the place for Mr. Finn?" said Violet.

Then Lady Laura became very serious. "Oswald would of course have a
better right to it than anybody else."

"But would Lord Chiltern go into Parliament? I have heard him declare
that he would not."

"If we could get papa to ask him, I think he would change his mind,"
said Lady Laura.

There was again silence for a few moments, after which Violet
returned to the original subject of their conversation. "It would be
a thousand pities that Mr. Finn should be turned out into the cold.
Don't you think so?"

"I, for one, should be very sorry."

"So should I,--and the more so from what Lord Brentford says about
his not speaking well last night. I don't think that it is very much
of an accomplishment for a gentleman to speak well. Mr. Turnbull, I
suppose, speaks well; and they say that that horrid man, Mr. Bonteen,
can talk by the hour together. I don't think that it shows a man to
be clever at all. But I believe Mr. Finn would do it, if he set his
mind to it, and I shall think it a great shame if they turn him out."

"It would depend very much, I suppose, on Lord Tulla."

"I don't know anything about Lord Tulla," said Violet; "but I'm quite
sure that he might have Loughton, if we manage it properly. Of course
Lord Chiltern should have it if he wants it, but I don't think he
will stand in Mr. Finn's way."

"I'm afraid it's out of the question," said Lady Laura, gravely.
"Papa thinks so much about the borough." The reader will remember
that both Lord Brentford and his daughter were thorough reformers!
The use of a little borough of his own, however, is a convenience to
a great peer.

"Those difficult things have always to be talked of for a long while,
and then they become easy," said Violet. "I believe if you were
to propose to Mr. Kennedy to give all his property to the Church
Missionaries and emigrate to New Zealand, he'd begin to consider it
seriously after a time."

"I shall not try, at any rate."

"Because you don't want to go to New Zealand;--but you might try
about Loughton for poor Mr. Finn."

"Violet," said Lady Laura, after a moment's pause;--and she spoke
sharply; "Violet, I believe you are in love with Mr. Finn."

"That's just like you, Laura."

"I never made such an accusation against you before, or against
anybody else that I can remember. But I do begin to believe that you
are in love with Mr. Finn."

"Why shouldn't I be in love with him, if I like?"

"I say nothing about that;--only he has not got a penny."

"But I have, my dear."

"And I doubt whether you have any reason for supposing that he is in
love with you."

"That would be my affair, my dear."

"Then you are in love with him?"

"That is my affair also."

Lady Laura shrugged her shoulders. "Of course it is; and if you tell
me to hold my tongue, of course I will do so. If you ask me whether I
think it a good match, of course I must say I do not."

"I don't tell you to hold your tongue, and I don't ask you what you
think about the match. You are quite welcome to talk as much about me
as you please;--but as to Mr. Phineas Finn, you have no business to
think anything."

"I shouldn't talk to anybody but yourself."

"I am growing to be quite indifferent as to what people say. Lady
Baldock asked me the other day whether I was going to throw myself
away on Mr. Laurence Fitzgibbon."

"No!"

"Indeed she did."

"And what did you answer?"

"I told her that it was not quite settled; but that as I had only
spoken to him once during the last two years, and then for not more
than half a minute, and as I wasn't sure whether I knew him by sight,
and as I had reason to suppose he didn't know my name, there might,
perhaps, be a delay of a week or two before the thing came off. Then
she flounced out of the room."

"But what made her ask about Mr. Fitzgibbon?"

"Somebody had been hoaxing her. I am beginning to think that Augusta
does it for her private amusement. If so, I shall think more highly
of my dear cousin than I have hitherto done. But, Laura, as you
have made a similar accusation against me, and as I cannot get out
of it with you as I do with my aunt, I must ask you to hear my
protestation. I am not in love with Mr. Phineas Finn. Heaven help
me;--as far as I can tell, I am not in love with any one, and never
shall be." Lady Laura looked pleased. "Do you know," continued
Violet, "that I think I could be in love with Mr. Phineas Finn, if
I could be in love with anybody?" Then Lady Laura looked displeased.
"In the first place, he is a gentleman," continued Violet. "Then he
is a man of spirit. And then he has not too much spirit;--not that
kind of spirit which makes some men think that they are the finest
things going. His manners are perfect;--not Chesterfieldian, and yet
never offensive. He never browbeats any one, and never toadies any
one. He knows how to live easily with men of all ranks, without any
appearance of claiming a special status for himself. If he were made
Archbishop of Canterbury to-morrow, I believe he would settle down
into the place of the first subject in the land without arrogance,
and without false shame."

"You are his eulogist with a vengeance."

"I am his eulogist; but I am not in love with him. If he were to
ask me to be his wife to-morrow, I should be distressed, and should
refuse him. If he were to marry my dearest friend in the world, I
should tell him to kiss me and be my brother. As to Mr. Phineas
Finn,--those are my sentiments."

"What you say is very odd."

"Why odd?"

"Simply because mine are the same."

"Are they the same? I once thought, Laura, that you did love
him;--that you meant to be his wife."

Lady Laura sat for a while without making any reply to this. She
sat with her elbow on the table and with her face leaning on her
hand,--thinking how far it would tend to her comfort if she spoke in
true confidence. Violet during the time never took her eyes from her
friend's face, but remained silent as though waiting for an answer.
She had been very explicit as to her feelings. Would Laura Kennedy be
equally explicit? She was too clever to forget that such plainness
of speech would be, must be more difficult to Lady Laura than to
herself. Lady Laura was a married woman; but she felt that her friend
would have been wrong to search for secrets, unless she were ready to
tell her own. It was probably some such feeling which made Lady Laura
speak at last.

"So I did, nearly--" said Lady Laura; "very nearly. You told me just
now that you had money, and could therefore do as you pleased. I had
no money, and could not do as I pleased."

"And you told me also that I had no reason for thinking that he cared
for me."

"Did I? Well;--I suppose you have no reason. He did care for me. He
did love me."

"He told you so?"

"Yes;--he told me so."

"And how did you answer him?"

"I had that very morning become engaged to Mr. Kennedy. That was my
answer."

"And what did he say when you told him?"

"I do not know. I cannot remember. But he behaved very well."

"And now,--if he were to love me, you would grudge me his love?"

"Not for that reason,--not if I know myself. Oh no! I would not be so
selfish as that."

"For what reason then?"

"Because I look upon it as written in heaven that you are to be
Oswald's wife."

"Heaven's writings then are false," said Violet, getting up and
walking away.

In the meantime Phineas was very wretched at home. When he reached
his lodgings after leaving the House,--after his short conversation
with Mr. Monk,--he tried to comfort himself with what that gentleman
had said to him. For a while, while he was walking, there had been
some comfort in Mr. Monk's words. Mr. Monk had much experience, and
doubtless knew what he was saying,--and there might yet be hope. But
all this hope faded away when Phineas was in his own rooms. There
came upon him, as he looked round them, an idea that he had no
business to be in Parliament, that he was an impostor, that he was
going about the world under false pretences, and that he would never
set himself aright, even unto himself, till he had gone through some
terrible act of humiliation. He had been a cheat even to Mr. Quintus
Slide of the _Banner_, in accepting an invitation to come among
them. He had been a cheat to Lady Laura, in that he had induced
her to think that he was fit to live with her. He was a cheat to
Violet Effingham, in assuming that he was capable of making himself
agreeable to her. He was a cheat to Lord Chiltern when riding his
horses, and pretending to be a proper associate for a man of fortune.
Why,--what was his income? What his birth? What his proper position?
And now he had got the reward which all cheats deserve. Then he went
to bed, and as he lay there, he thought of Mary Flood Jones. Had he
plighted his troth to Mary, and then worked like a slave under Mr.
Low's auspices,--he would not have been a cheat.

It seemed to him that he had hardly been asleep when the girl
came into his room in the morning. "Sir," said she, "there's that
gentleman there."

"What gentleman?"

"The old gentleman."

Then Phineas knew that Mr. Clarkson was in his sitting-room, and
that he would not leave it till he had seen the owner of the room.
Nay,--Phineas was pretty sure that Mr. Clarkson would come into the
bedroom, if he were kept long waiting. "Damn the old gentleman," said
Phineas in his wrath;--and the maid-servant heard him say so.

In about twenty minutes he went out into the sitting-room, with
his slippers on and in his dressing-gown. Suffering under the
circumstances of such an emergency, how is any man to go through the
work of dressing and washing with proper exactness? As to the prayers
which he said on that morning, I think that no question should be
asked. He came out with a black cloud on his brow, and with his mind
half made up to kick Mr. Clarkson out of the room. Mr. Clarkson, when
he saw him, moved his chin round within his white cravat, as was a
custom with him, and put his thumb and forefinger on his lips, and
then shook his head.

"Very bad, Mr. Finn; very bad indeed; very bad, ain't it?"

"You coming here in this way at all times in the day is very bad,"
said Phineas.

"And where would you have me go? Would you like to see me down in the
lobby of the House?"

"To tell you the truth, Mr. Clarkson, I don't want to see you
anywhere."

"Ah; yes; I daresay! And that's what you call honest, being a
Parliament gent! You had my money, and then you tell me you don't
want to see me any more!"

"I have not had your money," said Phineas.

"But let me tell you," continued Mr. Clarkson, "that I want to see
you;--and shall go on seeing you till the money is paid."

"I've not had any of your money," said Phineas.

Mr. Clarkson again twitched his chin about on the top of his cravat
and smiled. "Mr. Finn," said he, showing the bill, "is that your
name?"

"Yes, it is."

"Then I want my money."

"I have no money to give you."

"Do be punctual now. Why ain't you punctual? I'd do anything for you
if you were punctual. I would indeed." Mr. Clarkson, as he said this,
sat down in the chair which had been placed for our hero's breakfast,
and cutting a slice off the loaf, began to butter it with great
composure.

"Mr. Clarkson," said Phineas, "I cannot ask you to breakfast here. I
am engaged."

"I'll just take a bit of bread and butter all the same," said
Clarkson. "Where do you get your butter? Now I could tell you a woman
who'd give it you cheaper and a deal better than this. This is all
lard. Shall I send her to you?"

"No," said Phineas. There was no tea ready, and therefore Mr.
Clarkson emptied the milk into a cup and drank it. "After this," said
Phineas, "I must beg, Mr. Clarkson, that you will never come to my
room any more. I shall not be at home to you."

"The lobby of the House is the same thing to me," said Mr. Clarkson.
"They know me there well. I wish you'd be punctual, and then we'd be
the best of friends." After that Mr. Clarkson, having finished his
bread and butter, took his leave.




CHAPTER XXVIII

The Second Reading Is Carried


The debate on the bill was prolonged during the whole of that week.
Lord Brentford, who loved his seat in the Cabinet and the glory of
being a Minister, better even than he loved his borough, had taken
a gloomy estimate when he spoke of twenty-seven defaulters, and of
the bill as certainly lost. Men who were better able than he to make
estimates,--the Bonteens and Fitzgibbons on each side of the House,
and above all, the Ratlers and Robys, produced lists from day to
day which varied now by three names in one direction, then by two
in another, and which fluctuated at last by units only. They all
concurred in declaring that it would be a very near division. A great
effort was made to close the debate on the Friday, but it failed, and
the full tide of speech was carried on till the following Monday. On
that morning Phineas heard Mr. Ratler declare at the club that, as
far as his judgment went, the division at that moment was a fair
subject for a bet. "There are two men doubtful in the House," said
Ratler, "and if one votes on one side and one on the other, or if
neither votes at all, it will be a tie." Mr. Roby, however, the
whip on the other side, was quite sure that one at least of these
gentlemen would go into his lobby, and that the other would not go
into Mr. Ratler's lobby. I am inclined to think that the town was
generally inclined to put more confidence in the accuracy of Mr. Roby
than in that of Mr. Ratler; and among betting men there certainly
was a point given by those who backed the Conservatives. The odds,
however, were lost, for on the division the numbers in the two
lobbies were equal, and the Speaker gave his casting vote in favour
of the Government. The bill was read a second time, and was lost, as
a matter of course, in reference to any subsequent action. Mr. Roby
declared that even Mr. Mildmay could not go on with nothing but the
Speaker's vote to support him. Mr. Mildmay had no doubt felt that he
could not go on with his bill from the moment in which Mr. Turnbull
had declared his opposition; but he could not with propriety withdraw
it in deference to Mr. Turnbull's opinion.

During the week Phineas had had his hands sufficiently full. Twice he
had gone to the potted peas inquiry; but he had been at the office
of the _People's Banner_ more often than that. Bunce had been very
resolute in his determination to bring an action against the police
for false imprisonment, even though he spent every shilling of his
savings in doing so. And when his wife, in the presence of Phineas,
begged that bygones might be bygones, reminding him that spilt milk
could not be recovered, he called her a mean-spirited woman. Then
Mrs. Bunce wept a flood of tears, and told her favourite lodger that
for her all comfort in this world was over. "Drat the reformers, I
say. And I wish there was no Parliament; so I do. What's the use of
all the voting, when it means nothing but dry bread and cross words?"
Phineas by no means encouraged his landlord in his litigious spirit,
advising him rather to keep his money in his pocket, and leave the
fighting of the battle to the columns of the _Banner_,--which would
fight it, at any rate, with economy. But Bunce, though he delighted
in the _Banner_, and showed an unfortunate readiness to sit at the
feet of Mr. Quintus Slide, would have his action at law;--in which
resolution Mr. Slide did, I fear, encourage him behind the back of
his better friend, Phineas Finn.

Phineas went with Bunce to Mr. Low's chambers,--for Mr. Low had in
some way become acquainted with the law-stationer's journeyman,--and
there some very good advice was given. "Have you asked yourself what
is your object, Mr. Bunce?" said Mr. Low. Mr. Bunce declared he had
asked himself that question, and had answered it. His object was
redress. "In the shape of compensation to yourself," suggested Mr.
Low. No; Mr. Bunce would not admit that he personally required any
compensation. The redress wanted was punishment to the man. "Is it
for vengeance?" asked Mr. Low. No; it was not for vengeance, Mr.
Bunce declared. "It ought not to be," continued Mr. Low; "because,
though you think that the man exceeded in his duty, you must feel
that he was doing so through no personal ill-will to yourself."

"What I want is, to have the fellows kept in their proper places,"
said Mr. Bunce.

"Exactly;--and therefore these things, when they occur, are mentioned
in the press and in Parliament,--and the attention of a Secretary of
State is called to them. Thank God, we don't have very much of that
kind of thing in England."

"Maybe we shall have more if we don't look to it," said Bunce
stoutly.

"We always are looking to it," said Mr. Low;--"looking to it very
carefully. But I don't think anything is to be done in that way by
indictment against a single man, whose conduct has been already
approved by the magistrates. If you want notoriety, Mr. Bunce, and
don't mind what you pay for it; or have got anybody else to pay for
it; then indeed--"

"There ain't nobody to pay for it," said Bunce, waxing angry.

"Then I certainly should not pay for it myself if I were you," said
Mr. Low.

But Bunce was not to be counselled out of his intention. When he was
out in the square with Phineas he expressed great anger against Mr.
Low. "He don't know what patriotism means," said the law scrivener.
"And then he talks to me about notoriety! It has always been the
same way with 'em. If a man shows a spark of public feeling, it's
all hambition. I don't want no notoriety. I wants to earn my bread
peaceable, and to be let alone when I'm about my own business. I pays
rates for the police to look after rogues, not to haul folks about
and lock 'em up for days and nights, who is doing what they has a
legal right to do." After that, Bunce went to his attorney, to the
great detriment of the business at the stationer's shop, and Phineas
visited the office of the _People's Banner_. There he wrote a leading
article about Bunce's case, for which he was in due time to be paid
a guinea. After all, the _People's Banner_ might do more for him in
this way than ever would be done by Parliament. Mr. Slide, however,
and another gentleman at the _Banner_ office, much older than Mr.
Slide, who announced himself as the actual editor, were anxious that
Phineas should rid himself of his heterodox political resolutions
about the ballot. It was not that they cared much about his own
opinions; and when Phineas attempted to argue with the editor on the
merits of the ballot, the editor put him down very shortly. "We go in
for it, Mr. Finn," he said. If Mr. Finn would go in for it too, the
editor seemed to think that Mr. Finn might make himself very useful
at the _Banner_ Office. Phineas stoutly maintained that this was
impossible,--and was therefore driven to confine his articles in the
service of the people to those open subjects on which his opinions
agreed with those of the _People's Banner_. This was his second
article, and the editor seemed to think that, backward as he was
about the ballot, he was too useful an aid to be thrown aside. A
member of Parliament is not now all that he was once, but still there
is a prestige in the letters affixed to his name which makes him loom
larger in the eyes of the world than other men. Get into Parliament,
if it be but for the borough of Loughshane, and the _People's
Banners_ all round will be glad of your assistance, as will also
companies limited and unlimited to a very marvellous extent. Phineas
wrote his article and promised to look in again, and so they went
on. Mr. Quintus Slide continued to assure him that a "horgan" was
indispensable to him, and Phineas began to accommodate his ears to
the sound which had at first been so disagreeable. He found that his
acquaintance, Mr. Slide, had ideas of his own as to getting into
the 'Ouse at some future time. "I always look upon the 'Ouse as my
oyster, and 'ere's my sword," said Mr. Slide, brandishing an old
quill pen. "And I feel that if once there I could get along. I do
indeed. What is it a man wants? It's only pluck,--that he shouldn't
funk because a 'undred other men are looking at him." Then Phineas
asked him whether he had any idea of a constituency, to which Mr.
Slide replied that he had no absolutely formed intention. Many
boroughs, however, would doubtless be set free from aristocratic
influence by the redistribution of seats which must take place, as
Mr. Slide declared, at any rate in the next session. Then he named
the borough of Loughton; and Phineas Finn, thinking of Saulsby,
thinking of the Earl, thinking of Lady Laura, and thinking of Violet,
walked away disgusted. Would it not be better that the quiet town,
clustering close round the walls of Saulsby, should remain as it was,
than that it should be polluted by the presence of Mr. Quintus Slide?

On the last day of the debate, at a few moments before four o'clock,
Phineas encountered another terrible misfortune. He had been at the
potted peas since twelve, and had on this occasion targed two or
three commissariat officers very tightly with questions respecting
cabbages and potatoes, and had asked whether the officers on board
a certain ship did not always eat preserved asparagus while the men
had not even a bean. I fear that he had been put up to this business
by Mr. Quintus Slide, and that he made himself nasty. There was,
however, so much nastiness of the kind going, that his little effort
made no great difference. The conservative members of the Committee,
on whose side of the House the inquiry had originated, did not
scruple to lay all manner of charges to officers whom, were they
themselves in power, they would be bound to support and would support
with all their energies. About a quarter before four the members of
the Committee had dismissed their last witness for the day, being
desirous of not losing their chance of seats on so important an
occasion, and hurried down into the lobby,--so that they might enter
the House before prayers. Phineas here was button-holed by Barrington
Erle, who said something to him as to the approaching division. They
were standing in front of the door of the House, almost in the middle
of the lobby, with a crowd of members around them,--on a spot which,
as frequenters know, is hallowed ground, and must not be trodden by
strangers. He was in the act of answering Erle, when he was touched
on the arm, and on turning round, saw Mr. Clarkson. "About that
little bill, Mr. Finn," said the horrible man, turning his chin round
over his white cravat. "They always tell me at your lodgings that
you ain't at home." By this time a policeman was explaining to Mr.
Clarkson with gentle violence that he must not stand there,--that he
must go aside into one of the corners. "I know all that," said Mr.
Clarkson, retreating. "Of course I do. But what is a man to do when a
gent won't see him at home?" Mr. Clarkson stood aside in his corner
quietly, giving the policeman no occasion for further action against
him; but in retreating he spoke loud, and there was a lull of voices
around, and twenty members at least had heard what had been said.
Phineas Finn no doubt had his privilege, but Mr. Clarkson was
determined that the privilege should avail him as little as possible.

It was very hard. The real offender, the Lord of the Treasury, the
peer's son, with a thousand a year paid by the country was not
treated with this cruel persecution. Phineas had in truth never taken
a farthing from any one but his father; and though doubtless he owed
something at this moment, he had no creditor of his own that was even
angry with him. As the world goes he was a clear man,--but for this
debt of his friend Fitzgibbon. He left Barrington Erle in the lobby,
and hurried into the House, blushing up to the eyes. He looked for
Fitzgibbon in his place, but the Lord of the Treasury was not as yet
there. Doubtless he would be there for the division, and Phineas
resolved that he would speak a bit of his mind before he let his
friend out of his sight.

There were some great speeches made on that evening. Mr. Gresham
delivered an oration of which men said that it would be known in
England as long as there were any words remaining of English
eloquence. In it he taunted Mr. Turnbull with being a recreant to
the people, of whom he called himself so often the champion. But Mr.
Turnbull was not in the least moved. Mr. Gresham knew well enough
that Mr. Turnbull was not to be moved by any words;--but the words
were not the less telling to the House and to the country. Men, who
heard it, said that Mr. Gresham forgot himself in that speech, forgot
his party, forgot his strategy, forgot his long-drawn schemes,--even
his love of applause, and thought only of his cause. Mr. Daubeny
replied to him with equal genius, and with equal skill,--if not with
equal heart. Mr. Gresham had asked for the approbation of all present
and of all future reformers. Mr. Daubeny denied him both,--the one
because he would not succeed, and the other because he would not have
deserved success. Then Mr. Mildmay made his reply, getting up at
about three o'clock, and uttered a prayer,--a futile prayer,--that
this his last work on behalf of his countrymen might be successful.
His bill was read a second time, as I have said before, in obedience
to the casting vote of the Speaker,--but a majority such as that was
tantamount to a defeat.

There was, of course, on that night no declaration as to what
ministers would do. Without a meeting of the Cabinet, and without
some further consideration, though each might know that the bill
would be withdrawn, they could not say in what way they would act.
But late as was the hour, there were many words on the subject before
members were in their beds. Mr. Turnbull and Mr. Monk left the House
together, and perhaps no two gentlemen in it had in former sessions
been more in the habit of walking home arm-in-arm and discussing what
each had heard and what each had said in that assembly. Latterly
these two men had gone strangely asunder in their paths,--very
strangely for men who had for years walked so closely together. And
this separation had been marked by violent words spoken against each
other,--by violent words, at least, spoken against him in office by
the one who had never contaminated his hands by the Queen's shilling.
And yet, on such an occasion as this, they were able to walk away
from the House arm-in-arm, and did not fly at each other's throat by
the way.

"Singular enough, is it not," said Mr. Turnbull, "that the thing
should have been so close?"

"Very odd," said Mr. Monk; "but men have said that it would be so all
the week."

"Gresham was very fine," said Mr. Turnbull.

"Very fine, indeed. I never have heard anything like it before."

"Daubeny was very powerful too," said Mr. Turnbull.

"Yes;--no doubt. The occasion was great, and he answered to the spur.
But Gresham's was the speech of the debate."

"Well;--yes; perhaps it was," said Mr. Turnbull, who was thinking of
his own flight the other night, and who among his special friends had
been much praised for what he had then done. But of course he made
no allusion to his own doings,--or to those of Mr. Monk. In this way
they conversed for some twenty minutes, till they parted; but neither
of them interrogated the other as to what either might be called upon
to do in consequence of the division which had just been effected.
They might still be intimate friends, but the days of confidence
between them were passed.

Phineas had seen Laurence Fitzgibbon enter the House,--which he did
quite late in the night, so as to be in time for the division. No
doubt he had dined in the House, and had been all the evening in the
library,--or in the smoking-room. When Mr. Mildmay was on his legs
making his reply, Fitzgibbon had sauntered in, not choosing to wait
till he might be rung up by the bell at the last moment. Phineas was
near him as they passed by the tellers, near him in the lobby, and
near him again as they all passed back into the House. But at the
last moment he thought that he would miss his prey. In the crowd
as they left the House he failed to get his hand upon his friend's
shoulder. But he hurried down the members' passage, and just at the
gate leading out into Westminster Hall he overtook Fitzgibbon walking
arm-in-arm with Barrington Erle.

"Laurence," he said, taking hold of his countryman's arm with a
decided grasp, "I want to speak to you for a moment, if you please."

"Speak away," said Laurence. Then Phineas, looking up into his face,
knew very well that he had been--what the world calls, dining.

Phineas remembered at the moment that Barrington Erle had been close
to him when the odious money-lender had touched his arm and made
his inquiry about that "little bill." He much wished to make Erle
understand that the debt was not his own,--that he was not in the
hands of usurers in reference to his own concerns. But there was a
feeling within him that he still,--even still,--owed something to his
friendship to Fitzgibbon. "Just give me your arm, and come on with me
for a minute," said Phineas. "Erle will excuse us."

"Oh, blazes!" said Laurence, "what is it you're after? I ain't good
at private conferences at three in the morning. We're all out, and
isn't that enough for ye?"

"I have been dreadfully annoyed to-night," said Phineas, "and I
wished to speak to you about it."

"Bedad, Finn, my boy, and there are a good many of us are
annoyed;--eh, Barrington?"

Phineas perceived clearly that though Fitzgibbon had been dining,
there was as much of cunning in all this as of wine, and he was
determined not to submit to such unlimited ill-usage. "My annoyance
comes from your friend, Mr. Clarkson, who had the impudence to
address me in the lobby of the House."

"And serve you right, too, Finn, my boy. Why the devil did you sport
your oak to him? He has told me all about it. There ain't such a
patient little fellow as Clarkson anywhere, if you'll only let him
have his own way. He'll look in, as he calls it, three times a week
for a whole season, and do nothing further. Of course he don't like
to be locked out."

"Is that the gentleman with whom the police interfered in the lobby?"
Erle inquired.

"A confounded bill discounter to whom our friend here has introduced
me,--for his own purposes," said Phineas.

"A very gentleman-like fellow," said Laurence. "Barrington knows
him, I daresay. Look here, Finn, my boy, take my advice. Ask him to
breakfast, and let him understand that the house will always be open
to him." After this Laurence Fitzgibbon and Barrington Erle got into
a cab together, and were driven away.




CHAPTER XXIX

A Cabinet Meeting


And now will the Muses assist me while I sing an altogether new song?
On the Tuesday the Cabinet met at the First Lord's official residence
in Downing Street, and I will attempt to describe what, according to
the bewildered brain of a poor fictionist, was said or might have
been said, what was done or might have been done, on so august an
occasion.

The poor fictionist very frequently finds himself to have been wrong
in his description of things in general, and is told so, roughly by
the critics, and tenderly by the friends of his bosom. He is moved
to tell of things of which he omits to learn the nature before he
tells of them--as should be done by a strictly honest fictionist. He
catches salmon in October; or shoots his partridges in March. His
dahlias bloom in June, and his birds sing in the autumn. He opens the
opera-houses before Easter, and makes Parliament sit on a Wednesday
evening. And then those terrible meshes of the Law! How is a
fictionist, in these excited days, to create the needed biting
interest without legal difficulties; and how again is he to steer his
little bark clear of so many rocks,--when the rocks and the shoals
have been purposely arranged to make the taking of a pilot on board a
necessity? As to those law meshes, a benevolent pilot will, indeed,
now and again give a poor fictionist a helping hand,--not used,
however, generally, with much discretion. But from whom is any
assistance to come in the august matter of a Cabinet assembly? There
can be no such assistance. No man can tell aught but they who will
tell nothing. But then, again, there is this safety, that let the
story be ever so mistold,--let the fiction be ever so far removed
from the truth, no critic short of a Cabinet Minister himself can
convict the narrator of error.

It was a large dingy room, covered with a Turkey carpet, and
containing a dark polished mahogany dinner-table, on very heavy
carved legs, which an old messenger was preparing at two o'clock in
the day for the use of her Majesty's Ministers. The table would have
been large enough for fourteen guests, and along the side further
from the fire, there were placed some six heavy chairs, good
comfortable chairs, stuffed at the back as well as the seat,--but on
the side nearer to the fire the chairs were placed irregularly; and
there were four armchairs,--two on one side and two on the other.
There were four windows to the room, which looked on to St. James's
Park, and the curtains of the windows were dark and heavy,--as became
the gravity of the purposes to which that chamber was appropriated.
In old days it had been the dining-room of one Prime Minister after
another. To Pitt it had been the abode of his own familiar prandial
Penates, and Lord Liverpool had been dull there among his dull
friends for long year after year. The Ministers of the present day
find it more convenient to live in private homes, and, indeed, not
unfrequently carry their Cabinets with them. But, under Mr. Mildmay's
rule, the meetings were generally held in the old room at the
official residence. Thrice did the aged messenger move each armchair,
now a little this way and now a little that, and then look at them as
though something of the tendency of the coming meeting might depend
on the comfort of its leading members. If Mr. Mildmay should find
himself to be quite comfortable, so that he could hear what was said
without a struggle to his ear, and see his colleagues' faces clearly,
and feel the fire without burning his shins, it might be possible
that he would not insist upon resigning. If this were so, how
important was the work now confided to the hands of that aged
messenger! When his anxious eyes had glanced round the room some
half a dozen times, when he had touched each curtain, laid his
hand upon every chair, and dusted certain papers which lay upon a
side-table,--and which had been lying there for two years, and at
which no one ever looked or would look,--he gently crept away and
ensconced himself in an easy chair not far from the door of the
chamber. For it might be necessary to stop the attempt of a rash
intruder on those secret counsels.

Very shortly there was heard the ring of various voices in the
passages,--the voices of men speaking pleasantly, the voices of men
with whom it seemed, from their tone, that things were doing well
in the world. And then a cluster of four or five gentlemen entered
the room. At first sight they seemed to be as ordinary gentlemen as
you shall meet anywhere about Pall Mall on an afternoon. There was
nothing about their outward appearance of the august wiggery of
statecraft, nothing of the ponderous dignity of ministerial position.
That little man in the square-cut coat,--we may almost call it a
shooting-coat,--swinging an umbrella and wearing no gloves, is no
less a person than the Lord Chancellor,--Lord Weazeling,--who made
a hundred thousand pounds as Attorney-General, and is supposed
to be the best lawyer of his age. He is fifty, but he looks to
be hardly over forty, and one might take him to be, from his
appearance,--perhaps a clerk in the War Office, well-to-do, and
popular among his brother-clerks. Immediately with him is Sir Harry
Coldfoot, also a lawyer by profession, though he has never practised.
He has been in the House for nearly thirty years, and is now at the
Home Office. He is a stout, healthy, grey-haired gentleman, who
certainly does not wear the cares of office on his face. Perhaps,
however, no minister gets more bullied than he by the press, and men
say that he will be very willing to give up to some political enemy
the control of the police, and the onerous duty of judging in all
criminal appeals. Behind these come our friend Mr. Monk, young Lord
Cantrip from the colonies next door, than whom no smarter young peer
now does honour to our hereditary legislature, and Sir Marmaduke
Morecombe, the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster. Why Sir
Marmaduke has always been placed in Mr. Mildmay's Cabinets nobody
ever knew. As Chancellor of the Duchy he has nothing to do,--and were
there anything, he would not do it. He rarely speaks in the House,
and then does not speak well. He is a handsome man, or would be but
for an assumption of grandeur in the carriage of his eyes, giving to
his face a character of pomposity which he himself well deserves. He
was in the Guards when young, and has been in Parliament since he
ceased to be young. It must be supposed that Mr. Mildmay has found
something in him, for he has been included in three successive
liberal Cabinets. He has probably the virtue of being true to Mr.
Mildmay, and of being duly submissive to one whom he recognises as
his superior.

Within two minutes afterwards the Duke followed, with Plantagenet
Palliser. The Duke, as all the world knows, was the Duke of St.
Bungay, the very front and head of the aristocratic old Whigs of the
country,--a man who has been thrice spoken of as Prime Minister, and
who really might have filled the office had he not known himself to
be unfit for it. The Duke has been consulted as to the making of
Cabinets for the last five-and-thirty years, and is even now not an
old man in appearance;--a fussy, popular, clever, conscientious man,
whose digestion has been too good to make politics a burden to him,
but who has thought seriously about his country, and is one who will
be sure to leave memoirs behind him. He was born in the semi-purple
of ministerial influences, and men say of him that he is honester
than his uncle, who was Canning's friend, but not so great a man as
his grandfather, with whom Fox once quarrelled, and whom Burke loved.
Plantagenet Palliser, himself the heir to a dukedom, was the young
Chancellor of the Exchequer, of whom some statesmen thought much as
the rising star of the age. If industry, rectitude of purpose, and
a certain clearness of intellect may prevail, Planty Pall, as he is
familiarly called, may become a great Minister.

Then came Viscount Thrift by himself;--the First Lord of the
Admiralty, with the whole weight of a new iron-clad fleet upon his
shoulders. He has undertaken the Herculean task of cleansing the
dockyards,--and with it the lesser work of keeping afloat a navy that
may be esteemed by his countrymen to be the best in the world. And he
thinks that he will do both, if only Mr. Mildmay will not resign;--an
industrious, honest, self-denying nobleman, who works without ceasing
from morn to night, and who hopes to rise in time to high things,--to
the translating of Homer, perhaps, and the wearing of the Garter.

Close behind him there was a ruck of Ministers, with the
much-honoured grey-haired old Premier in the midst of them. There was
Mr. Gresham, the Foreign Minister, said to be the greatest orator
in Europe, on whose shoulders it was thought that the mantle of Mr.
Mildmay would fall,--to be worn, however, quite otherwise than Mr.
Mildmay had worn it. For Mr. Gresham is a man with no feelings
for the past, void of historical association, hardly with
memories,--living altogether for the future which he is anxious to
fashion anew out of the vigour of his own brain. Whereas, with Mr.
Mildmay, even his love of reform is an inherited passion for an
old-world Liberalism. And there was with them Mr. Legge Wilson, the
brother of a peer, Secretary at War, a great scholar and a polished
gentleman, very proud of his position as a Cabinet Minister, but
conscious that he has hardly earned it by political work. And Lord
Plinlimmon is with them, the Comptroller of India,--of all working
lords the most jaunty, the most pleasant, and the most popular, very
good at taking chairs at dinners, and making becoming speeches at the
shortest notice, a man apparently very free and open in his ways of
life,--but cautious enough in truth as to every step, knowing well
how hard it is to climb and how easy to fall. Mr. Mildmay entered
the room leaning on Lord Plinlimmon's arm, and when he made his way
up among the armchairs upon the rug before the fire, the others
clustered around him with cheering looks and kindly questions. Then
came the Privy Seal, our old friend Lord Brentford, last,--and
I would say least, but that the words of no councillor could go
for less in such an assemblage than will those of Sir Marmaduke
Morecombe, the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster.

Mr. Mildmay was soon seated in one of the armchairs, while Lord
Plinlimmon leaned against the table close at his elbow. Mr. Gresham
stood upright at the corner of the chimney-piece furthest from Mr.
Mildmay, and Mr. Palliser at that nearest to him. The Duke took the
armchair close at Mr. Mildmay's left hand. Lord Plinlimmon was, as I
have said, leaning against the table, but the Lord Chancellor, who
was next to him, sat upon it. Viscount Thrift and Mr. Monk occupied
chairs on the further side of the table, near to Mr. Mildmay's end,
and Mr. Legge Wilson placed himself at the head of the table, thus
joining them as it were into a body. The Home Secretary stood before
the Lord Chancellor screening him from the fire, and the Chancellor
of the Duchy, after waiting for a few minutes as though in doubt,
took one of the vacant armchairs. The young lord from the Colonies
stood a little behind the shoulders of his great friend from the
Foreign Office; and the Privy Seal, after moving about for a while
uneasily, took a chair behind the Chancellor of the Duchy. One
armchair was thus left vacant, but there was no other comer.

"It is not so bad as I thought it would be," said the Duke, speaking
aloud, but nevertheless addressing himself specially to his chief.

"It was bad enough," said Mr. Mildmay, laughing.

"Bad enough indeed," said Sir Marmaduke Morecombe, without any
laughter.

"And such a good bill lost," said Lord Plinlimmon. "The worst of
these failures is, that the same identical bill can never be brought
in again."

"So that if the lost bill was best, the bill that will not be lost
can only be second best," said the Lord Chancellor.

"I certainly did think that after the debate before Easter we should
not have come to shipwreck about the ballot," said Mr. Mildmay.

"It was brewing for us all along," said Mr. Gresham, who then with a
gesture of his hand and a pressure of his lips withheld words which
he was nearly uttering, and which would not, probably, have been
complimentary to Mr. Turnbull. As it was, he turned half round and
said something to Lord Cantrip which was not audible to any one else
in the room. It was worthy of note, however, that Mr. Turnbull's name
was not once mentioned aloud at that meeting.

"I am afraid it was brewing all along," said Sir Marmaduke Morecombe
gravely.

"Well, gentlemen, we must take it as we get it," said Mr. Mildmay,
still smiling. "And now we must consider what we shall do at once."
Then he paused as though expecting that counsel would come to him
first from one colleague and then from another. But no such counsel
came, and probably Mr. Mildmay did not in the least expect that it
would come.

"We cannot stay where we are, of course," said the Duke. The Duke was
privileged to say as much as that. But though every man in the room
knew that it must be so, no one but the Duke would have said it,
before Mr. Mildmay had spoken plainly himself.

"No," said Mr. Mildmay; "I suppose that we can hardly stay where we
are. Probably none of us wish it, gentlemen." Then he looked round
upon his colleagues, and there came a sort of an assent, though there
were no spoken words. The sound from Sir Marmaduke Morecombe was
louder than that from the others;--but yet from him it was no more
than an attesting grunt. "We have two things to consider," continued
Mr. Mildmay,--and though he spoke in a very low voice, every word was
heard by all present,--"two things chiefly, that is; the work of the
country and the Queen's comfort. I propose to see her Majesty this
afternoon at five,--that is, in something less than two hours' time,
and I hope to be able to tell the House by seven what has taken place
between her Majesty and me. My friend, his Grace, will do as much in
the House of Lords. If you agree with me, gentlemen, I will explain
to the Queen that it is not for the welfare of the country that we
should retain our places, and I will place your resignations and my
own in her Majesty's hands."

"You will advise her Majesty to send for Lord de Terrier," said Mr.
Gresham.

"Certainly;--there will be no other course open to me."

"Or to her," said Mr. Gresham. To this remark from the rising
Minister of the day, no word of reply was made; but of those present
in the room three or four of the most experienced servants of the
Crown felt that Mr. Gresham had been imprudent. The Duke, who had.
ever been afraid of Mr. Gresham, told Mr. Palliser afterwards that
such an observation should not have been made; and Sir Harry Coldfoot
pondered upon it uneasily, and Sir Marmaduke Morecombe asked Mr.
Mildmay what he thought about it. "Times change so much, and with the
times the feelings of men," said Mr. Mildmay. But I doubt whether Sir
Marmaduke quite understood him.

There was silence in the room for a moment or two after Mr. Gresham
had spoken, and then Mr. Mildmay again addressed his friends. "Of
course it may be possible that my Lord de Terrier may foresee
difficulties, or may find difficulties which will oblige him, either
at once, or after an attempt has been made, to decline the task which
her Majesty will probably commit to him. All of us, no doubt, know
that the arrangement of a government is not the most easy task in
the world; and that it is not made the more easy by an absence of a
majority in the House of Commons."

"He would dissolve, I presume," said the Duke.

"I should say so," continued Mr. Mildmay. "But it may not improbably
come to pass that her Majesty will feel herself obliged to send again
for some one or two of us, that we may tender to her Majesty the
advice which we owe to her;--for me, for instance, or for my friend
the Duke. In such a matter she would be much guided probably by what
Lord de Terrier might have suggested to her. Should this be so, and
should I be consulted, my present feeling is that we should resume
our offices so that the necessary business of the session should be
completed, and that we should then dissolve Parliament, and thus
ascertain the opinion of the country. In such case, however, we
should of course meet again."

"I quite think that the course proposed by Mr. Mildmay will be the
best," said the Duke, who had no doubt already discussed the matter
with his friend the Prime Minister in private. No one else said a
word either of argument or disagreement, and the Cabinet Council was
broken up. The old messenger, who had been asleep in his chair, stood
up and bowed as the Ministers walked by him, and then went in and
rearranged the chairs.

"He has as much idea of giving up as you or I have," said Lord
Cantrip to his friend Mr. Gresham, as they walked arm-in-arm together
from the Treasury Chambers across St. James's Park towards the clubs.

"I am not sure that he is not right," said Mr. Gresham.

"Do you mean for himself or for the country?" asked Lord Cantrip.

"For his future fame. They who have abdicated and have clung to their
abdication have always lost by it. Cincinnatus was brought back
again, and Charles V. is felt to have been foolish. The peaches of
retired ministers of which we hear so often have generally been
cultivated in a constrained seclusion;--or at least the world so
believes." They were talking probably of Mr. Mildmay, as to whom some
of his colleagues had thought it probable, knowing that he would now
resign, that he would have to-day declared his intention of laying
aside for ever the cares of office.

Mr. Monk walked home alone, and as he went there was something of
a feeling of disappointment at heart, which made him ask himself
whether Mr. Turnbull might not have been right in rebuking him for
joining the Government. But this, I think, was in no way due to Mr.
Mildmay's resignation, but rather to a conviction on Mr. Monk's part
that that he had contributed but little to his country's welfare by
sitting in Mr. Mildmay's Cabinet.




CHAPTER XXX

Mr. Kennedy's Luck


After the holding of that Cabinet Council of which the author has
dared to attempt a slight sketch in the last chapter, there were
various visits made to the Queen, first by Mr. Mildmay, and then by
Lord de Terrier, afterwards by Mr. Mildmay and the Duke together, and
then again by Lord de Terrier; and there were various explanations
made to Parliament in each House, and rivals were very courteous to
each other, promising assistance;--and at the end of it the old men
held their seats. The only change made was effected by the retirement
of Sir Marmaduke Morecombe, who was raised to the peerage, and by
the selection of--Mr. Kennedy to fill his place in the Cabinet. Mr.
Kennedy during the late debate had made one of those speeches, few
and far between, by which he had created for himself a Parliamentary
reputation; but, nevertheless, all men expressed their great
surprise, and no one could quite understand why Mr. Kennedy had been
made a Cabinet Minister.

"It is impossible to say whether he is pleased or not," said Lady
Laura, speaking of him to Phineas. "I am pleased, of course."

"His ambition must be gratified," said Phineas.

"It would be, if he had any," said Lady Laura.

"I do not believe in a man lacking ambition."

"It is hard to say. There are men who by no means wear their hearts
upon their sleeves, and my husband is one of them. He told me that it
would be unbecoming in him to refuse, and that was all he said to me
about it."

The old men held their seats, but they did so as it were only upon
further trial. Mr. Mildmay took the course which he had indicated to
his colleagues at the Cabinet meeting. Before all the explanations
and journeyings were completed, April was over, and the much-needed
Whitsuntide holidays were coming on. But little of the routine work
of the session had been done; and, as Mr. Mildmay told the House
more than once, the country would suffer were the Queen to dissolve
Parliament at this period of the year. The old Ministers would go on
with the business of the country, Lord de Terrier with his followers
having declined to take affairs into their hands; and at the close of
the session, which should be made as short as possible, writs should
be issued for new elections. This was Mr. Mildmay's programme, and it
was one of which no one dared to complain very loudly.

Mr. Turnbull, indeed, did speak a word of caution. He told Mr.
Mildmay that he had lost his bill, good in other respects, because he
had refused to introduce the ballot into his measure. Let him promise
to be wiser for the future, and to obey the manifested wishes of the
country, and then all would be well with him. In answer to this,
Mr. Mildmay declared that to the best of his power of reading the
country, his countrymen had manifested no such wish; and that if they
did so, if by the fresh election it should be shown that the ballot
was in truth desired, he would at once leave the execution of their
wishes to abler and younger hands. Mr. Turnbull expressed himself
perfectly satisfied with the Minister's answers, and said that the
coming election would show whether he or Mr. Mildmay were right.

Many men, and among them some of his colleagues, thought that Mr.
Mildmay had been imprudent. "No man ought ever to pledge himself
to anything," said Sir Harry Coldfoot to the Duke;--"that is, to
anything unnecessary." The Duke, who was very true to Mr. Mildmay,
made no reply to this, but even he thought that his old friend
had been betrayed into a promise too rapidly. But the pledge was
given, and some people already began to make much of it. There
appeared leader after leader in the _People's Banner_ urging the
constituencies to take advantage of the Prime Minister's words, and
to show clearly at the hustings that they desired the ballot. "You
had better come over to us, Mr. Finn; you had indeed," said Mr.
Slide. "Now's the time to do it, and show yourself a people's friend.
You'll have to do it sooner or later,--whether or no. Come to us and
we'll be your horgan."

But in those days Phineas was something less in love with Mr. Quintus
Slide than he had been at the time of the great debate, for he was
becoming more and more closely connected with people who in their
ways of living and modes of expression were very unlike Mr. Slide.
This advice was given to him about the end of May, and at that
time Lord Chiltern was living with him in the lodgings in Great
Marlborough Street. Miss Pouncefoot had temporarily vacated her
rooms on the first floor, and the Lord with the broken bones had
condescended to occupy them. "I don't know that I like having a
Lord," Bunce had said to his wife. "It'll soon come to you not liking
anybody decent anywhere," Mrs. Bunce had replied; "but I shan't ask
any questions about it. When you're wasting so much time and money
at your dirty law proceedings, it's well that somebody should earn
something at home."

There had been many discussions about the bringing of Lord Chiltern
up to London, in all of which Phineas had been concerned. Lord
Brentford had thought that his son had better remain down at the
Willingford Bull; and although he said that the rooms were at his
son's disposal should Lord Chiltern choose to come to London, still
he said it in such a way that Phineas, who went down to Willingford,
could not tell his friend that he would be made welcome in Portman
Square. "I think I shall leave those diggings altogether," Lord
Chiltern said to him. "My father annoys me by everything he says and
does, and I annoy him by saying and doing nothing." Then there came
an invitation to him from Lady Laura and Mr. Kennedy. Would he come
to Grosvenor Place? Lady Laura pressed this very much, though in
truth Mr. Kennedy had hardly done more than give a cold assent. But
Lord Chiltern would not hear of it. "There is some reason for my
going to my father's house," said he, "though he and I are not the
best friends in the world; but there can be no reason for my going
to the house of a man I dislike so much as I do Robert Kennedy." The
matter was settled in the manner told above. Miss Pouncefoot's rooms
were prepared for him at Mr. Bunce's house, and Phineas Finn went
down to Willingford and brought him up. "I've sold Bonebreaker," he
said,--"to a young fellow whose neck will certainly be the sacrifice
if he attempts to ride him. I'd have given him to you, Phineas, only
you wouldn't have known what to do with him."

Lord Chiltern when he came up to London was still in bandages,
though, as the surgeon said, his bones seemed to have been made to be
broken and set again; and his bandages of course were a sufficient
excuse for his visiting the house neither of his father nor his
brother-in-law. But Lady Laura went to him frequently, and thus
became acquainted with our hero's home and with Mrs. Bunce. And there
were messages taken from Violet to the man in bandages, some of which
lost nothing in the carrying. Once Lady Laura tried to make Violet
think that it would be right, or rather not wrong, that they two
should go together to Lord Chiltern's rooms.

"And would you have me tell my aunt, or would you have me not tell
her?" Violet asked.

"I would have you do just as you pleased," Lady Laura answered.

"So I shall," Violet replied, "but I will do nothing that I should be
ashamed to tell any one. Your brother professes to be in love with
me."

"He is in love with you," said Lady Laura. "Even you do not pretend
to doubt his faith."

"Very well. In those circumstances a girl should not go to a man's
rooms unless she means to consider herself as engaged to him, even
with his sister;--not though he had broken every bone in his skin. I
know what I may do, Laura, and I know what I mayn't; and I won't be
led either by you or by my aunt."

"May I give him your love?"

"No;--because you'll give it in a wrong spirit. He knows well enough
that I wish him well;--but you may tell him that from me, if you
please. He has from me all those wishes which one friend owes to
another."

But there were other messages sent from Violet through Phineas Finn
which she worded with more show of affection,--perhaps as much for
the discomfort of Phineas as for the consolation of Lord Chiltern.
"Tell him to take care of himself," said Violet, "and bid him not to
have any more of those wild brutes that are not fit for any Christian
to ride. Tell him that I say so. It's a great thing to be brave; but
what's the use of being foolhardy?"

The session was to be closed at the end of June, to the great dismay
of London tradesmen and of young ladies who had not been entirely
successful in the early season. But before the old Parliament was
closed, and the writs for the new election were despatched, there
occurred an incident which was of very much importance to Phineas
Finn. Near the end of June, when the remaining days of the session
were numbered by three or four, he had been dining at Lord
Brentford's house in Portman Square in company with Mr. Kennedy. But
Lady Laura had not been there. At this time he saw Lord Brentford not
unfrequently, and there was always a word said about Lord Chiltern.
The father would ask how the son occupied himself, and Phineas would
hope,--though hitherto he had hoped in vain,--that he would induce
the Earl to come and see Lord Chiltern. Lord Brentford could never be
brought to that; but it was sufficiently evident that he would have
done so, had he not been afraid to descend so far from the altitude
of his paternal wrath. On this evening, at about eleven, Mr. Kennedy
and Phineas left the house together, and walked from the Square
through Orchard Street into Oxford Street. Here their ways parted,
but Phineas crossed the road with Mr. Kennedy, as he was making some
reply to a second invitation to Loughlinter. Phineas, considering
what had been said before on the subject, thought that the invitation
came late, and that it was not warmly worded. He had, therefore,
declined it, and was in the act of declining it, when he crossed the
road with Mr. Kennedy. In walking down Orchard Street from the Square
he had seen two men standing in the shadow a few yards up a mews or
small alley that was there, but had thought nothing of them. It was
just that period of the year when there is hardly any of the darkness
of night; but at this moment there were symptoms of coming rain, and
heavy drops began to fall; and there were big clouds coming and going
before the young moon. Mr. Kennedy had said that he would get a cab,
but he had seen none as he crossed Oxford Street, and had put up his
umbrella as he made his way towards Park Street. Phineas as he left
him distinctly perceived the same two figures on the other side of
Oxford Street, and then turning into the shadow of a butcher's porch,
he saw them cross the street in the wake of Mr. Kennedy. It was now
raining in earnest, and the few passengers who were out were scudding
away quickly, this way and that.

It hardly occurred to Phineas to think that any danger was imminent
to Mr. Kennedy from the men, but it did occur to him that he might as
well take some notice of the matter. Phineas knew that Mr. Kennedy
would make his way down Park Street, that being his usual route from
Portman Square towards his own home, and knew also that he himself
could again come across Mr. Kennedy's track by going down North
Audley Street to the corner of Grosvenor Square, and thence by Brook
Street into Park Street. Without much thought, therefore, he went
out of his own course down to the corner of the Square, hurrying his
steps till he was running, and then ran along Brook Street, thinking
as he went of some special word that he might say to Mr. Kennedy as
an excuse, should he again come across his late companion. He reached
the corner of Park Street before that gentleman could have been there
unless he also had run; but just in time to see him as he was coming
on,--and also to see in the dark glimmering of the slight uncertain
moonlight that the two men were behind him. He retreated a step
backwards in the corner, resolving that when Mr. Kennedy came up,
they two would go on together; for now it was clear that Mr. Kennedy
was followed. But Mr. Kennedy did not reach the corner. When he was
within two doors of it, one of the men had followed him up quickly,
and had thrown something round his throat from behind him. Phineas
understood well now that his friend was in the act of being
garrotted, and that his instant assistance was needed. He rushed
forward, and as the second ruffian had been close upon the footsteps
of the first, there was almost instantaneously a concourse of the
four men. But there was no fight. The man who had already nearly
succeeded in putting Mr. Kennedy on to his back, made no attempt to
seize his prey when he found that so unwelcome an addition had joined
the party, but instantly turned to fly. His companion was turning
also, but Phineas was too quick for him, and having seized on to his
collar, held to him with all his power. "Dash it all," said the man,
"didn't yer see as how I was a-hurrying up to help the gen'leman
myself?" Phineas, however, hadn't seen this, and held on gallantly,
and in a couple of minutes the first ruffian was back again upon the
spot in the custody of a policeman. "You've done it uncommon neat,
sir," said the policeman, complimenting Phineas upon his performance.
"If the gen'leman ain't none the worst for it, it'll have been a very
pretty evening's amusement." Mr. Kennedy was now leaning against the
railings, and hitherto had been unable to declare whether he was
really injured or not, and it was not till a second policeman came up
that the hero of the night was at liberty to attend closely to his
friend.

Mr. Kennedy, when he was able to speak, declared that for a minute
or two he had thought that his neck had been broken; and he was not
quite convinced till he found himself in his own house, that nothing
more serious had really happened to him than certain bruises round
his throat. The policeman was for a while anxious that at any
rate Phineas should go with him to the police-office; but at last
consented to take the addresses of the two gentlemen. When he
found that Mr. Kennedy was a member of Parliament, and that he was
designated as Right Honourable, his respect for the garrotter became
more great, and he began to feel that the night was indeed a night
of great importance. He expressed unbounded admiration at Mr. Finn's
success in his own line, and made repeated promises that the men
should be forthcoming on the morrow. Could a cab be got? Of course a
cab could be got. A cab was got, and within a quarter of an hour of
the making of the attack, the two members of Parliament were on their
way to Grosvenor Place.

There was hardly a word spoken in the cab, for Mr. Kennedy was in
pain. When, however, they reached the door in Grosvenor Place,
Phineas wanted to go, and leave his friend with the servants, but
this the Cabinet Minister would not allow. "Of course you must see
my wife," he said. So they went up-stairs into the drawing-room,
and then upon the stairs, by the lights of the house, Phineas could
perceive that his companion's face was bruised and black with dirt,
and that his cravat was gone.

"I have been garrotted," said the Cabinet Minister to his wife.

"What?"

"Simply that;--or should have been, if he had not been there. How he
came there, God only knows."

The wife's anxiety, and then her gratitude, need hardly be
described,--nor the astonishment of the husband, which by no means
decreased on reflection, at the opportune re-appearance in the nick
of time of the man whom three minutes before the attack he had left
in the act of going in the opposite direction.

"I had seen the men, and thought it best to run round by the corner
of Grosvenor Square," said Phineas.

"May God bless you," said Lady Laura.

"Amen," said the Cabinet Minister.

"I think he was born to be my friend," said Lady Laura.

The Cabinet Minister said nothing more that night. He was never given
to much talking, and the little accident which had just occurred to
him did not tend to make words easy to him. But he pressed our hero's
hand, and Lady Laura said that of course Phineas would come to them
on the morrow. Phineas remarked that his first business must be to
go to the police-office, but he promised that he would come down to
Grosvenor Place immediately afterwards. Then Lady Laura also pressed
his hand, and looked--; she looked, I think, as though she thought
that Phineas would only have done right had he repeated the offence
which he had committed under the waterfall of Loughlinter.

"Garrotted!" said Lord Chiltern, when Phineas told him the story
before they went to bed that night. He had been smoking, sipping
brandy-and-water, and waiting for Finn's return. "Robert Kennedy
garrotted!"

"The fellow was in the act of doing it."

"And you stopped him?"

"Yes;--I got there just in time. Wasn't it lucky?"

"You ought to be garrotted yourself. I should have lent the man a
hand had I been there."

"How can you say anything so horrible? But you are drinking too much,
old fellow, and I shall lock the bottle up."

"If there were no one in London drank more than I do, the wine
merchants would have a bad time of it. And so the new Cabinet
Minister has been garrotted in the street. Of course I'm sorry for
poor Laura's sake."

"Luckily he's not much the worse for it;--only a little bruised."

"I wonder whether it's on the cards he should be improved by
it;--worse, except in the way of being strangled, he could not be.
However, as he's my brother-in-law, I'm obliged to you for rescuing
him. Come, I'll go to bed. I must say, if he was to be garrotted I
should like to have been there to see it." That was the manner in
which Lord Chiltern received the tidings of the terrible accident
which had occurred to his near relative.




CHAPTER XXXI

Finn for Loughton


By three o'clock in the day after the little accident which was told
in the last chapter, all the world knew that Mr. Kennedy, the new
Cabinet Minister, had been garrotted, or half garrotted, and that
that child of fortune, Phineas Finn, had dropped upon the scene out
of heaven at the exact moment of time, had taken the two garrotters
prisoners, and saved the Cabinet Minister's neck and valuables,--if
not his life. "Bedad," said Laurence Fitzgibbon, when he came to hear
this, "that fellow'll marry an heiress, and be Secretary for Oireland
yet." A good deal was said about it to Phineas at the clubs, but a
word or two that was said to him by Violet Effingham was worth all
the rest. "Why, what a Paladin you are! But you succour men in
distress instead of maidens." "That's my bad luck," said Phineas.
"The other will come no doubt in time," Violet replied; "and then
you'll get your reward." He knew that such words from a girl mean
nothing,--especially from such a girl as Violet Effingham; but
nevertheless they were very pleasant to him.

"Of course you will come to us at Loughlinter when Parliament is up?"
Lady Laura said the same day.

"I don't know really. You see I must go over to Ireland about my
re-election."

"What has that to do with it? You are only making out excuses. We
go down on the first of July, and the English elections won't begin
till the middle of the month. It will be August before the men of
Loughshane are ready for you."

"To tell you the truth, Lady Laura," said Phineas, "I doubt whether
the men of Loughshane,--or rather the man of Loughshane, will have
anything more to say to me."

"What man do you mean?"

"Lord Tulla. He was in a passion with his brother before, and I got
the advantage of it. Since that he has paid his brother's debts for
the fifteenth time, and of course is ready to fight any battle for
the forgiven prodigal. Things are not as they were, and my father
tells me that he thinks I shall be beaten."

"That is bad news."

"It is what I have a right to expect."

Every word of information that had come to Phineas about Loughshane
since Mr. Mildmay had decided upon a dissolution, had gone towards
making him feel at first that there was a great doubt as to his
re-election, and at last that there was almost a certainty against
him. And as these tidings reached him they made him very unhappy.
Since he had been in Parliament he had very frequently regretted
that he had left the shades of the Inns of Court for the glare of
Westminster; and he had more than once made up his mind that he would
desert the glare and return to the shade. But now, when the moment
came in which such desertion seemed to be compulsory on him, when
there would be no longer a choice, the seat in Parliament was dearer
to him than ever. If he had gone of his own free will,--so he told
himself,--there would have been something of nobility in such going.
Mr. Low would have respected him, and even Mrs. Low might have taken
him back to the friendship of her severe bosom. But he would go back
now as a cur with his tail between his legs,--kicked out, as it were,
from Parliament. Returning to Lincoln's Inn soiled with failure,
having accomplished nothing, having broken down on the only occasion
on which he had dared to show himself on his legs, not having opened
a single useful book during the two years in which he had sat in
Parliament, burdened with Laurence Fitzgibbon's debt, and not quite
free from debt of his own, how could he start himself in any way by
which he might even hope to win success? He must, he told himself,
give up all thought of practising in London and betake himself to
Dublin. He could not dare to face his friends in London as a young
briefless barrister.

On this evening, the evening subsequent to that on which Mr. Kennedy
had been attacked, the House was sitting in Committee of Ways and
Means, and there came on a discussion as to a certain vote for the
army. It had been known that there would be such discussion; and Mr.
Monk having heard from Phineas a word or two now and again about the
potted peas, had recommended him to be ready with a few remarks if he
wished to support the Government in the matter of that vote. Phineas
did so wish, having learned quite enough in the Committee Room
up-stairs to make him believe that a large importation of the
potted peas from Holstein would not be for the advantage of the
army or navy,--or for that of the country at large. Mr. Monk had
made his suggestion without the slightest allusion to the former
failure,--just as though Phineas were a practised speaker accustomed
to be on his legs three or four times a week. "If I find a chance, I
will," said Phineas, taking the advice just as it was given.

Soon after prayers, a word was said in the House as to the
ill-fortune which had befallen the new Cabinet Minister. Mr. Daubeny
had asked Mr. Mildmay whether violent hands had not been laid in the
dead of night on the sacred throat,--the throat that should have been
sacred,--of the new Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster; and had
expressed regret that the Ministry,--which was, he feared, in other
respects somewhat infirm,--should now have been further weakened by
this injury to that new bulwark with which it had endeavoured to
support itself. The Prime Minister, answering his old rival in the
same strain, said that the calamity might have been very severe,
both to the country and to the Cabinet; but that fortunately for the
community at large, a gallant young member of that House,--and he was
proud to say a supporter of the Government,--had appeared upon the
spot at the nick of time;--"As a god out of a machine," said Mr.
Daubeny, interrupting him;--"By no means as a god out of a machine,"
continued Mr. Mildmay, "but as a real help in a very real trouble,
and succeeded not only in saving my right honourable friend, the
Chancellor of the Duchy, but in arresting the two malefactors who
attempted to rob him in the street." Then there was a cry of "name;"
and Mr. Mildmay of course named the member for Loughshane. It so
happened that Phineas was not in the House, but he heard it all when
he came down to attend the Committee of Ways and Means.

Then came on the discussion about provisions in the army, the subject
being mooted by one of Mr. Turnbull's close allies. The gentleman
on the other side of the House who had moved for the Potted Peas
Committee, was silent on the occasion, having felt that the result
of that committee had not been exactly what he had expected. The
evidence respecting such of the Holstein potted peas as had been used
in this country was not very favourable to them. But, nevertheless,
the rebound from that committee,--the very fact that such a committee
had been made to sit,--gave ground for a hostile attack. To attack
is so easy, when a complete refutation barely suffices to save the
Minister attacked,--does not suffice to save him from future dim
memories of something having been wrong,--and brings down no disgrace
whatsoever on the promoter of the false charge. The promoter of the
false charge simply expresses his gratification at finding that he
had been misled by erroneous information. It is not customary for him
to express gratification at the fact, that out of all the mud which
he has thrown, some will probably stick! Phineas, when the time came,
did get on his legs, and spoke perhaps two or three dozen words. The
doing so seemed to come to him quite naturally. He had thought very
little about it beforehand,--having resolved not to think of it. And
indeed the occasion was one of no great importance. The Speaker was
not in the chair, and the House was thin, and he intended to make no
speech,--merely to say something which he had to say. Till he had
finished he hardly remembered that he was doing that, in attempting
to do which he had before failed so egregiously. It was not till he
sat down that he began to ask himself whether the scene was swimming
before his eyes as it had done on former occasions; as it had done
even when he had so much as thought of making a speech. Now he was
astonished at the easiness of the thing, and as he left the House
told himself that he had overcome the difficulty just when the
victory could be of no avail to him. Had he been more eager, more
constant in his purpose, he might at any rate have shown the world
that he was fit for the place which he had presumed to take before
he was cast out of it.

On the next morning he received a letter from his father. Dr. Finn
had seen Lord Tulla, having been sent for to relieve his lordship in
a fit of the gout, and had been informed by the Earl that he meant to
fight the borough to the last man;--had he said to the last shilling
he would have spoken with perhaps more accuracy. "You see, doctor,
your son has had it for two years, as you may say for nothing, and I
think he ought to give way. He can't expect that he's to go on there
as though it were his own." And then his lordship, upon whom this
touch of the gout had come somewhat sharply, expressed himself with
considerable animation. The old doctor behaved with much spirit. "I
told the Earl," he said, "that I could not undertake to say what you
might do; but that as you had come forward at first with my sanction,
I could not withdraw it now. He asked me if I should support you with
money; I said that I should to a moderate extent. 'By G----,' said
the Earl, 'a moderate extent will go a very little way, I can tell
you.' Since that he has had Duggin with him; so, I suppose, I shall
not see him any more. You can do as you please now; but, from what I
hear, I fear you will have no chance." Then with much bitterness of
spirit Phineas resolved that he would not interfere with Lord Tulla
at Loughshane. He would go at once to the Reform Club and explain his
reasons to Barrington Erle and others there who would be interested.

But he first went to Grosvenor Place. Here he was shown up into Mr.
Kennedy's room. Mr. Kennedy was up and seated in an arm-chair by an
open window looking over into the Queen's garden; but he was in his
dressing-gown, and was to be regarded as an invalid. And indeed as he
could not turn his neck, or thought that he could not do so, he was
not very fit to go out about his work. Let us hope that the affairs
of the Duchy of Lancaster did not suffer materially by his absence.
We may take it for granted that with a man so sedulous as to all his
duties there was no arrear of work when the accident took place. He
put out his hand to Phineas, and said some word in a whisper,--some
word or two among which Phineas caught the sound of "potted
peas,"--and then continued to look out of the window. There are men
who are utterly prostrated by any bodily ailment, and it seemed that
Mr. Kennedy was one of them. Phineas, who was full of his own bad
news, had intended to tell his sad story at once. But he perceived
that the neck of the Chancellor of the Duchy was too stiff to allow
of his taking any interest in external matters, and so he refrained.
"What does the doctor say about it?" said Phineas, perceiving that
just for the present there could be only one possible subject for
remark. Mr. Kennedy was beginning to describe in a long whisper what
the doctor did think about it, when Lady Laura came into the room.

Of course they began at first to talk about Mr. Kennedy. It would not
have been kind to him not to have done so. And Lady Laura made much
of the injury, as it behoves a wife to do in such circumstances for
the sake both of the sufferer and of the hero. She declared her
conviction that had Phineas been a moment later her husband's neck
would have been irredeemably broken.

"I don't think they ever do kill the people," said Phineas. "At any
rate they don't mean to do so."

"I thought they did," said Lady Laura.

"I fancy not," said Phineas, eager in the cause of truth.

"I think this man was very clumsy," whispered Mr. Kennedy.

"Perhaps he was a beginner," said Phineas, "and that may make a
difference. If so, I'm afraid we have interfered with his
education."

Then, by degrees, the conversation got away to other things, and Lady
Laura asked him after Loughshane. "I've made up my mind to give it
up," said he, smiling as he spoke.

"I was afraid there was but a bad chance," said Lady Laura, smiling
also.

"My father has behaved so well!" said Phineas. "He has written to say
he'll find the money, if I determine to contest the borough. I mean
to write to him by to-night's post to decline the offer. I have no
right to spend the money, and I shouldn't succeed if I did spend it.
Of course it makes me a little down in the mouth." And then he smiled
again.

"I've got a plan of my own," said Lady Laura.

"What plan?"

"Or rather it isn't mine, but papa's. Old Mr. Standish is going to
give up Loughton, and papa wants you to come and try your luck
there."

"Lady Laura!"

"It isn't quite a certainty, you know, but I suppose it's as near a
certainty as anything left." And this came from a strong Radical
Reformer!

"Lady Laura, I couldn't accept such a favour from your father." Then
Mr. Kennedy nodded his head very slightly and whispered, "Yes, yes."
"I couldn't think of it," said Phineas Finn. "I have no right to such
a favour."

"That is a matter entirely for papa's consideration," said Lady
Laura, with an affectation of solemnity in her voice. "I think it has
always been felt that any politician may accept such an offer as that
when it is made to him, but that no politician should ask for it. My
father feels that he has to do the best he can with his influence in
the borough, and therefore he comes to you."

"It isn't that," said Phineas, somewhat rudely.

"Of course private feelings have their weight," said Lady Laura. "It
is not probable that papa would have gone to a perfect stranger. And
perhaps, Mr. Finn, I may own that Mr. Kennedy and I would both be
very sorry that you should not be in the House, and that that feeling
on our part has had some weight with my father."

"Of course you'll stand?" whispered Mr. Kennedy, still looking
straight out of the window, as though the slightest attempt to turn
his neck would be fraught with danger to himself and the Duchy.

"Papa has desired me to ask you to call upon him," said Lady Laura.
"I don't suppose there is very much to be said, as each of you know
so well the other's way of thinking. But you had better see him
to-day or to-morrow."

Of course Phineas was persuaded before he left Mr. Kennedy's room.
Indeed, when he came to think of it, there appeared to him to be no
valid reason why he should not sit for Loughton. The favour was of
a kind that had prevailed from time out of mind in England, between
the most respectable of the great land magnates, and young rising
liberal politicians. Burke, Fox, and Canning had all been placed in
Parliament by similar influence. Of course he, Phineas Finn, desired
earnestly,--longed in his very heart of hearts,--to extinguish all
such Parliamentary influence, to root out for ever the last vestige
of close borough nominations; but while the thing remained it was
better that the thing should contribute to the liberal than to the
conservative strength of the House,--and if to the liberal, how was
this to be achieved but by the acceptance of such influence by some
liberal candidate? And if it were right that it should be accepted
by any liberal candidate,--then, why not by him? The logic of this
argument seemed to him to be perfect. He felt something like a
sting of reproach as he told himself that in truth this great offer
was made to him, not on account of the excellence of his politics,
but because he had been instrumental in saving Lord Brentford's
son-in-law from the violence of garrotters. But he crushed these
qualms of conscience as being over-scrupulous, and, as he told
himself, not practical. You must take the world as you find it,
with a struggle to be something more honest than those around you.
Phineas, as he preached to himself this sermon, declared to himself
that they who attempted more than this flew too high in the clouds
to be of service to men and women upon earth.

As he did not see Lord Brentford that day he postponed writing to his
father for twenty-four hours. On the following morning he found the
Earl at home in Portman Square, having first discussed the matter
fully with Lord Chiltern. "Do not scruple about me," said Lord
Chiltern; "you are quite welcome to the borough for me."

"But if I did not stand, would you do so? There are so many reasons
which ought to induce you to accept a seat in Parliament!"

"Whether that be true or not, Phineas, I shall not accept my father's
interest at Loughton, unless it be offered to me in a way in which
it never will be offered. You know me well enough to be sure that I
shall not change my mind. Nor will he. And, therefore, you may go
down to Loughton with a pure conscience as far as I am concerned."

Phineas had his interview with the Earl, and in ten minutes
everything was settled. On his way to Portman Square there had come
across his mind the idea of a grand effort of friendship. What if he
could persuade the father so to conduct himself towards his son, that
the son should consent to be a member for the borough? And he did
say a word or two to this effect, setting forth that Lord Chiltern
would condescend to become a legislator, if only his father would
condescend to acknowledge his son's fitness for such work without
any comments on the son's past life. But the Earl simply waived the
subject away with his hand. He could be as obstinate as his son. Lady
Laura had been the Mercury between them on this subject, and Lady
Laura had failed. He would not now consent to employ another Mercury.
Very little,--hardly a word indeed,--was said between the Earl and
Phineas about politics. Phineas was to be the Saulsby candidate at
Loughton for the next election, and was to come to Saulsby with the
Kennedys from Loughlinter,--either with the Kennedys or somewhat in
advance of them. "I do not say that there will be no opposition,"
said the Earl, "but I expect none." He was very courteous,--nay,
he was kind, feeling doubtless that his family owed a great debt
of gratitude to the young man with whom he was conversing; but,
nevertheless, there was not absent on his part a touch of that high
condescension which, perhaps, might be thought to become the Earl,
the Cabinet Minister, and the great borough patron. Phineas, who
was sensitive, felt this and winced. He had never quite liked Lord
Brentford, and could not bring himself to do so now in spite of the
kindness which the Earl was showing him.

But he was very happy when he sat down to write to his father
from the club. His father had told him that the money should be
forthcoming for the election at Loughshane, if he resolved to stand,
but that the chance of success would be very slight,--indeed that, in
his opinion, there would be no chance of success. Nevertheless, his
father had evidently believed, when writing, that Phineas would not
abandon his seat without a useless and expensive contest. He now
thanked his father with many expressions of gratitude,--declared his
conviction that his father was right about Lord Tulla, and then,
in the most modest language that he could use, went on to say that
he had found another borough open to him in England. He was going
to stand for Loughton, with the assistance of Lord Brentford, and
thought that the election would probably not cost him above a couple
of hundred pounds at the outside. Then he wrote a very pretty note
to Lord Tulla, thanking him for his former kindness, and telling
the Irish Earl that it was not his intention to interfere with the
borough of Loughshane at the next election.

A few days after this Phineas was very much surprised at a visit
that was made to him at his lodgings. Mr. Clarkson, after that
scene in the lobby of the House, called again in Great Marlborough
Street,--and was admitted. "You had better let him sit in your
armchair for half an hour or so," Fitzgibbon had said; and Phineas
almost believed that it would be better. The man was a terrible
nuisance to him, and he was beginning to think that he had better
undertake to pay the debt by degrees. It was, he knew, quite on the
cards that Mr. Clarkson should have him arrested while at Saulsby.
Since that scene in the lobby Mr. Clarkson had been with him twice,
and there had been a preliminary conversation as to real payment.
Mr. Clarkson wanted a hundred pounds down, and another bill for two
hundred and twenty at three months' date. "Think of my time and
trouble in coming here," Mr. Clarkson had urged when Phineas had
objected to these terms. "Think of my time and trouble, and do be
punctual, Mr. Finn." Phineas had offered him ten pounds a quarter,
the payments to be marked on the back of the bill, a tender which Mr.
Clarkson had not seemed to regard as strong evidence of punctuality.
He had not been angry, but had simply expressed his intention of
calling again,--giving Phineas to understand that business would
probably take him to the west of Ireland in the autumn. If only
business might not take him down either to Loughlinter or to Saulsby!
But the strange visitor who came to Phineas in the midst of these
troubles put an end to them all.

The strange visitor was Miss Aspasia Fitzgibbon. "You'll be very much
surprised at my coming to your chambers, no doubt," she said, as she
sat down in the chair which Phineas placed for her. Phineas could
only say that he was very proud to be so highly honoured, and that he
hoped she was well. "Pretty well, I thank you. I have just come about
a little business, Mr. Finn, and I hope you'll excuse me."

"I'm quite sure that there is no need for excuses," said Phineas.

"Laurence, when he hears about it, will say that I've been an
impertinent old fool; but I never care what Laurence says, either
this way or that. I've been to that Mr. Clarkson, Mr. Finn, and I've
paid him the money."

"No!" said Phineas.

"But I have, Mr. Finn. I happened to hear what occurred that night at
the door of the House of Commons."

"Who told you, Miss Fitzgibbon?"

"Never mind who told me. I heard it. I knew before that you had been
foolish enough to help Laurence about money, and so I put two and two
together. It isn't the first time I have had to do with Mr. Clarkson.
So I sent to him, and I've bought the bill. There it is." And Miss
Fitzgibbon produced the document which bore the name of Phineas Finn
across the front of it.

"And did you pay him two hundred and fifty pounds for it?"

"Not quite. I had a very hard tussle, and got it at last for two
hundred and twenty pounds."

"And did you do it yourself?"

"All myself. If I had employed a lawyer I should have had to pay
two hundred and forty pounds and five pounds for costs. And now,
Mr. Finn, I hope you won't have any more money engagements with my
brother Laurence." Phineas said that he thought he might promise that
he would have no more. "Because, if you do, I shan't interfere. If
Laurence began to find that he could get money out of me in that way,
there would be no end to it. Mr. Clarkson would very soon be spending
his spare time in my drawing-room. Good-bye, Mr. Finn. If Laurence
says anything, just tell him that he'd better come to me." Then
Phineas was left looking at the bill. It was certainly a great relief
to him,--that he should be thus secured from the domiciliary visits
of Mr. Clarkson; a great relief to him to be assured that Mr.
Clarkson would not find him out down at Loughton; but nevertheless,
he had to suffer a pang of shame as he felt that Miss Fitzgibbon had
become acquainted with his poverty and had found herself obliged to
satisfy his pecuniary liabilities.




CHAPTER XXXII

Lady Laura Kennedy's Headache


Phineas went down to Loughlinter early in July, taking Loughton in
his way. He stayed there one night at the inn, and was introduced to
sundry influential inhabitants of the borough by Mr. Grating, the
ironmonger, who was known by those who knew Loughton to be a very
strong supporter of the Earl's interest. Mr. Grating and about half a
dozen others of the tradesmen of the town came to the inn, and met
Phineas in the parlour. He told them he was a good sound Liberal and
a supporter of Mr. Mildmay's Government, of which their neighbour the
Earl was so conspicuous an ornament. This was almost all that was
said about the Earl out loud; but each individual man of Loughton
then present took an opportunity during the meeting of whispering
into Mr. Finn's ear a word or two to show that he also was admitted
to the secret councils of the borough,--that he too could see the
inside of the arrangement. "Of course we must support the Earl," one
said. "Never mind what you hear about a Tory candidate, Mr. Finn,"
whispered a second; "the Earl can do what he pleases here." And it
seemed to Phineas that it was thought by them all to be rather a fine
thing to be thus held in the hand by an English nobleman. Phineas
could not but reflect much upon this as he lay in his bed at the
Loughton inn. The great political question on which the political
world was engrossed up in London was the enfranchisement of
Englishmen,--of Englishmen down to the rank of artisans and
labourers;--and yet when he found himself in contact with individual
Englishmen, with men even very much above the artisan and the
labourer, he found that they rather liked being bound hand and foot,
and being kept as tools in the political pocket of a rich man.
Every one of those Loughton tradesmen was proud of his own personal
subjection to the Earl!

From Loughton he went to Loughlinter, having promised to be back in
the borough for the election. Mr. Grating would propose him, and he
was to be seconded by Mr. Shortribs, the butcher and grazier. Mention
had been made of a Conservative candidate, and Mr. Shortribs had
seemed to think that a good stand-up fight upon English principles,
with a clear understanding, of course, that victory should prevail
on the liberal side, would be a good thing for the borough. But the
Earl's man of business saw Phineas on the morning of his departure,
and told him not to regard Mr. Shortribs. "They'd all like it," said
the man of business; "and I daresay they'll have enough of it when
this Reform Bill is passed; but at present no one will be fool enough
to come and spend his money here. We have them all in hand too well
for that, Mr. Finn!"

He found the great house at Loughlinter nearly empty. Mr. Kennedy's
mother was there, and Lord Brentford was there, and Lord Brentford's
private secretary, and Mr. Kennedy's private secretary. At present
that was the entire party. Lady Baldock was expected there, with
her daughter and Violet Effingham; but, as well as Phineas could
learn, they would not be at Loughlinter until after he had left it.
There had come up lately a rumour that there would be an autumn
session,--that the Houses would sit through October and a part of
November, in order that Mr. Mildmay might try the feeling of the new
Parliament. If this were to be so, Phineas had resolved that, in the
event of his election at Loughton, he would not return to Ireland
till after this autumn session should be over. He gave an account to
the Earl, in the presence of the Earl's son-in-law, of what had taken
place at Loughton, and the Earl expressed himself as satisfied. It
was manifestly a great satisfaction to Lord Brentford that he should
still have a borough in his pocket, and the more so because there
were so very few noblemen left who had such property belonging to
them. He was very careful in his speech, never saying in so many
words that the privilege of returning a member was his own; but his
meaning was not the less clear.

Those were dreary days at Loughlinter. There was fishing,--if Phineas
chose to fish; and he was told that he could shoot a deer if he was
minded to go out alone. But it seemed as though it were the intention
of the host that his guests should spend their time profitably. Mr.
Kennedy himself was shut up with books and papers all the morning,
and always took up a book after dinner. The Earl also would read a
little,--and then would sleep a good deal. Old Mrs. Kennedy slept
also, and Lady Laura looked as though she would like to sleep if
it were not that her husband's eye was upon her. As it was, she
administered tea, Mr. Kennedy not liking the practice of having it
handed round by a servant when none were there but members of the
family circle, and she read novels. Phineas got hold of a stiff bit
of reading for himself, and tried to utilise his time. He took Alison
in hand, and worked his way gallantly through a couple of volumes.
But even he, more than once or twice, found himself on the very verge
of slumber. Then he would wake up and try to think about things. Why
was he, Phineas Finn, an Irishman from Killaloe, living in that great
house of Loughlinter as though he were one of the family, striving to
kill the hours, and feeling that he was in some way subject to the
dominion of his host? Would it not be better for him to get up and go
away? In his heart of hearts he did not like Mr. Kennedy, though he
believed him to be a good man. And of what service to him was it to
like Lady Laura, now that Lady Laura was a possession in the hands of
Mr. Kennedy? Then he would tell himself that he owed his position in
the world entirely to Lady Laura, and that he was ungrateful to feel
himself ever dull in her society. And, moreover, there was something
to be done in the world beyond making love and being merry. Mr.
Kennedy could occupy himself with a blue book for hours together
without wincing. So Phineas went to work again with his Alison, and
read away till he nodded.

In those days he often wandered up and down the Linter and across the
moor to the Linn, and so down to the lake. He would take a book with
him, and would seat himself down on spots which he loved, and would
pretend to read;--but I do not think that he got much advantage
from his book. He was thinking of his life, and trying to calculate
whether the wonderful success which he had achieved would ever be of
permanent value to him. Would he be nearer to earning his bread when
he should be member for Loughton than he had been when he was member
for Loughshane? Or was there before him any slightest probability
that he would ever earn his bread? And then he thought of Violet
Effingham, and was angry with himself for remembering at that moment
that Violet Effingham was the mistress of a large fortune.

Once before when he was sitting beside the Linter he had made up his
mind to declare his passion to Lady Laura;--and he had done so on the
very spot. Now, within a twelvemonth of that time, he made up his
mind on the same spot to declare his passion to Miss Effingham, and
he thought his best mode of carrying his suit would be to secure the
assistance of Lady Laura. Lady Laura, no doubt, had been very anxious
that her brother should marry Violet; but Lord Chiltern, as Phineas
knew, had asked for Violet's hand twice in vain; and, moreover,
Chiltern himself had declared to Phineas that he would never ask
for it again. Lady Laura, who was always reasonable, would surely
perceive that there was no hope of success for her brother. That
Chiltern would quarrel with him,--would quarrel with him to the
knife,--he did not doubt; but he felt that no fear of such a quarrel
as that should deter him. He loved Violet Effingham, and he must
indeed be pusillanimous if, loving her as he did, he was deterred
from expressing his love from any fear of a suitor whom she did not
favour. He would not willingly be untrue to his friendship for Lady
Laura's brother. Had there been a chance for Lord Chiltern he would
have abstained from putting himself forward. But what was the use
of his abstaining, when by doing so he could in no wise benefit
his friend,--when the result of his doing so would be that some
interloper would come in and carry off the prize? He would explain
all this to Lady Laura, and, if the prize would be kind to him, he
would disregard the anger of Lord Chiltern, even though it might be
anger to the knife.

As he was thinking of all this Lady Laura stood before him where he
was sitting at the top of the falls. At this moment he remembered
well all the circumstances of the scene when he had been there with
her at his last visit to Loughlinter. How things had changed since
then! Then he had loved Lady Laura with all his heart, and he had now
already brought himself to regard her as a discreet matron whom to
love would be almost as unreasonable as though he were to entertain
a passion for the Lord Chancellor. The reader will understand how
thorough had been the cure effected by Lady Laura's marriage and the
interval of a few months, when the swain was already prepared to make
this lady the depositary of his confidence in another matter of love.
"You are often here, I suppose?" said Lady Laura, looking down upon
him as he sat upon the rock.

"Well;--yes; not very often; I come here sometimes because the view
down upon the lake is so fine."

"It is the prettiest spot about the place. I hardly ever get here
now. Indeed this is only the second time that I have been up since
we have been at home, and then I came to bring papa here." There was
a little wooden seat near to the rock upon which Phineas had been
lying, and upon this Lady Laura sat down. Phineas, with his eyes
turned upon the lake, was considering how he might introduce the
subject of his love for Violet Effingham; but he did not find the
matter very easy. He had just resolved to begin by saying that Violet
would certainly never accept Lord Chiltern, when Lady Laura spoke a
word or two which stopped him altogether. "How well I remember," she
said, "the day when you and I were here last autumn!"

"So do I. You told me then that you were going to marry Mr. Kennedy.
How much has happened since then!"

"Much indeed! Enough for a whole lifetime. And yet how slow the time
has gone!"

"I do not think it has been slow with me," said Phineas.

"No; you have been active. You have had your hands full of work. I
am beginning to think that it is a great curse to have been born a
woman."

"And yet I have heard you say that a woman may do as much as a man."

"That was before I had learned my lesson properly. I know better than
that now. Oh dear! I have no doubt it is all for the best as it is,
but I have a kind of wish that I might be allowed to go out and milk
the cows."

"And may you not milk the cows if you wish it, Lady Laura?"

"By no means;--not only not milk them, but hardly look at them. At
any rate, I must not talk about them." Phineas of course understood
that she was complaining of her husband, and hardly knew how to reply
to her. He had been sharp enough to perceive already that Mr. Kennedy
was an autocrat in his own house, and he knew Lady Laura well enough
to be sure that such masterdom would be very irksome to her. But he
had not imagined that she would complain to him. "It was so different
at Saulsby," Lady Laura continued. "Everything there seemed to be my
own."

"And everything here is your own."

"Yes,--according to the prayer-book. And everything in truth is my
own,--as all the dainties at the banquet belonged to Sancho the
Governor."

"You mean," said he,--and then he hesitated; "you mean that Mr.
Kennedy stands over you, guarding you for your own welfare, as the
doctor stood over Sancho and guarded him?"

There was a pause before she answered,--a long pause, during which he
was looking away over the lake, and thinking how he might introduce
the subject of his love. But long as was the pause, he had not begun
when Lady Laura was again speaking. "The truth is, my friend," she
said, "that I have made a mistake."

"A mistake?"

"Yes, Phineas, a mistake. I have blundered as fools blunder, thinking
that I was clever enough to pick my footsteps aright without asking
counsel from any one. I have blundered and stumbled and fallen, and
now I am so bruised that I am not able to stand upon my feet." The
word that struck him most in all this was his own Christian name. She
had never called him Phineas before. He was aware that the circle
of his acquaintance had fallen into a way of miscalling him by his
Christian name, as one observes to be done now and again in reference
to some special young man. Most of the men whom he called his friends
called him Phineas. Even the Earl had done so more than once on
occasions in which the greatness of his position had dropped for a
moment out of his mind. Mrs. Low had called him Phineas when she
regarded him as her husband's most cherished pupil; and Mrs. Bunce
had called him Mr. Phineas. He had always been Phineas to everybody
at Killaloe. But still he was quite sure that Lady Laura had never so
called him before. Nor would she have done so now in her husband's
presence. He was sure of that also.

"You mean that you are unhappy?" he said, still looking away from her
towards the lake.

"Yes, I do mean that. Though I do not know why I should come and tell
you so,--except that I am still blundering and stumbling, and have
fallen into a way of hurting myself at every step."

"You can tell no one who is more anxious for your happiness," said
Phineas.

"That is a very pretty speech, but what would you do for my
happiness? Indeed, what is it possible that you should do? I mean it
as no rebuke when I say that my happiness or unhappiness is a matter
as to which you will soon become perfectly indifferent."

"Why should you say so, Lady Laura?"

"Because it is natural that it should be so. You and Mr. Kennedy
might have been friends. Not that you will be, because you are unlike
each other in all your ways. But it might have been so."

"And are not you and I to be friends?" he asked.

"No. In a very few months you will not think of telling me what are
your desires or what your sorrows;--and as for me, it will be out
of the question that I should tell mine to you. How can you be my
friend?"

"If you were not quite sure of my friendship, Lady Laura, you would
not speak to me as you are speaking now." Still he did not look at
her, but lay with his face supported on his hands, and his eyes
turned away upon the lake. But she, where she was sitting, could see
him, and was aided by her sight in making comparisons in her mind
between the two men who had been her lovers,--between him whom she
had taken and him whom she had left. There was something in the hard,
dry, unsympathising, unchanging virtues of her husband which almost
revolted her. He had not a fault, but she had tried him at every
point and had been able to strike no spark of fire from him. Even by
disobeying she could produce no heat,--only an access of firmness.
How would it have been with her had she thrown all ideas of fortune
to the winds, and linked her lot to that of the young Phoebus who
was lying at her feet? If she had ever loved any one she had loved
him. And she had not thrown away her love for money. So she swore to
herself over and over again, trying to console herself in her cold
unhappiness. She had married a rich man in order that she might be
able to do something in the world;--and now that she was this rich
man's wife she found that she could do nothing. The rich man thought
it to be quite enough for her to sit at home and look after his
welfare. In the meantime young Phoebus,--her Phoebus as he had
been once,--was thinking altogether of some one else.

"Phineas," she said, slowly, "I have in you such perfect confidence
that I will tell you the truth;--as one man may tell it to another. I
wish you would go from here."

"What, at once?"

"Not to-day, or to-morrow. Stay here now till the election; but do
not return. He will ask you to come, and press you hard, and will be
hurt;--for, strange to say, with all his coldness, he really likes
you. He has a pleasure in seeing you here. But he must not have that
pleasure at the expense of trouble to me."

"And why is it a trouble to you?" he asked. Men are such fools;--so
awkward, so unready, with their wits ever behind the occasion by a
dozen seconds or so! As soon as the words were uttered, he knew that
they should not have been spoken.

"Because I am a fool," she said. "Why else? Is not that enough for
you?"

"Laura--," he said.

"No,--no; I will have none of that. I am a fool, but not such a fool
as to suppose that any cure is to be found there."

"Only say what I can do for you, though it be with my entire life,
and I will do it."

"You can do nothing,--except to keep away from me."

"Are you earnest in telling me that?" Now at last he had turned
himself round and was looking at her, and as he looked he saw the hat
of a man appearing up the path, and immediately afterwards the face.
It was the hat and face of the laird of Loughlinter. "Here is Mr.
Kennedy," said Phineas, in a tone of voice not devoid of dismay and
trouble.

"So I perceive," said Lady Laura. But there was no dismay or trouble
in the tone of her voice.

In the countenance of Mr. Kennedy, as he approached closer, there was
not much to be read,--only, perhaps, some slight addition of gloom,
or rather, perhaps, of that frigid propriety of moral demeanour for
which he had always been conspicuous, which had grown upon him at his
marriage, and which had been greatly increased by the double action
of being made a Cabinet Minister and being garrotted. "I am glad that
your headache is better," he said to his wife, who had risen from
her seat to meet him. Phineas also had risen, and was now looking
somewhat sheepish where he stood.

"I came out because it was worse," she said. "It irritated me so that
I could not stand the house any longer."

"I will send to Callender for Dr. Macnuthrie."

"Pray do nothing of the kind, Robert. I do not want Dr. Macnuthrie at
all."

"Where there is illness, medical advice is always expedient."

"I am not ill. A headache is not illness."

"I had thought it was," said Mr. Kennedy, very drily.

"At any rate, I would rather not have Dr. Macnuthrie."

"I am sure it cannot do you any good to climb up here in the heat of
the sun. Had you been here long, Finn?"

"All the morning;--here, or hereabouts. I clambered up from the lake
and had a book in my pocket."

"And you happened to come across him by accident?" Mr. Kennedy
asked. There was something so simple in the question that its very
simplicity proved that there was no suspicion.

"Yes;--by chance," said Lady Laura. "But every one at Loughlinter
always comes up here. If any one ever were missing whom I wanted to
find, this is where I should look."

"I am going on towards Linter forest to meet Blane," said Mr.
Kennedy. Blane was the gamekeeper. "If you don't mind the trouble,
Finn, I wish you'd take Lady Laura down to the house. Do not let her
stay out in the heat. I will take care that somebody goes over to
Callender for Dr. Macnuthrie." Then Mr. Kennedy went on, and Phineas
was left with the charge of taking Lady Laura back to the house. When
Mr. Kennedy's hat had first appeared coming up the walk, Phineas
had been ready to proclaim himself prepared for any devotion in the
service of Lady Laura. Indeed, he had begun to reply with criminal
tenderness to the indiscreet avowal which Lady Laura had made to
him. But he felt now, after what had just occurred in the husband's
presence, that any show of tenderness,--of criminal tenderness,--was
impossible. The absence of all suspicion on the part of Mr. Kennedy
had made Phineas feel that he was bound by all social laws to refrain
from such tenderness. Lady Laura began to descend the path before
him without a word;--and went on, and on, as though she would have
reached the house without speaking, had he not addressed her. "Does
your head still pain you?" he asked.

"Of course it does."

"I suppose he is right in saying that you should not be out in the
heat."

"I do not know. It is not worth while to think about that. He sends
me in, and so of course I must go. And he tells you to take me, and
so of course you must take me."

"Would you wish that I should let you go alone?"

"Yes, I would. Only he will be sure to find it out; and you must not
tell him that you left me at my request."

"Do you think that I am afraid of him?" said Phineas.

"Yes;--I think you are. I know that I am, and that papa is; and that
his mother hardly dares to call her soul her own. I do not know why
you should escape."

"Mr. Kennedy is nothing to me."

"He is something to me, and so I suppose I had better go on. And
now I shall have that horrid man from the little town pawing me
and covering everything with snuff, and bidding me take Scotch
physic,--which seems to increase in quantity and nastiness as doses
in England decrease. And he will stand over me to see that I take
it."

"What;--the doctor from Callender?"

"No;--but Mr. Kennedy will. If he advised me to have a hole in my
glove mended, he would ask me before he went to bed whether it was
done. He never forgot anything in his life, and was never unmindful
of anything. That I think will do, Mr. Finn. You have brought me out
from the trees, and that may be taken as bringing me home. We shall
hardly get scolded if we part here. Remember what I told you up
above. And remember also that it is in your power to do nothing else
for me. Good-bye." So he turned away towards the lake, and let Lady
Laura go across the wide lawn to the house by herself.

He had failed altogether in his intention of telling his friend of
his love for Violet, and had come to perceive that he could not for
the present carry out that intention. After what had passed it would
be impossible for him to go to Lady Laura with a passionate tale of
his longing for Violet Effingham. If he were even to speak to her of
love at all, it must be quite of another love than that. But he never
would speak to her of love; nor,--as he felt quite sure,--would she
allow him to do so. But what astounded him most as he thought of the
interview which had just passed, was the fact that the Lady Laura
whom he had known,--whom he had thought he had known,--should have
become so subject to such a man as Mr. Kennedy, a man whom he had
despised as being weak, irresolute, and without a purpose! For the
day or two that he remained at Loughlinter, he watched the family
closely, and became aware that Lady Laura had been right when she
declared that her father was afraid of Mr. Kennedy.

"I shall follow you almost immediately," said the Earl confidentially
to Phineas, when the candidate for the borough took his departure
from Loughlinter. "I don't like to be there just when the election is
going on, but I'll be at Saulsby to receive you the day afterwards."

Phineas took his leave from Mr. Kennedy, with a warm expression of
friendship on the part of his host, and from Lady Laura with a mere
touch of the hand. He tried to say a word; but she was sullen, or, if
not, she put on some mood like to sullenness, and said never a word
to him.

On the day after the departure of Phineas Finn for Loughton Lady
Laura Kennedy still had a headache. She had complained of a headache
ever since she had been at Loughlinter, and Dr. Macnuthrie had been
over more than once. "I wonder what it is that ails you," said her
husband, standing over her in her own sitting-room up-stairs. It was
a pretty room, looking away to the mountains, with just a glimpse of
the lake to be caught from the window, and it had been prepared for
her with all the skill and taste of an accomplished upholsterer. She
had selected the room for herself soon after her engagement, and had
thanked her future husband with her sweetest smile for giving her
the choice. She had thanked him and told him that she always meant
to be happy,--so happy in that room! He was a man not much given to
romance, but he thought of this promise as he stood over her and
asked after her health. As far as he could see she had never been
even comfortable since she had been at Loughlinter. A shadow of the
truth came across his mind. Perhaps his wife was bored. If so, what
was to be the future of his life and of hers? He went up to London
every year, and to Parliament, as a duty; and then, during some
period of the recess, would have his house full of guests,--as
another duty. But his happiness was to consist in such hours as these
which seemed to inflict upon his wife the penalty of a continual
headache. A shadow of the truth came upon him. What if his wife did
not like living quietly at home as the mistress of her husband's
house? What if a headache was always to be the result of a simple
performance of domestic duties?

More than a shadow of truth had come upon Lady Laura herself.
The dark cloud created by the entire truth was upon her, making
everything black and wretched around her. She had asked herself a
question or two, and had discovered that she had no love for her
husband, that the kind of life which he intended to exact from her
was insupportable to her, and that she had blundered and fallen in
her entrance upon life. She perceived that her father had already
become weary of Mr. Kennedy, and that, lonely and sad as he would
be at Saulsby by himself, it was his intention to repudiate the
idea of making a home at Loughlinter. Yes;--she would be deserted by
everyone, except of course by her husband; and then-- Then she would
throw herself on some early morning into the lake, for life would be
insupportable.

"I wonder what it is that ails you," said Mr. Kennedy.

"Nothing serious. One can't always help having a headache, you know."

"I don't think you take enough exercise, Laura. I would propose that
you should walk four miles every day after breakfast. I will always
be ready to accompany you. I have spoken to Dr. Macnuthrie--"

"I hate Dr. Macnuthrie."

"Why should you hate Dr. Macnuthrie, Laura?"

"How can I tell why? I do. That is quite reason enough why you should
not send for him to me."

"You are unreasonable, Laura. One chooses a doctor on account of
his reputation in his profession, and that of Dr. Macnuthrie stands
high."

"I do not want any doctor."

"But if you are ill, my dear--"

"I am not ill."

"But you said you had a headache. You have said so for the last ten
days."

"Having a headache is not being ill. I only wish you would not talk
of it, and then perhaps I should get rid of it."

"I cannot believe that. Headache in nine cases out of ten comes from
the stomach." Though he said this,--saying it because it was the
common-place common-sense sort of thing to say, still at the very
moment there was the shadow of the truth before his eyes. What if
this headache meant simple dislike to him, and to his modes of life?

"It is nothing of that sort," said Lady Laura, impatient at having
her ailment inquired into with so much accuracy.

"Then what is it? You cannot think that I can be happy to hear you
complaining of headache every day,--making it an excuse for absolute
idleness."

"What is it that you want me to do?" she said, jumping up from her
seat. "Set me a task, and if I don't go mad over it, I'll get through
it. There are the account books. Give them to me. I don't suppose I
can see the figures, but I'll try to see them."

"Laura, this is unkind of you,--and ungrateful."

"Of course;--it is everything that is bad. What a pity that you did
not find it out last year! Oh dear, oh dear! what am I to do?" Then
she threw herself down upon the sofa, and put both her hands up to
her temples.

"I will send for Dr. Macnuthrie at once," said Mr. Kennedy, walking
towards the door very slowly, and speaking as slowly as he walked.

"No;--do no such thing," she said, springing to her feet again and
intercepting him before he reached the door. "If he comes I will not
see him. I give you my word that I will not speak to him if he comes.
You do not understand," she said; "you do not understand at all."

"What is it that I ought to understand?" he asked.

"That a woman does not like to be bothered."

He made no reply at once, but stood there twisting the handle of the
door, and collecting his thoughts. "Yes," said he at last; "I am
beginning to find that out;--and to find out also what it is that
bothers a woman, as you call it. I can see now what it is that makes
your head ache. It is not the stomach. You are quite right there. It
is the prospect of a quiet decent life, to which would be attached
the performance of certain homely duties. Dr. Macnuthrie is a learned
man, but I doubt whether he can do anything for such a malady."

"You are quite right, Robert; he can do nothing."

"It is a malady you must cure for yourself, Laura;--and which is to
be cured by perseverance. If you can bring yourself to try--"

"But I cannot bring myself to try at all," she said.

"Do you mean to tell me, Laura, that you will make no effort to do
your duty as my wife?"

"I mean to tell you that I will not try to cure a headache by doing
sums. That is all that I mean to say at this moment. If you will
leave me for awhile, so that I may lie down, perhaps I shall be able
to come to dinner." He still hesitated, standing with the door in his
hand. "But if you go on scolding me," she continued, "what I shall
do is to go to bed directly you go away." He hesitated for a moment
longer, and then left the room without another word.




CHAPTER XXXIII

Mr. Slide's Grievance


Our hero was elected member for Loughton without any trouble to him
or, as far as he could see, to any one else. He made one speech from
a small raised booth that was called a platform, and that was all
that he was called upon to do. Mr. Grating made a speech in proposing
him, and Mr. Shortribs another in seconding him; and these were all
the speeches that were required. The thing seemed to be so very easy
that he was afterwards almost offended when he was told that the bill
for so insignificant a piece of work came to £247 13s. 9d. He had
seen no occasion for spending even the odd forty-seven pounds. But
then he was member for Loughton; and as he passed the evening alone
at the inn, having dined in company with Messrs. Grating, Shortribs,
and sundry other influential electors, he began to reflect that,
after all, it was not so very great a thing to be a member of
Parliament. It almost seemed that that which had come to him so
easily could not be of much value.

On the following day he went to the castle, and was there when the
Earl arrived. They two were alone together, and the Earl was very
kind to him. "So you had no opponent after all," said the great man
of Loughton, with a slight smile.

"Not the ghost of another candidate."

"I did not think there would be. They have tried it once or twice and
have always failed. There are only one or two in the place who like
to go one way just because their neighbours go the other. But, in
truth, there is no conservative feeling in the place!"

Phineas, although he was at the present moment the member for
Loughton himself, could not but enjoy the joke of this. Could there
be any liberal feeling in such a place, or, indeed, any political
feeling whatsoever? Would not Messrs. Grating and Shortribs have done
just the same had it happened that Lord Brentford had been a Tory
peer? "They all seemed to be very obliging," said Phineas, in answer
to the Earl.

"Yes, they are. There isn't a house in the town, you know, let
for longer than seven years, and most of them merely from year to
year. And, do you know, I haven't a farmer on the property with a
lease,--not one; and they don't want leases. They know they're safe.
But I do like the people round me to be of the same way of thinking
as myself about politics."

On the second day after dinner,--the last evening of Finn's visit to
Saulsby,--the Earl fell suddenly into a confidential conversation
about his daughter and his son, and about Violet Effingham. So
sudden, indeed, and so confidential was the conversation, that
Phineas was almost silenced for awhile. A word or two had been said
about Loughlinter, of the beauty of the place and of the vastness of
the property. "I am almost afraid," said Lord Brentford, "that Laura
is not happy there."

"I hope she is," said Phineas.

"He is so hard and dry, and what I call exacting. That is just the
word for it. Now Laura has never been used to that. With me she
always had her own way in everything, and I always found her fit
to have it. I do not understand why her husband should treat her
differently."

"Perhaps it is the temper of the man."

"Temper, yes; but what a bad prospect is that for her! And she, too,
has a temper, and so he will find if he tries her too far. I cannot
stand Loughlinter. I told Laura so fairly. It is one of those houses
in which a man cannot call his hours his own. I told Laura that I
could not undertake to remain there for above a day or two."

"It is very sad," said Phineas.

"Yes, indeed; it is sad for her, poor girl; and very sad for me too.
I have no one else but Laura,--literally no one; and now I am divided
from her! It seems that she has been taken as much away from me as
though her husband lived in China. I have lost them both now!"

"I hope not, my lord."

"I say I have. As to Chiltern, I can perceive that he becomes more
and more indifferent to me every day. He thinks of me only as a man
in his way who must die some day and may die soon."

"You wrong him, Lord Brentford."

"I do not wrong him at all. Why has he answered every offer I have
made him with so much insolence as to make it impossible for me to
put myself into further communion with him?"

"He thinks that you have wronged him."

"Yes;--because I have been unable to shut my eyes to his mode of
living. I was to go on paying his debts, and taking no other notice
whatsoever of his conduct!"

"I do not think he is in debt now."

"Because his sister the other day spent every shilling of her fortune
in paying them. She gave him £40,000! Do you think she would have
married Kennedy but for that? I don't. I could not prevent her. I had
said that I would not cripple my remaining years of life by raising
the money, and I could not go back from my word."

"You and Chiltern might raise the money between you."

"It would do no good now. She has married Mr. Kennedy, and the money
is nothing to her or to him. Chiltern might have put things right by
marrying Miss Effingham if he pleased."

"I think he did his best there."

"No;--he did his worst. He asked her to be his wife as a man asks for
a railway-ticket or a pair of gloves, which he buys with a price;
and because she would not jump into his mouth he gave it up. I don't
believe he even really wanted to marry her. I suppose he has some
disreputable connection to prevent it."

"Nothing of the kind. He would marry her to-morrow if he could. My
belief is that Miss Effingham is sincere in refusing him."

"I don't doubt her sincerity."

"And that she will never change."

"Ah, well; I don't agree with you, and I daresay I know them both
better than you do. But everything goes against me. I had set my
heart upon it, and therefore of course I shall be disappointed. What
is he going to do this autumn?"

"He is yachting now."

"And who are with him?"

"I think the boat belongs to Captain Colepepper."

"The greatest blackguard in all England! A man who shoots pigeons and
rides steeple-chases! And the worst of Chiltern is this, that even if
he didn't like the man, and if he were tired of this sort of life, he
would go on just the same because he thinks it a fine thing not to
give way." This was so true that Phineas did not dare to contradict
the statement, and therefore said nothing. "I had some faint hope,"
continued the Earl, "while Laura could always watch him; because, in
his way, he was fond of his sister. But that is all over now. She
will have enough to do to watch herself!"

Phineas had felt that the Earl had put him down rather sharply when
he had said that Violet would never accept Lord Chiltern, and he was
therefore not a little surprised when Lord Brentford spoke again of
Miss Effingham the following morning, holding in his hand a letter
which he had just received from her. "They are to be at Loughlinter
on the tenth," he said, "and she purposes to come here for a couple
of nights on her way."

"Lady Baldock and all?"

"Well, yes; Lady Baldock and all. I am not very fond of Lady Baldock,
but I will put up with her for a couple of days for the sake of
having Violet. She is more like a child of my own now than anybody
else. I shall not see her all the autumn afterwards. I cannot stand
Loughlinter."

"It will be better when the house is full."

"You will be there, I suppose?"

"Well, no; I think not," said Phineas.

"You have had enough of it, have you?" Phineas made no reply to this,
but smiled slightly. "By Jove, I don't wonder at it," said the Earl.
Phineas, who would have given all he had in the world to be staying
in the same country house with Violet Effingham, could not explain
how it had come to pass that he was obliged to absent himself. "I
suppose you were asked?" said the Earl.

"Oh, yes, I was asked. Nothing can be kinder than they are."

"Kennedy told me that you were coming as a matter of course."

"I explained to him after that," said Phineas, "that I should not
return. I shall go over to Ireland. I have a deal of hard reading to
do, and I can get through it there without interruption."

He went up from Saulsby to London on that day, and found himself
quite alone in Mrs. Bunce's lodgings. I mean not only that he was
alone at his lodgings, but he was alone at his club, and alone in the
streets. July was not quite over, and yet all the birds of passage
had migrated. Mr. Mildmay, by his short session, had half ruined the
London tradesmen, and had changed the summer mode of life of all
those who account themselves to be anybody. Phineas, as he sat alone
in his room, felt himself to be nobody. He had told the Earl that
he was going to Ireland, and to Ireland he must go;--because he had
nothing else to do. He had been asked indeed to join one or two
parties in their autumn plans. Mr. Monk had wanted him to go to the
Pyrenees, and Lord Chiltern had suggested that he should join the
yacht;--but neither plan suited him. It would have suited him to be
at Loughlinter with Violet Effingham, but Loughlinter was a barred
house to him. His old friend, Lady Laura, had told him not to come
thither, explaining, with sufficient clearness, her reasons for
excluding him from the number of her husband's guests. As he thought
of it the past scenes of his life became very marvellous to him.
Twelve months since he would have given all the world for a word of
love from Lady Laura, and had barely dared to hope that such a word,
at some future day, might possibly be spoken. Now such a word had in
truth been spoken, and it had come to be simply a trouble to him. She
had owned to him,--for, in truth, such had been the meaning of her
warning to him,--that, though she had married another man, she had
loved and did love him. But in thinking of this he took no pride in
it. It was not till he had thought of it long that he began to ask
himself whether he might not be justified in gathering from what
happened some hope that Violet also might learn to love him. He had
thought so little of himself as to have been afraid at first to press
his suit with Lady Laura. Might he not venture to think more of
himself, having learned how far he had succeeded?

But how was he to get at Violet Effingham? From the moment at which
he had left Saulsby he had been angry with himself for not having
asked Lord Brentford to allow him to remain there till after the
Baldock party should have gone on to Loughlinter. The Earl, who was
very lonely in his house, would have consented at once. Phineas,
indeed, was driven to confess to himself that success with Violet
would at once have put an end to all his friendship with Lord
Brentford;--as also to all his friendship with Lord Chiltern. He
would, in such case, be bound in honour to vacate his seat and give
back Loughton to his offended patron. But he would have given up much
more than his seat for Violet Effingham! At present, however, he had
no means of getting at her to ask her the question. He could hardly
go to Loughlinter in opposition to the wishes of Lady Laura.

A little adventure happened to him in London which somewhat relieved
the dulness of the days of the first week in August. He remained in
London till the middle of August, half resolving to rush down to
Saulsby when Violet Effingham should be there,--endeavouring to
find some excuse for such a proceeding, but racking his brains in
vain,--and then there came about his little adventure. The adventure
was commenced by the receipt of the following letter:--


   Banner of the People Office,
   3rd August, 186--.

   MY DEAR FINN,

   I must say I think you have treated me badly, and without
   that sort of brotherly fairness which we on the public
   press expect from one another. However, perhaps we can
   come to an understanding, and if so, things may yet go
   smoothly. Give me a turn and I am not at all adverse to
   give you one. Will you come to me here, or shall I call
   upon you?

   Yours always, Q. S.


Phineas was not only surprised, but disgusted also, at the receipt
of this letter. He could not imagine what was the deed by which he
had offended Mr. Slide. He thought over all the circumstances of
his short connection with the _People's Banner_, but could remember
nothing which might have created offence. But his disgust was greater
than his surprise. He thought that he had done nothing and said
nothing to justify Quintus Slide in calling him "dear Finn." He,
who had Lady Laura's secret in his keeping; he who hoped to be the
possessor of Violet Effingham's affections,--he to be called "dear
Finn" by such a one as Quintus Slide! He soon made up his mind that
he would not answer the note, but would go at once to the _People's
Banner_ office at the hour at which Quintus Slide was always there.
He certainly would not write to "dear Slide;" and, until he had heard
something more of this cause of offence, he would not make an enemy
for ever by calling the man "dear Sir." He went to the office of the
_People's Banner_, and found Mr. Slide ensconced in a little glass
cupboard, writing an article for the next day's copy.

"I suppose you're very busy," said Phineas, inserting himself with
some difficulty on to a little stool in the corner of the cupboard.

"Not so particular but what I'm glad to see you. You shoot, don't
you?"

"Shoot!" said Phineas. It could not be possible that Mr. Slide was
intending, after this abrupt fashion, to propose a duel with pistols.

"Grouse and pheasants, and them sort of things?" asked Mr. Slide.

"Oh, ah; I understand. Yes, I shoot sometimes."

"Is it the 12th or 20th for grouse in Scotland?"

"The 12th," said Phineas. "What makes you ask that just now?"

"I'm doing a letter about it,--advising men not to shoot too many of
the young birds, and showing that they'll have none next year if they
do. I had a fellow here just now who knew all about it, and he put
down a lot; but I forgot to make him tell me the day of beginning.
What's a good place to date from?"

Phineas suggested Callender or Stirling.

"Stirling's too much of a town, isn't it? Callender sounds better for
game, I think."

So the letter which was to save the young grouse was dated from
Callender; and Mr. Quintus Slide having written the word, threw down
his pen, came off his stool, and rushed at once at his subject.

"Well, now, Finn," he said, "don't you know that you've treated me
badly about Loughton?"

"Treated you badly about Loughton!" Phineas, as he repeated the
words, was quite in the dark as to Mr. Slide's meaning. Did Mr. Slide
intend to convey a reproach because Phineas had not personally sent
some tidings of the election to the _People's Banner_?

"Very badly," said Mr. Slide, with his arms akimbo,--"very badly
indeed! Men on the press together do expect that they're to be
stuck by, and not thrown over. Damn it, I say; what's the good of a
brotherhood if it ain't to be brotherhood?"

"Upon my word, I don't know what you mean," said Phineas.

"Didn't I tell you that I had Loughton in my heye?" said Quintus.

"Oh--h!"

"It's very well to say ho, and look guilty, but didn't I tell you?"

"I never heard such nonsense in my life."

"Nonsense?"

"How on earth could you have stood for Loughton? What interest would
you have there? You could not even have found an elector to propose
you."

"Now, I'll tell you what I'll do, Finn. I think you have thrown
me over most shabby, but I won't stand about that. You shall have
Loughton this session if you'll promise to make way for me after the
next election. If you'll agree to that, we'll have a special leader
to say how well Lord What's-his-name has done with the borough; and
we'll be your horgan through the whole session."

"I never heard such nonsense in my life. In the first place, Loughton
is safe to be in the schedule of reduced boroughs. It will be thrown
into the county, or joined with a group."

"I'll stand the chance of that. Will you agree?"

"Agree! No! It's the most absurd proposal that was ever made. You
might as well ask me whether I would agree that you should go to
heaven. Go to heaven if you can, I should say. I have not the
slightest objection. But it's nothing to me."

"Very well," said Quintus Slide. "Very well! Now we understand each
other, and that's all that I desire. I think that I can show you what
it is to come among gentlemen of the press, and then to throw them
over. Good morning."

Phineas, quite satisfied at the result of the interview as regarded
himself, and by no means sorry that there should have arisen a
cause of separation between Mr. Quintus Slide and his "dear Finn,"
shook off a little dust from his foot as he left the office of the
_People's Banner_, and resolved that in future he would attempt to
make no connection in that direction. As he returned home he told
himself that a member of Parliament should be altogether independent
of the press. On the second morning after his meeting with his late
friend, he saw the result of his independence. There was a startling
article, a tremendous article, showing the pressing necessity of
immediate reform, and proving the necessity by an illustration of
the borough-mongering rottenness of the present system. When such
a patron as Lord Brentford,--himself a Cabinet Minister with a
sinecure,--could by his mere word put into the House such a stick as
Phineas Finn,--a man who had struggled to stand on his legs before
the Speaker, but had wanted both the courage and the capacity,
nothing further could surely be wanted to prove that the Reform Bill
of 1832 required to be supplemented by some more energetic measure.

Phineas laughed as he read the article, and declared to himself that
the joke was a good joke. But, nevertheless, he suffered. Mr. Quintus
Slide, when he was really anxious to use his thong earnestly, could
generally raise a wale.




CHAPTER XXXIV

Was He Honest?


On the 10th of August, Phineas Finn did return to Loughton. He went
down by the mail train on the night of the 10th, having telegraphed
to the inn for a bed, and was up eating his breakfast in that
hospitable house at nine o'clock. The landlord and landlady with all
their staff were at a loss to imagine what had brought down their
member again so quickly to his borough; but the reader, who will
remember that Lady Baldock with her daughter and Violet Effingham
were to pass the 11th of the month at Saulsby, may perhaps be able
to make a guess on the subject.

Phineas had been thinking of making this sudden visit to Loughton
ever since he had been up in town, but he could suggest to himself no
reason to be given to Lord Brentford for his sudden reappearance. The
Earl had been very kind to him, but he had said nothing which could
justify his young friend in running in and out of Saulsby Castle at
pleasure, without invitation and without notice. Phineas was so well
aware of this himself that often as he had half resolved during the
last ten days to return to Saulsby, so often had he determined that
he could not do so. He could think of no excuse. Then the heavens
favoured him, and he received a letter from Lord Chiltern, in which
there was a message for Lord Brentford. "If you see my father, tell
him that I am ready at any moment to do what is necessary for raising
the money for Laura." Taking this as his excuse he returned to
Loughton.

As chance arranged it, he met the Earl standing on the great steps
before his own castle doors. "What, Finn; is this you? I thought you
were in Ireland."

"Not yet, my lord, as you see." Then he opened his budget at once,
and blushed at his own hypocrisy as he went on with his story. He
had, he said, felt the message from Chiltern to be so all-important
that he could not bring himself to go over to Ireland without
delivering it. He urged upon the Earl that he might learn from this
how anxious Lord Chiltern was to effect a reconciliation. When
it occurred to him, he said, that there might be a hope of doing
anything towards such an object, he could not go to Ireland leaving
the good work behind him. In love and war all things are fair. So he
declared to himself; but as he did so he felt that his story was so
weak that it would hardly gain for him an admittance into the Castle.
In this he was completely wrong. The Earl, swallowing the bait, put
his arm through that of the intruder, and, walking with him through
the paths of the shrubbery, at length confessed that he would be glad
to be reconciled to his son if it were possible. "Let him come here,
and she shall be here also," said the Earl, speaking of Violet. To
this Phineas could say nothing out loud, but he told himself that all
should be fair between them. He would take no dishonest advantage of
Lord Chiltern. He would give Lord Chiltern the whole message as it
was given to him by Lord Brentford. But should it so turn out that he
himself got an opportunity of saying to Violet all that he had come
to say, and should it also turn out,--an event which he acknowledged
to himself to be most unlikely,--that Violet did not reject him, then
how could he write his letter to Lord Chiltern? So he resolved that
the letter should be written before he saw Violet. But how could he
write such a letter and instantly afterwards do that which would
be false to the spirit of a letter so written? Could he bid Lord
Chiltern come home to woo Violet Effingham, and instantly go forth
to woo her for himself? He found that he could not do so,--unless he
told the whole truth to Lord Chiltern. In no other way could he carry
out his project and satisfy his own idea of what was honest.

The Earl bade him send to the hotel for his things. "The Baldock
people are all here, you know, but they go very early to-morrow."
Then Phineas declared that he also must return to London very early
on the morrow;--but in the meantime he would go to the inn and fetch
his things. The Earl thanked him again and again for his generous
kindness; and Phineas, blushing as he received the thanks, went back
and wrote his letter to Lord Chiltern. It was an elaborate letter,
written, as regards the first and larger portion of it, with words
intended to bring the prodigal son back to the father's home. And
everything was said about Miss Effingham that could or should have
been said. Then, on the last page, he told his own story. "Now," he
said, "I must speak of myself:"--and he went on to explain to his
friend, in the plainest language that he could use, his own position.
"I have loved her," he said, "for six months, and I am here with
the express intention of asking her to take me. The chances are ten
to one that she refuses me. I do not deprecate your anger,--if you
choose to be angry. But I am endeavouring to treat you well, and I
ask you to do the same by me. I must convey to you your father's
message, and after doing so I cannot address myself to Miss Effingham
without telling you. I should feel myself to be false were I to do
so. In the event,--the probable, nay, almost certain event of my
being refused,--I shall trust you to keep my secret. Do not quarrel
with me if you can help it;--but if you must I will be ready." Then
he posted the letter and went up to the Castle.

He had only the one day for his action, and he knew that Violet was
watched by Lady Baldock as by a dragon. He was told that the Earl
was out with the young ladies, and was shown to his room. On going
to the drawing-room he found Lady Baldock, with whom he had been,
to a certain degree, a favourite, and was soon deeply engaged in
a conversation as to the practicability of shutting up all the
breweries and distilleries by Act of Parliament. But lunch relieved
him, and brought the young ladies in at two. Miss Effingham seemed
to be really glad to see him, and even Miss Boreham, Lady Baldock's
daughter, was very gracious to him. For the Earl had been speaking
well of his young member, and Phineas had in a way grown into the
good graces of sober and discreet people. After lunch they were to
ride;--the Earl, that is, and Violet. Lady Baldock and her daughter
were to have the carriage. "I can mount you, Finn, if you would like
it," said the Earl. "Of course he'll like it," said Violet; "do you
suppose Mr. Finn will object to ride with me in Saulsby Woods? It
won't be the first time, will it?" "Violet," said Lady Baldock, "you
have the most singular way of talking." "I suppose I have," said
Violet; "but I don't think I can change it now. Mr. Finn knows me too
well to mind it much."

It was past five before they were on horseback, and up to that time
Phineas had not found himself alone with Violet Effingham for a
moment. They had sat together after lunch in the dining-room for
nearly an hour, and had sauntered into the hall and knocked about
the billiard balls, and then stood together at the open doors of a
conservatory. But Lady Baldock or Miss Boreham had always been there.
Nothing could be more pleasant than Miss Effingham's words, or more
familiar than her manner to Phineas. She had expressed strong delight
at his success in getting a seat in Parliament, and had talked to him
about the Kennedys as though they had created some special bond of
union between her and Phineas which ought to make them intimate. But,
for all that, she could not be got to separate herself from Lady
Baldock;--and when she was told that if she meant to ride she must go
and dress herself, she went at once.

But he thought that he might have a chance on horseback; and after
they had been out about half an hour, chance did favour him. For
awhile he rode behind with the carriage, calculating that by his so
doing the Earl would be put off his guard, and would be disposed
after awhile to change places with him. And so it fell out. At a
certain fall of ground in the park, where the road turned round and
crossed a bridge over the little river, the carriage came up with the
first two horses, and Lady Baldock spoke a word to the Earl. Then
Violet pulled up, allowing the vehicle to pass the bridge first, and
in this way she and Phineas were brought together,--and in this way
they rode on. But he was aware that he must greatly increase the
distance between them and the others of their party before he could
dare to plead his suit, and even were that done he felt that he would
not know how to plead it on horseback.

They had gone on some half mile in this way when they reached a spot
on which a green ride led away from the main road through the trees
to the left. "You remember this place, do you not?" said Violet.
Phineas declared that he remembered it well. "I must go round by the
woodman's cottage. You won't mind coming?" Phineas said that he would
not mind, and trotted on to tell them in the carriage.

"Where is she going?" asked Lady Baldock; and then, when Phineas
explained, she begged the Earl to go back to Violet. The Earl,
feeling the absurdity of this, declared that Violet knew her way very
well herself, and thus Phineas got his opportunity.

They rode on almost without speaking for nearly a mile, cantering
through the trees, and then they took another turn to the right, and
came upon the cottage. They rode to the door, and spoke a word or two
to the woman there, and then passed on. "I always come here when I am
at Saulsby," said Violet, "that I may teach myself to think kindly of
Lord Chiltern."

"I understand it all," said Phineas.

"He used to be so nice;--and is so still, I believe, only that he has
taught himself to be so rough. Will he ever change, do you think?"

Phineas knew that in this emergency it was his especial duty to be
honest. "I think he would be changed altogether if we could bring him
here,--so that he should live among his friends."

"Do you think he would? We must put our heads together, and do it.
Don't you think that it is to be done?"

Phineas replied that he thought it was to be done. "I'll tell you the
truth at once, Miss Effingham," he said. "You can do it by a single
word."

"Yes;--yes;" she said; "but I do not mean that;--without that. It
is absurd, you know, that a father should make such a condition as
that." Phineas said that he thought it was absurd; and then they rode
on again, cantering through the wood. He had been bold to speak to
her about Lord Chiltern as he had done, and she had answered just as
he would have wished to be answered. But how could he press his suit
for himself while she was cantering by his side?

Presently they came to rough ground over which they were forced to
walk, and he was close by her side. "Mr. Finn," she said, "I wonder
whether I may ask a question?"

"Any question," he replied.

"Is there any quarrel between you and Lady Laura?"

"None."

"Or between you and him?"

"No;--none. We are greater allies than ever."

"Then why are you not going to be at Loughlinter? She has written to
me expressly saying you would not be there."

He paused a moment before he replied. "It did not suit," he said at
last.

"It is a secret then?"

"Yes;--it is a secret. You are not angry with me?"

"Angry; no."

"It is not a secret of my own, or I should not keep it from you."

"Perhaps I can guess it," she said. "But I will not try. I will not
even think of it."

"The cause, whatever it be, has been full of sorrow to me. I would
have given my left hand to have been at Loughlinter this autumn."

"Are you so fond of it?"

"I should have been staying there with you," he said. He paused, and
for a moment there was no word spoken by either of them; but he could
perceive that the hand in which she held her whip was playing with
her horse's mane with a nervous movement. "When I found how it must
be, and that I must miss you, I rushed down here that I might see
you for a moment. And now I am here I do not dare to speak to you of
myself." They were now beyond the rocks, and Violet, without speaking
a word, again put her horse into a trot. He was by her side in a
moment, but he could not see her face. "Have you not a word to say to
me?" he asked.

"No;--no;--no;" she replied, "not a word when you speak to me like
that. There is the carriage. Come;--we will join them." Then she
cantered on, and he followed her till they reached the Earl and Lady
Baldock and Miss Boreham. "I have done my devotions now," said Miss
Effingham, "and am ready to return to ordinary life."

Phineas could not find another moment in which to speak to her.
Though he spent the evening with her, and stood over her as she sang
at the Earl's request, and pressed her hand as she went to bed, and
was up to see her start in the morning, he could not draw from her
either a word or a look.




CHAPTER XXXV

Mr. Monk upon Reform


Phineas Finn went to Ireland immediately after his return from
Saulsby, having said nothing further to Violet Effingham, and having
heard nothing further from her than what is recorded in the last
chapter. He felt very keenly that his position was unsatisfactory,
and brooded over it all the autumn and early winter; but he could
form no plan for improving it. A dozen times he thought of writing
to Miss Effingham, and asking for an explicit answer. He could not,
however, bring himself to write the letter, thinking that written
expressions of love are always weak and vapid,--and deterred also
by a conviction that Violet, if driven to reply in writing, would
undoubtedly reply by a refusal. Fifty times he rode again in his
imagination his ride in Saulsby Wood, and he told himself as often
that the syren's answer to him,--her no, no, no,--had been, of all
possible answers, the most indefinite and provoking. The tone of her
voice as she galloped away from him, the bearing of her countenance
when he rejoined her, her manner to him when he saw her start from
the Castle in the morning, all forbade him to believe that his words
to her had been taken as an offence. She had replied to him with a
direct negative, simply with the word "no;" but she had so said it
that there had hardly been any sting in the no; and he had known at
the moment that whatever might be the result of his suit, he need not
regard Violet Effingham as his enemy.

But the doubt made his sojourn in Ireland very wearisome to him.
And there were other matters which tended also to his discomfort,
though he was not left even at this period of his life without a
continuation of success which seemed to be very wonderful. And,
first, I will say a word of his discomfort. He heard not a line from
Lord Chiltern in answer to the letter which he had written to his
lordship. From Lady Laura he did hear frequently. Lady Laura wrote to
him exactly as though she had never warned him away from Loughlinter,
and as though there had been no occasion for such warning. She sent
him letters filled chiefly with politics, saying something also of
the guests at Loughlinter, something of the game, and just a word
or two here and there of her husband. The letters were very good
letters, and he preserved them carefully. It was manifest to him that
they were intended to be good letters, and, as such, to be preserved.
In one of these, which he received about the end of November,
she told him that her brother was again in his old haunt, at the
Willingford Bull, and that he had sent to Portman Square for all
property of his own that had been left there. But there was no word
in that letter of Violet Effingham; and though Lady Laura did speak
more than once of Violet, she always did so as though Violet were
simply a joint acquaintance of herself and her correspondent. There
was no allusion to the existence of any special regard on his part
for Miss Effingham. He had thought that Violet might probably tell
her friend what had occurred at Saulsby;--but if she did so, Lady
Laura was happy in her powers of reticence. Our hero was disturbed
also when he reached home by finding that Mrs. Flood Jones and Miss
Flood Jones had retired from Killaloe for the winter. I do not know
whether he might not have been more disturbed by the presence of the
young lady, for he would have found himself constrained to exhibit
towards her some tenderness of manner; and any such tenderness of
manner would, in his existing circumstances, have been dangerous. But
he was made to understand that Mary Flood Jones had been taken away
from Killaloe because it was thought that he had ill-treated the
lady, and the accusation made him unhappy. In the middle of the heat
of the last session he had received a letter from his sister, in
which some pushing question had been asked as to his then existing
feeling about poor Mary. This he had answered petulantly. Nothing
more had been written to him about Miss Jones, and nothing was said
to him when he reached home. He could not, however, but ask after
Mary, and when he did ask, the accusation was made again in that
quietly severe manner with which, perhaps, most of us have been made
acquainted at some period of our lives. "I think, Phineas," said his
sister, "we had better say nothing about dear Mary. She is not here
at present, and probably you may not see her while you remain with
us." "What's all that about?" Phineas had demanded,--understanding
the whole matter thoroughly. Then his sister had demurely refused to
say a word further on the subject, and not a word further was said
about Miss Mary Flood Jones. They were at Floodborough, living, he
did not doubt, in a very desolate way,--and quite willing, he did not
doubt also, to abandon their desolation if he would go over there in
the manner that would become him after what had passed on one or two
occasions between him and the young lady. But how was he to do this
with such work on his hands as he had undertaken? Now that he was in
Ireland, he thought that he did love dear Mary very dearly. He felt
that he had two identities,--that he was, as it were, two separate
persons,--and that he could, without any real faithlessness, be very
much in love with Violet Effingham in his position of man of fashion
and member of Parliament in England, and also warmly attached to dear
little Mary Flood Jones as an Irishman of Killaloe. He was aware,
however, that there was a prejudice against such fulness of heart,
and, therefore, resolved sternly that it was his duty to be constant
to Miss Effingham. How was it possible that he should marry dear
Mary,--he, with such extensive jobs of work on his hands! It was not
possible. He must abandon all thought of making dear Mary his own. No
doubt they had been right to remove her. But, still, as he took his
solitary walks along the Shannon, and up on the hills that overhung
the lake above the town, he felt somewhat ashamed of himself, and
dreamed of giving up Parliament, of leaving Violet to some noble
suitor,--to Lord Chiltern, if she would take him,--and of going to
Floodborough with an honest proposal that he should be allowed to
press Mary to his heart. Miss Effingham would probably reject him
at last; whereas Mary, dear Mary, would come to his heart without
a scruple of doubt. Dear Mary! In these days of dreaming, he told
himself that, after all, dear Mary was his real love. But, of course,
such days were days of dreaming only. He had letters in his pocket
from Lady Laura Kennedy which made it impossible for him to think in
earnest of giving up Parliament.

And then there came a wonderful piece of luck in his way. There
lived, or had lived, in the town of Galway a very eccentric old lady,
one Miss Marian Persse, who was the aunt of Mrs. Finn, the mother
of our hero. With this lady Dr. Finn had quarrelled persistently
ever since his marriage, because the lady had expressed her wish to
interfere in the management of his family,--offering to purchase such
right by favourable arrangements in reference to her will. This the
doctor had resented, and there had been quarrels. Miss Persse was not
a very rich old lady, but she thought a good deal of her own money.
And now she died, leaving £3,000 to her nephew Phineas Finn. Another
sum of about equal amount she bequeathed to a Roman Catholic
seminary; and thus was her worldly wealth divided. "She couldn't
have done better with it," said the old doctor; "and as far as we
are concerned, the windfall is the more pleasant as being wholly
unexpected." In these days the doctor was undoubtedly gratified by
his son's success in life, and never said much about the law. Phineas
in truth did do some work during the autumn, reading blue-books,
reading law books, reading perhaps a novel or two at the same
time,--but shutting himself up very carefully as he studied, so that
his sisters were made to understand that for a certain four hours in
the day not a sound was to be allowed to disturb him.

On the receipt of his legacy he at once offered to repay his father
all money that had been advanced him over and above his original
allowance; but this the doctor refused to take. "It comes to the same
thing, Phineas," he said. "What you have of your share now you can't
have hereafter. As regards my present income, it has only made me
work a little longer than I had intended; and I believe that the
later in life a man works, the more likely he is to live." Phineas,
therefore, when he returned to London, had his £3,000 in his pocket.
He owed some £500; and the remainder he would, of course, invest.

There had been some talk of an autumnal session, but Mr. Mildmay's
decision had at last been against it. Who cannot understand that such
would be the decision of any Minister to whom was left the slightest
fraction of free will in the matter? Why should any Minister court
the danger of unnecessary attack, submit himself to unnecessary work,
and incur the odium of summoning all his friends from their rest?
In the midst of the doubts as to the new and old Ministry, when
the political needle was vacillating so tremulously on its pivot,
pointing now to one set of men as the coming Government and then to
another, vague suggestions as to an autumn session might be useful.
And they were thrown out in all good faith. Mr. Mildmay, when he
spoke on the subject to the Duke, was earnest in thinking that the
question of Reform should not be postponed even for six months.
"Don't pledge yourself," said the Duke;--and Mr. Mildmay did not
pledge himself. Afterwards, when Mr. Mildmay found that he was
once more assuredly Prime Minister, he changed his mind, and felt
himself to be under a fresh obligation to the Duke. Lord de Terrier
had altogether failed, and the country might very well wait till
February. The country did wait till February, somewhat to the
disappointment of Phineas Finn, who had become tired of blue-books
at Killaloe. The difference between his English life and his life at
home was so great, that it was hardly possible that he should not
become weary of the latter. He did become weary of it, but strove
gallantly to hide his weariness from his father and mother.

At this time the world was talking much about Reform, though Mr.
Mildmay had become placidly patient. The feeling was growing, and
Mr. Turnbull, with his friends, was doing all he could to make it
grow fast. There was a certain amount of excitement on the subject;
but the excitement had grown downwards, from the leaders to the
people,--from the self-instituted leaders of popular politics down,
by means of the press, to the ranks of working men, instead of
growing upwards, from the dissatisfaction of the masses, till it
expressed itself by this mouthpiece and that, chosen by the people
themselves. There was no strong throb through the country, making
men feel that safety was to be had by Reform, and could not be had
without Reform. But there was an understanding that the press and the
orators were too strong to be ignored, and that some new measure of
Reform must be conceded to them. The sooner the concession was made,
the less it might be necessary to concede. And all men of all parties
were agreed on this point. That Reform was in itself odious to many
of those who spoke of it freely, who offered themselves willingly to
be its promoters, was acknowledged. It was not only odious to Lord de
Terrier and to most of those who worked with him, but was equally so
to many of Mr. Mildmay's most constant supporters. The Duke had no
wish for Reform. Indeed it is hard to suppose that such a Duke can
wish for any change in a state of things that must seem to him to be
so salutary. Workmen were getting full wages. Farmers were paying
their rent. Capitalists by the dozen were creating capitalists by the
hundreds. Nothing was wrong in the country, but the over-dominant
spirit of speculative commerce;--and there was nothing in Reform to
check that. Why should the Duke want Reform? As for such men as Lord
Brentford, Sir Harry Coldfoot, Lord Plinlimmon, and Mr. Legge Wilson,
it was known to all men that they advocated Reform as we all of us
advocate doctors. Some amount of doctoring is necessary for us. We
may hardly hope to avoid it. But let us have as little of the doctor
as possible. Mr. Turnbull, and the cheap press, and the rising spirit
of the loudest among the people, made it manifest that something must
be conceded. Let us be generous in our concession. That was now the
doctrine of many,--perhaps of most of the leading politicians of the
day. Let us be generous. Let us at any rate seem to be generous. Let
us give with an open hand,--but still with a hand which, though open,
shall not bestow too much. The coach must be allowed to run down the
hill. Indeed, unless the coach goes on running no journey will be
made. But let us have the drag on both the hind wheels. And we must
remember that coaches running down hill without drags are apt to come
to serious misfortune.

But there were men, even in the Cabinet, who had other ideas of
public service than that of dragging the wheels of the coach. Mr.
Gresham was in earnest. Plantagenet Palliser was in earnest. That
exceedingly intelligent young nobleman Lord Cantrip was in earnest.
Mr. Mildmay threw, perhaps, as much of earnestness into the matter
as was compatible with his age and his full appreciation of the
manner in which the present cry for Reform had been aroused. He was
thoroughly honest, thoroughly patriotic, and thoroughly ambitious
that he should be written of hereafter as one who to the end of a
long life had worked sedulously for the welfare of the people;--but
he disbelieved in Mr. Turnbull, and in the bottom of his heart
indulged an aristocratic contempt for the penny press. And there was
no man in England more in earnest, more truly desirous of Reform,
than Mr. Monk. It was his great political idea that political
advantages should be extended to the people, whether the people
clamoured for them or did not clamour for them,--even whether they
desired them or did not desire them. "You do not ask a child whether
he would like to learn his lesson," he would say. "At any rate, you
do not wait till he cries for his book." When, therefore, men said to
him that there was no earnestness in the cry for Reform, that the cry
was a false cry, got up for factious purposes by interested persons,
he would reply that the thing to be done should not be done in
obedience to any cry, but because it was demanded by justice, and was
a debt due to the people.

Our hero in the autumn had written to Mr. Monk on the politics of the
moment, and the following had been Mr. Monk's reply:--


   Longroyston, October 12, 186--.

   MY DEAR FINN,

   I am staying here with the Duke and Duchess of St.
   Bungay. The house is very full, and Mr. Mildmay was
   here last week; but as I don't shoot, and can't play
   billiards, and have no taste for charades, I am becoming
   tired of the gaieties, and shall leave them to-morrow.
   Of course you know that we are not to have the autumn
   session. I think that Mr. Mildmay is right. Could we have
   been sure of passing our measure, it would have been very
   well; but we could not have been sure, and failure with
   our bill in a session convened for the express purpose of
   passing it would have injured the cause greatly. We could
   hardly have gone on with it again in the spring. Indeed,
   we must have resigned. And though I may truly say that I
   would as lief have a good measure from Lord de Terrier
   as from Mr. Mildmay, and that I am indifferent to my own
   present personal position, still I think that we should
   endeavour to keep our seats as long as we honestly
   believe ourselves to be more capable of passing a good
   measure than are our opponents.

   I am astonished by the difference of opinion which
   exists about Reform,--not only as to the difference in
   the extent and exact tendency of the measure that is
   needed,--but that there should be such a divergence of
   ideas as to the grand thing to be done and the grand
   reason for doing it. We are all agreed that we want
   Reform in order that the House of Commons may be returned
   by a larger proportion of the people than is at present
   employed upon that work, and that each member when
   returned should represent a somewhat more equal section
   of the whole constituencies of the country than our
   members generally do at present. All men confess that a
   £50 county franchise must be too high, and that a borough
   with less than two hundred registered voters must be
   wrong. But it seems to me that but few among us perceive,
   or at any rate acknowledge, the real reasons for changing
   these things and reforming what is wrong without delay.
   One great authority told us the other day that the sole
   object of legislation on this subject should be to get
   together the best possible 658 members of Parliament.
   That to me would be a most repulsive idea if it were
   not that by its very vagueness it becomes inoperative.
   Who shall say what is best; or what characteristic
   constitutes excellence in a member of Parliament? If
   the gentleman means excellence in general wisdom, or
   in statecraft, or in skill in talking, or in private
   character, or even excellence in patriotism, then I say
   that he is utterly wrong, and has never touched with
   his intellect the true theory of representation. One
   only excellence may be acknowledged, and that is the
   excellence of likeness. As a portrait should be like the
   person portrayed, so should a representative House be
   like the people whom it represents. Nor in arranging
   a franchise does it seem to me that we have a right
   to regard any other view. If a country be unfit for
   representative government,--and it may be that there are
   still peoples unable to use properly that greatest of
   all blessings,--the question as to what state policy may
   be best for them is a different question. But if we do
   have representation, let the representative assembly be
   like the people, whatever else may be its virtues,--and
   whatever else its vices.

   Another great authority has told us that our House of
   Commons should be the mirror of the people. I say, not
   its mirror, but its miniature. And let the artist be
   careful to put in every line of the expression of that
   ever-moving face. To do this is a great work, and the
   artist must know his trade well. In America the work has
   been done with so coarse a hand that nothing is shown
   in the picture but the broad, plain, unspeaking outline
   of the face. As you look from the represented to the
   representation you cannot but acknowledge the likeness;
   --but there is in that portrait more of the body than of
   the mind. The true portrait should represent more than
   the body. With us, hitherto, there have been snatches
   of the countenance of the nation which have been
   inimitable,--a turn of the eye here and a curl of the lip
   there, which have seemed to denote a power almost divine.
   There have been marvels on the canvas so beautiful that
   one approaches the work of remodelling it with awe.
   But not only is the picture imperfect,--a thing of
   snatches,--but with years it becomes less and still less
   like its original.

   The necessity for remodelling it is imperative, and we
   shall be cowards if we decline the work. But let us be
   specially careful to retain as much as possible of those
   lines which we all acknowledge to be so faithfully
   representative of our nation. To give to a bare numerical
   majority of the people that power which the numerical
   majority has in the United States, would not be to
   achieve representation. The nation as it now exists would
   not be known by such a portrait;--but neither can it
   now be known by that which exists. It seems to me that
   they who are adverse to change, looking back with an
   unmeasured respect on what our old Parliaments have done
   for us, ignore the majestic growth of the English people,
   and forget the present in their worship of the past. They
   think that we must be what we were,--at any rate, what
   we were thirty years since. They have not, perhaps, gone
   into the houses of artisans, or, if there, they have not
   looked into the breasts of the men. With population vice
   has increased, and these politicians, with ears but
   no eyes, hear of drunkenness and sin and ignorance.
   And then they declare to themselves that this wicked,
   half-barbarous, idle people should be controlled and not
   represented. A wicked, half-barbarous, idle people may be
   controlled;--but not a people thoughtful, educated, and
   industrious. We must look to it that we do not endeavour
   to carry our control beyond the wickedness and the
   barbarity, and that we be ready to submit to control from
   thoughtfulness and industry.

   I hope we shall find you helping at the good work early
   in the spring.

   Yours, always faithfully,

   JOSHUA MONK.


Phineas was up in London before the end of January, but did not find
there many of those whom he wished to see. Mr. Low was there, and to
him he showed Mr. Monk's letter, thinking that it must be convincing
even to Mr. Low. This he did in Mrs. Low's drawing-room, knowing that
Mrs. Low would also condescend to discuss politics on an occasion.
He had dined with them, and they had been glad to see him, and Mrs.
Low had been less severe than hitherto against the great sin of her
husband's late pupil. She had condescended to congratulate him on
becoming member for an English borough instead of an Irish one, and
had asked him questions about Saulsby Castle. But, nevertheless, Mr.
Monk's letter was not received with that respectful admiration which
Phineas thought that it deserved. Phineas, foolishly, had read it
out loud, so that the attack came upon him simultaneously from the
husband and from the wife.

"It is just the usual claptrap," said Mr. Low, "only put into
language somewhat more grandiloquent than usual."

"Claptrap!" said Phineas.

"It's what I call downright Radical nonsense," said Mrs. Low, nodding
her head energetically. "Portrait indeed! Why should we want to have
a portrait of ignorance and ugliness? What we all want is to have
things quiet and orderly."

"Then you'd better have a paternal government at once," said Phineas.

"Just so," said Mr. Low,--"only that what you call a paternal
government is not always quiet and orderly. National order I take to
be submission to the law. I should not think it quiet and orderly if
I were sent to Cayenne without being brought before a jury."

"But such a man as you would not be sent to Cayenne," said Phineas,

"My next-door neighbour might be,--which would be almost as bad. Let
him be sent to Cayenne if he deserves it, but let a jury say that
he has deserved it. My idea of government is this,--that we want
to be governed by law and not by caprice, and that we must have a
legislature to make our laws. If I thought that Parliament as at
present established made the laws badly, I would desire a change;
but I doubt whether we shall have them better from any change in
Parliament which Reform will give us."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Low. "But we shall have a lot of beggars
put on horseback, and we all know where they ride to."

Then Phineas became aware that it is not easy to convince any man or
any woman on a point of politics,--not even though he who argues may
have an eloquent letter from a philosophical Cabinet Minister in his
pocket to assist him.




CHAPTER XXXVI

Phineas Finn Makes Progress


February was far advanced and the new Reform Bill had already been
brought forward, before Lady Laura Kennedy came up to town. Phineas
had of course seen Mr. Kennedy and had heard from him tidings of
his wife. She was at Saulsby with Lady Baldock and Miss Boreham and
Violet Effingham, but was to be in London soon. Mr. Kennedy, as it
appeared, did not quite know when he was to expect his wife; and
Phineas thought that he could perceive from the tone of the husband's
voice that something was amiss. He could not however ask any
questions excepting such as referred to the expected arrival. Was
Miss Effingham to come to London with Lady Laura? Mr. Kennedy
believed that Miss Effingham would be up before Easter, but he did
not know whether she would come with his wife. "Women," he said, "are
so fond of mystery that one can never quite know what they intend to
do." He corrected himself at once however, perceiving that he had
seemed to say something against his wife, and explained that his
general accusation against the sex was not intended to apply to
Lady Laura. This, however, he did so awkwardly as to strengthen
the feeling with Phineas that something assuredly was wrong. "Miss
Effingham," said Mr. Kennedy, "never seems to know her own mind."
"I suppose she is like other beautiful girls who are petted on all
sides," said Phineas. "As for her beauty, I don't think much of it,"
said Mr. Kennedy; "and as for petting, I do not understand it in
reference to grown persons. Children may be petted, and dogs,--though
that too is bad; but what you call petting for grown persons is I
think frivolous and almost indecent." Phineas could not help thinking
of Lord Chiltern's opinion that it would have been wise to have left
Mr. Kennedy in the hands of the garrotters.

The debate on the second reading of the bill was to be commenced
on the 1st of March, and two days before that Lady Laura arrived
in Grosvenor Place. Phineas got a note from her in three words to
say that she was at home and would see him if he called on Sunday
afternoon. The Sunday to which she alluded was the last day of
February. Phineas was now more certain than ever that something
was wrong. Had there been nothing wrong between Lady Laura and her
husband, she would not have rebelled against him by asking visitors
to the house on a Sunday. He had nothing to do with that, however,
and of course he did as he was desired. He called on the Sunday, and
found Mrs. Bonteen sitting with Lady Laura. "I am just in time for
the debate," said Lady Laura, when the first greeting was over.

"You don't mean to say that you intend to sit it out," said Mrs.
Bonteen.

"Every word of it,--unless I lose my seat. What else is there to be
done at present?"

"But the place they give us is so unpleasant," said Mrs. Bonteen.

"There are worse places even than the Ladies' Gallery," said
Lady Laura. "And perhaps it is as well to make oneself used to
inconveniences of all kinds. You will speak, Mr. Finn?"

"I intend to do so."

"Of course you will. The great speeches will be Mr. Gresham's, Mr.
Daubeny's, and Mr. Monk's."

"Mr. Palliser intends to be very strong," said Mrs. Bonteen.

"A man cannot be strong or not as he likes it," said Lady Laura. "Mr.
Palliser I believe to be a most useful man, but he never can become
an orator. He is of the same class as Mr. Kennedy,--only of course
higher in the class."

"We all look for a great speech from Mr. Kennedy," said Mrs. Bonteen.

"I have not the slightest idea whether he will open his lips," said
Lady Laura. Immediately after that Mrs. Bonteen took her leave.
"I hate that woman like poison," continued Lady Laura. "She is
always playing a game, and it is such a small game that she plays!
And she contributes so little to society. She is not witty nor
well-informed,--not even sufficiently ignorant or ridiculous to be a
laughing-stock. One gets nothing from her, and yet she has made her
footing good in the world."

"I thought she was a friend of yours."

"You did not think so! You could not have thought so! How can you
bring such an accusation against me, knowing me as you do? But never
mind Mrs. Bonteen now. On what day shall you speak?"

"On Tuesday if I can."

"I suppose you can arrange it?"

"I shall endeavour to do so, as far as any arrangement can go."

"We shall carry the second reading," said Lady Laura.

"Yes," said Phineas; "I think we shall; but by the votes of men who
are determined so to pull the bill to pieces in committee, that its
own parents will not know it. I doubt whether Mr. Mildmay will have
the temper to stand it."

"They tell me that Mr. Mildmay will abandon the custody of the bill
to Mr. Gresham after his first speech."

"I don't know that Mr. Gresham's temper is more enduring than Mr.
Mildmay's," said Phineas.

"Well;--we shall see. My own impression is that nothing would save
the country so effectually at the present moment as the removal of
Mr. Turnbull to a higher and a better sphere."

"Let us say the House of Lords," said Phineas.

"God forbid!" said Lady Laura.

Phineas sat there for half an hour and then got up to go, having
spoken no word on any other subject than that of politics. He longed
to ask after Violet. He longed to make some inquiry respecting Lord
Chiltern. And, to tell the truth, he felt painfully curious to
hear Lady Laura say something about her own self. He could not but
remember what had been said between them up over the waterfall, and
how he had been warned not to return to Loughlinter. And then again,
did Lady Laura know anything of what had passed between him and
Violet? "Where is your brother?" he said, as he rose from his chair.

"Oswald is in London. He was here not an hour before you came in."

"Where is he staying?"

"At Moroni's. He goes down on Tuesday, I think. He is to see his
father to-morrow morning."

"By agreement?"

"Yes;--by agreement. There is a new trouble,--about money that they
think to be due to me. But I cannot tell you all now. There have been
some words between Mr. Kennedy and papa. But I won't talk about it.
You would find Oswald at Moroni's at any hour before eleven
to-morrow."

"Did he say anything about me?" asked Phineas.

"We mentioned your name certainly."

"I do not ask from vanity, but I want to know whether he is angry
with me."

"Angry with you! Not in the least. I'll tell you just what he said.
He said he should not wish to live even with you, but that he would
sooner try it with you than with any man he ever knew."

"He had got a letter from me?"

"He did not say so;--but he did not say he had not."

"I will see him to-morrow if I can." And then Phineas prepared to go.

"One word, Mr. Finn," said Lady Laura, hardly looking him in the face
and yet making an effort to do so. "I wish you to forget what I said
to you at Loughlinter."

"It shall be as though it were forgotten," said Phineas.

"Let it be absolutely forgotten. In such a case a man is bound to do
all that a woman asks him, and no man has a truer spirit of chivalry
than yourself. That is all. Look in when you can. I will not ask you
to dine here as yet, because we are so frightfully dull. Do your best
on Tuesday, and then let us see you on Wednesday. Good-bye."

Phineas as he walked across the park towards his club made up his
mind that he would forget the scene by the waterfall. He had never
quite known what it had meant, and he would wipe it away from his
mind altogether. He acknowledged to himself that chivalry did demand
of him that he should never allow himself to think of Lady Laura's
rash words to him. That she was not happy with her husband was very
clear to him;--but that was altogether another affair. She might be
unhappy with her husband without indulging any guilty love. He had
never thought it possible that she could be happy living with such a
husband as Mr. Kennedy. All that, however, was now past remedy, and
she must simply endure the mode of life which she had prepared for
herself. There were other men and women in London tied together for
better and worse, in reference to whose union their friends knew that
there would be no better;--that it must be all worse. Lady Laura must
bear it, as it was borne by many another married woman.

On the Monday morning Phineas called at Moroni's Hotel at ten
o'clock, but in spite of Lady Laura's assurance to the contrary, he
found that Lord Chiltern was out. He had felt some palpitation at the
heart as he made his inquiry, knowing well the fiery nature of the
man he expected to see. It might be that there would be some actual
personal conflict between him and this half-mad lord before he got
back again into the street. What Lady Laura had said about her
brother did not in the estimation of Phineas make this at all the
less probable. The half-mad lord was so singular in his ways that it
might well be that he should speak handsomely of a rival behind his
back and yet take him by the throat as soon as they were together,
face to face. And yet, as Phineas thought, it was necessary that he
should see the half-mad lord. He had written a letter to which he had
received no reply, and he considered it to be incumbent on him to
ask whether it had been received and whether any answer to it was
intended to be given. He went therefore to Lord Chiltern at once,--as
I have said, with some feeling at his heart that there might be
violence, at any rate of words, before he should find himself again
in the street. But Lord Chiltern was not there. All that the porter
knew was that Lord Chiltern intended to leave the house on the
following morning. Then Phineas wrote a note and left it with the
porter.


   DEAR CHILTERN,

   I particularly want to see you with reference to a letter
   I wrote to you last summer. I must be in the House to-day
   from four till the debate is over. I will be at the Reform
   Club from two till half-past three, and will come if you
   will send for me, or I will meet you anywhere at any hour
   to-morrow morning.

   Yours, always, P. F.


No message came to him at the Reform Club, and he was in his seat in
the House by four o'clock. During the debate a note was brought to
him, which ran as follows:--


   I have got your letter this moment. Of course we must
   meet. I hunt on Tuesday, and go down by the early train;
   but I will come to town on Wednesday. We shall require to
   be private, and I will therefore be at your rooms at one
   o'clock on that day.--C.


Phineas at once perceived that the note was a hostile note, written
in an angry spirit,--written to one whom the writer did not at the
moment acknowledge to be his friend. This was certainly the case,
whatever Lord Chiltern may have said to his sister as to his
friendship for Phineas. Phineas crushed the note into his pocket, and
of course determined that he would be in his rooms at the hour named.

The debate was opened by a speech from Mr. Mildmay, in which that
gentleman at great length and with much perspicuity explained his
notion of that measure of Parliamentary Reform which he thought to
be necessary. He was listened to with the greatest attention to the
close,--and perhaps, at the end of his speech, with more attention
than usual, as there had gone abroad a rumour that the Prime Minister
intended to declare that this would be the last effort of his life
in that course. But, if he ever intended to utter such a pledge, his
heart misgave him when the time came for uttering it. He merely said
that as the management of the bill in committee would be an affair
of much labour, and probably spread over many nights, he would be
assisted in his work by his colleagues, and especially by his right
honourable friend the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. It was
then understood that Mr. Gresham would take the lead should the bill
go into committee;--but it was understood also that no resignation of
leadership had been made by Mr. Mildmay.

The measure now proposed to the House was very much the same as that
which had been brought forward in the last session. The existing
theory of British representation was not to be changed, but the
actual practice was to be brought nearer to the ideal theory. The
ideas of manhood suffrage, and of electoral districts, were to be as
for ever removed from the bulwarks of the British Constitution. There
were to be counties with agricultural constituencies, purposely
arranged to be purely agricultural, whenever the nature of the
counties would admit of its being so. No artificer at Reform, let
him be Conservative or Liberal, can make Middlesex or Lancashire
agricultural; but Wiltshire and Suffolk were to be preserved
inviolable to the plough,--and the apples of Devonshire were still
to have their sway. Every town in the three kingdoms with a certain
population was to have two members. But here there was much room
for cavil,--as all men knew would be the case. Who shall say what
is a town, or where shall be its limits? Bits of counties might be
borrowed, so as to lessen the Conservatism of the county without
endangering the Liberalism of the borough. And then there were the
boroughs with one member,--and then the groups of little boroughs.
In the discussion of any such arrangement how easy is the picking
of holes; how impossible the fabrication of a garment that shall be
impervious to such picking! Then again there was that great question
of the ballot. On that there was to be no mistake. Mr. Mildmay again
pledged himself to disappear from the Treasury bench should any
motion, clause, or resolution be carried by that House in favour of
the ballot. He spoke for three hours, and then left the carcass of
his bill to be fought for by the opposing armies.

No reader of these pages will desire that the speeches in the debate
should be even indicated. It soon became known that the Conservatives
would not divide the House against the second reading of the bill.
They declared, however, very plainly their intention of so altering
the clauses of the bill in committee,--or at least of attempting so
to do,--as to make the bill their bill, rather than the bill of their
opponents. To this Mr. Palliser replied that as long as nothing vital
was touched, the Government would only be too happy to oblige their
friends opposite. If anything vital were touched, the Government
could only fall back upon their friends on that side. And in this way
men were very civil to each other. But Mr. Turnbull, who opened the
debate on the Tuesday, thundered out an assurance to gods and men
that he would divide the House on the second reading of the bill
itself. He did not doubt but that there were many good men and true
to go with him into the lobby, but into the lobby he would go if he
had no more than a single friend to support him. And he warned the
Sovereign, and he warned the House, and he warned the people of
England, that the measure of Reform now proposed by a so-called
liberal Minister was a measure prepared in concert with the ancient
enemies of the people. He was very loud, very angry, and quite
successful in hallooing down sundry attempts which were made to
interrupt him. "I find," he said, "that there are many members here
who do not know me yet,--young members, probably, who are green from
the waste lands and road-sides of private life. They will know me
soon, and then, may be, there will be less of this foolish noise,
less of this elongation of unnecessary necks. Our Rome must be
aroused to a sense of its danger by other voices than these." He
was called to order, but it was ruled that he had not been out of
order,--and he was very triumphant. Mr. Monk answered him, and it
was declared afterwards that Mr. Monk's speech was one of the finest
pieces of oratory that had ever been uttered in that House. He made
one remark personal to Mr. Turnbull. "I quite agreed with the right
honourable gentleman in the chair," he said, "when he declared that
the honourable member was not out of order just now. We all of us
agree with him always on such points. The rules of our House have
been laid down with the utmost latitude, so that the course of our
debates may not be frivolously or too easily interrupted. But a
member may be so in order as to incur the displeasure of the House,
and to merit the reproaches of his countrymen." This little duel
gave great life to the debate; but it was said that those two great
Reformers, Mr. Turnbull and Mr. Monk, could never again meet as
friends.

In the course of the debate on Tuesday, Phineas got upon his legs.
The reader, I trust, will remember that hitherto he had failed
altogether as a speaker. On one occasion he had lacked even the
spirit to use and deliver an oration which he had prepared. On
a second occasion he had broken down,--woefully, and past all
redemption, as said those who were not his friends,--unfortunately,
but not past redemption, as said those who were his true friends.
After that once again he had arisen and said a few words which had
called for no remark, and had been spoken as though he were in the
habit of addressing the House daily. It may be doubted whether there
were half-a-dozen men now present who recognised the fact that this
man, who was so well known to so many of them, was now about to
make another attempt at a first speech. Phineas himself diligently
attempted to forget that such was the case. He had prepared for
himself a few headings of what he intended to say, and on one or
two points had arranged his words. His hope was that even though
he should forget the words, he might still be able to cling to the
thread of his discourse. When he found himself again upon his legs
amidst those crowded seats, for a few moments there came upon him
that old sensation of awe. Again things grew dim before his eyes, and
again he hardly knew at which end of that long chamber the Speaker
was sitting. But there arose within him a sudden courage, as soon as
the sound of his own voice in that room had made itself intimate to
his ear; and after the first few sentences, all fear, all awe, was
gone from him. When he read his speech in the report afterwards, he
found that he had strayed very wide of his intended course, but he
had strayed without tumbling into ditches, or falling into sunken
pits. He had spoken much from Mr. Monk's letter, but had had the
grace to acknowledge whence had come his inspiration. He hardly knew,
however, whether he had failed again or not, till Barrington Erle
came up to him as they were leaving the House, with his old easy
pressing manner. "So you have got into form at last," he said. "I
always thought that it would come. I never for a moment believed
but that it would come sooner or later." Phineas Finn answered
not a word; but he went home and lay awake all night triumphant.
The verdict of Barrington Erle sufficed to assure him that he had
succeeded.




CHAPTER XXXVII

A Rough Encounter


Phineas, when he woke, had two matters to occupy his mind,--his
success of the previous night, and his coming interview with Lord
Chiltern. He stayed at home the whole morning, knowing that nothing
could be done before the hour Lord Chiltern had named for his visit.
He read every word of the debate, studiously postponing the perusal
of his own speech till he should come to it in due order. And then he
wrote to his father, commencing his letter as though his writing had
no reference to the affairs of the previous night. But he soon found
himself compelled to break into some mention of it. "I send you a
_Times_," he said, "in order that you may see that I have had my
finger in the pie. I have hitherto abstained from putting myself
forward in the House, partly through a base fear for which I despise
myself, and partly through a feeling of prudence that a man of my age
should not be in a hurry to gather laurels. This is literally true.
There has been the fear, and there has been the prudence. My wonder
is, that I have not incurred more contempt from others because I have
been a coward. People have been so kind to me that I must suppose
them to have judged me more leniently than I have judged myself."
Then, as he was putting up the paper, he looked again at his own
speech, and of course read every word of it once more. As he did so
it occurred to him that the reporters had been more than courteous to
him. The man who had followed him had been, he thought, at any rate
as long-winded as himself; but to this orator less than half a column
had been granted. To him had been granted ten lines in big type, and
after that a whole column and a half. Let Lord Chiltern come and do
his worst!

When it wanted but twenty minutes to one, and he was beginning to
think in what way he had better answer the half-mad lord, should the
lord in his wrath be very mad, there came to him a note by the hand
of some messenger. He knew at once that it was from Lady Laura, and
opened it in hot haste It was as follows:--


   DEAR MR. FINN,

   We are all talking about your speech. My father was in
   the gallery and heard it,--and said that he had to thank
   me for sending you to Loughton. That made me very happy.
   Mr. Kennedy declares that you were eloquent, but too
   short. That coming from him is praise indeed. I have seen
   Barrington, who takes pride to himself that you are his
   political child. Violet says that it is the only speech
   she ever read. I was there, and was delighted. I was sure
   that it was in you to do it.

   Yours, L. K.

   I suppose we shall see you after the House is up, but
   I write this as I shall barely have an opportunity of
   speaking to you then. I shall be in Portman Square, not
   at home, from six till seven.


The moment in which Phineas refolded this note and put it into his
breast coat-pocket was, I think, the happiest of his life. Then,
before he had withdrawn his hand from his breast, he remembered that
what was now about to take place between him and Lord Chiltern would
probably be the means of separating him altogether from Lady Laura
and her family. Nay, might it not render it necessary that he should
abandon the seat in Parliament which had been conferred upon him by
the personal kindness of Lord Brentford? Let that be as it might. One
thing was clear to him. He would not abandon Violet Effingham till
he should be desired to do so in the plainest language by Violet
Effingham herself. Looking at his watch he saw that it was one
o'clock, and at that moment Lord Chiltern was announced.

Phineas went forward immediately with his hand out to meet his
visitor. "Chiltern," he said, "I am very glad to see you." But Lord
Chiltern did not take his hand. Passing on to the table, with his hat
still on his head, and with a dark scowl upon his brow, the young
lord stood for a few moments perfectly silent. Then he chucked a
letter across the table to the spot at which Phineas was standing.
Phineas, taking up the letter, perceived that it was that which
he, in his great attempt to be honest, had written from the inn at
Loughton. "It is my own letter to you," he said.

"Yes; it is your letter to me. I received it oddly enough together
with your own note at Moroni's,--on Monday morning. It has been
round the world, I suppose, and reached me only then. You must
withdraw it."

"Withdraw it?"

"Yes, sir, withdraw it. As far as I can learn, without asking any
question which would have committed myself or the young lady, you
have not acted upon it. You have not yet done what you there threaten
to do. In that you have been very wise, and there can be no
difficulty in your withdrawing the letter."

"I certainly shall not withdraw it, Lord Chiltern."

"Do you remember--what--I once--told you,--about myself and Miss
Effingham?" This question he asked very slowly, pausing between the
words, and looking full into the face of his rival, towards whom he
had gradually come nearer. And his countenance, as he did so, was
by no means pleasant. The redness of his complexion had become more
ruddy than usual; he still wore his hat as though with studied
insolence; his right hand was clenched; and there was that look of
angry purpose in his eye which no man likes to see in the eye of an
antagonist. Phineas was afraid of no violence, personal to himself;
but he was afraid of,--of what I may, perhaps, best call "a row."
To be tumbling over the chairs and tables with his late friend and
present enemy in Mrs. Bunce's room would be most unpleasant to him.
If there were to be blows he, too, must strike;--and he was very
averse to strike Lady Laura's brother, Lord Brentford's son, Violet
Effingham's friend. If need be, however, he would strike.

"I suppose I remember what you mean," said Phineas. "I think you
declared that you would quarrel with any man who might presume to
address Miss Effingham. Is it that to which you allude?"

"It is that," said Lord Chiltern.

"I remember what you said very well. If nothing else was to deter me
from asking Miss Effingham to be my wife, you will hardly think that
that ought to have any weight. The threat had no weight."

"It was not spoken as a threat, sir, and that you know as well as I
do. It was said from a friend to a friend,--as I thought then. But it
is not the less true. I wonder what you can think of faith and truth
and honesty of purpose when you took advantage of my absence,--you,
whom I had told a thousand times that I loved her better than my own
soul! You stand before the world as a rising man, and I stand before
the world as a man--damned. You have been chosen by my father to sit
for our family borough, while I am an outcast from his house. You
have Cabinet Ministers for your friends, while I have hardly a decent
associate left to me in the world. But I can say of myself that I
have never done anything unworthy of a gentleman, while this thing
that you are doing is unworthy of the lowest man."

"I have done nothing unworthy," said Phineas. "I wrote to you
instantly when I had resolved,--though it was painful to me to have
to tell such a secret to any one."

"You wrote! Yes; when I was miles distant; weeks, months away. But I
did not come here to bullyrag like an old woman. I got your letter
only on Monday, and know nothing of what has occurred. Is Miss
Effingham to be--your wife?" Lord Chiltern had now come quite close
to Phineas, and Phineas felt that that clenched fist might be in his
face in half a moment. Miss Effingham of course was not engaged to
him, but it seemed to him that if he were now so to declare, such
declaration would appear to have been drawn from him by fear. "I ask
you," said Lord Chiltern, "in what position you now stand towards
Miss Effingham. If you are not a coward you will tell me."

"Whether I tell you or not, you know that I am not a coward," said
Phineas.

"I shall have to try," said Lord Chiltern. "But if you please I will
ask you for an answer to my question."

Phineas paused for a moment, thinking what honesty of purpose and
a high spirit would, when combined together, demand of him, and
together with these requirements he felt that he was bound to join
some feeling of duty towards Miss Effingham. Lord Chiltern was
standing there, fiery red, with his hand still clenched, and his hat
still on, waiting for his answer. "Let me have your question again,"
said Phineas, "and I will answer it if I find that I can do so
without loss of self-respect."

"I ask you in what position you stand towards Miss Effingham. Mind,
I do not doubt at all, but I choose to have a reply from yourself."

"You will remember, of course, that I can only answer to the best of
my belief."

"Answer to the best of your belief."

"I think she regards me as an intimate friend."

"Had you said as an indifferent acquaintance, you would, I think,
have been nearer the mark. But we will let that be. I presume I
may understand that you have given up any idea of changing that
position?"

"You may understand nothing of the kind, Lord Chiltern."

"Why;--what hope have you?"

"That is another thing. I shall not speak of that;--at any rate not
to you."

"Then, sir,--" and now Lord Chiltern advanced another step and raised
his hand as though he were about to put it with some form of violence
on the person of his rival.

"Stop, Chiltern," said Phineas, stepping back, so that there was some
article of furniture between him and his adversary. "I do not choose
that there should be a riot here."

"What do you call a riot, sir? I believe that after all you are a
poltroon. What I require of you is that you shall meet me. Will you
do that?"

"You mean,--to fight?"

"Yes,--to fight; to fight; to fight. For what other purpose do you
suppose that I can wish to meet you?" Phineas felt at the moment that
the fighting of a duel would be destructive to all his political
hopes. Few Englishmen fight duels in these days. They who do so
are always reckoned to be fools. And a duel between him and Lord
Brentford's son must, as he thought, separate him from Violet, from
Lady Laura, from Lord Brentford, and from his borough. But yet how
could he refuse? "What have you to think of, sir, when such an offer
as that is made to you?" said the fiery-red lord.

"I have to think whether I have courage enough to refuse to make
myself an ass."

"You say that you do not wish to have a riot. That is your way to
escape what you call--a riot."

"You want to bully me, Chiltern."

"No, sir;--I simply want this, that you should leave me where you
found me, and not interfere with that which you have long known I
claim as my own."

"But it is not your own."

"Then you can only fight me."

"You had better send some friend to me, and I will name some one,
whom he shall meet."

"Of course I will do that if I have your promise to meet me. We
can be in Belgium in an hour or two, and back again in a few more
hours;--that is, any one of us who may chance to be alive.

"I will select a friend, and will tell him everything, and will then
do as he bids me."

"Yes;--some old steady-going buffer. Mr. Kennedy, perhaps."

"It will certainly not be Mr. Kennedy. I shall probably ask Laurence
Fitzgibbon to manage for me in such an affair."

"Perhaps you will see him at once, then, so that Colepepper may
arrange with him this afternoon. And let me assure you, Mr. Finn,
that there will be a meeting between us after some fashion, let the
ideas of your friend Mr. Fitzgibbon be what they may." Then Lord
Chiltern purposed to go, but turned again as he was going. "And
remember this," he said, "my complaint is that you have been false to
me,--damnably false; not that you have fallen in love with this young
lady or with that." Then the fiery-red lord opened the door for
himself and took his departure.

Phineas, as soon as he was alone, walked down to the House, at which
there was an early sitting. As he went there was one great question
which he had to settle with himself,--Was there any justice in the
charge made against him that he had been false to his friend? When he
had thought over the matter at Saulsby, after rushing down there that
he might throw himself at Violet's feet, he had assured himself that
such a letter as that which he resolved to write to Lord Chiltern,
would be even chivalrous in its absolute honesty. He would tell his
purpose to Lord Chiltern the moment that his purpose was formed;--and
would afterwards speak of Lord Chiltern behind his back as one
dear friend should speak of another. Had Miss Effingham shown the
slightest intention of accepting Lord Chiltern's offer, he would have
acknowledged to himself that the circumstances of his position made
it impossible that he should, with honour, become his friend's rival.
But was he to be debarred for ever from getting that which he wanted
because Lord Chiltern wanted it also,--knowing, as he did so well,
that Lord Chiltern could not get the thing which he wanted? All this
had been quite sufficient for him at Saulsby. But now the charge
against him that he had been false to his friend rang in his ears and
made him unhappy. It certainly was true that Lord Chiltern had not
given up his hopes, and that he had spoken probably more openly to
Phineas respecting them than he had done to any other human being. If
it was true that he had been false, then he must comply with any
requisition which Lord Chiltern might make,--short of voluntarily
giving up the lady. He must fight if he were asked to do so, even
though fighting were his ruin.

When again in the House yesterday's scene came back upon him, and
more than one man came to him congratulating him. Mr. Monk took his
hand and spoke a word to him. The old Premier nodded to him. Mr.
Gresham greeted him; and Plantagenet Palliser openly told him that
he had made a good speech. How sweet would all this have been had
there not been ever at his heart the remembrance of his terrible
difficulty,--the consciousness that he was about to be forced into
an absurdity which would put an end to all this sweetness! Why was
the world in England so severe against duelling? After all, as he
regarded the matter now, a duel might be the best way, nay, the only
way out of a difficulty. If he might only be allowed to go out with
Lord Chiltern the whole thing might be arranged. If he were not shot
he might carry on his suit with Miss Effingham unfettered by any
impediment on that side. And if he were shot, what matter was that
to any one but himself? Why should the world be so thin-skinned,--so
foolishly chary of human life?

Laurence Fitzgibbon did not come to the House, and Phineas looked for
him at both the clubs which he frequented,--leaving a note at each as
he did not find him. He also left a note for him at his lodgings in
Duke Street. "I must see you this evening. I shall dine at the Reform
Club,--pray come there." After that, Phineas went up to Portman
Square, in accordance with the instructions received from Lady Laura.

There he saw Violet Effingham, meeting her for the first time since
he had parted from her on the great steps at Saulsby. Of course
he spoke to her, and of course she was gracious to him. But her
graciousness was only a smile and his speech was only a word. There
were many in the room, but not enough to make privacy possible,--as
it becomes possible at a crowded evening meeting. Lord Brentford
was there, and the Bonteens, and Barrington Erle, and Lady Glencora
Palliser, and Lord Cantrip with his young wife. It was manifestly a
meeting of Liberals, semi-social and semi-political;--so arranged
that ladies might feel that some interest in politics was allowed
to them, and perhaps some influence also. Afterwards Mr. Palliser
himself came in. Phineas, however, was most struck by finding that
Laurence Fitzgibbon was there, and that Mr. Kennedy was not. In
regard to Mr. Kennedy, he was quite sure that had such a meeting
taken place before Lady Laura's marriage, Mr. Kennedy would have
been present. "I must speak to you as we go away," said Phineas,
whispering a word into Fitzgibbon's ear. "I have been leaving notes
for you all about the town." "Not a duel, I hope," said Fitzgibbon.

How pleasant it was,--that meeting; or would have been had there not
been that nightmare on his breast! They all talked as though there
were perfect accord between them and perfect confidence. There were
there great men,--Cabinet Ministers, and beautiful women,--the wives
and daughters of some of England's highest nobles. And Phineas Finn,
throwing back, now and again, a thought to Killaloe, found himself
among them as one of themselves. How could any Mr. Low say that he
was wrong?

On a sofa near to him, so that he could almost touch her foot with
his, was sitting Violet Effingham, and as he leaned over from his
chair discussing some point in Mr. Mildmay's bill with that most
inveterate politician, Lady Glencora, Violet looked into his face and
smiled. Oh heavens! If Lord Chiltern and he might only toss up as to
which of them should go to Patagonia and remain there for the next
ten years, and which should have Violet Effingham for a wife in
London!

"Come along, Phineas, if you mean to come," said Laurence Fitzgibbon.
Phineas was of course bound to go, though Lady Glencora was still
talking Radicalism, and Violet Effingham was still smiling ineffably.





VOLUME II

CHAPTER XXXVIII

The Duel


"I knew it was a duel;--bedad I did," said Laurence Fitzgibbon,
standing at the corner of Orchard Street and Oxford Street, when
Phineas had half told his story. "I was sure of it from the tone of
your voice, my boy. We mustn't let it come off, that's all;--not
if we can help it." Then Phineas was allowed to proceed and finish
his story. "I don't see any way out of it; I don't, indeed," said
Laurence. By this time Phineas had come to think that the duel was in
very truth the best way out of the difficulty. It was a bad way out,
but then it was a way;--and he could not see any other. "As for ill
treating him, that's nonsense," said Laurence. "What are the girls to
do, if one fellow mayn't come on as soon as another fellow is down?
But then, you see, a fellow never knows when he's down himself, and
therefore he thinks that he's ill used. I'll tell you what now. I
shouldn't wonder if we couldn't do it on the sly,--unless one of you
is stupid enough to hit the other in an awkward place. If you are
certain of your hand now, the right shoulder is the best spot."
Phineas felt very certain that he would not hit Lord Chiltern in an
awkward place, although he was by no means sure of his hand. Let come
what might, he would not aim at his adversary. But of this he had
thought it proper to say nothing to Laurence Fitzgibbon.

And the duel did come off on the sly. The meeting in the drawing-room
in Portman Square, of which mention was made in the last chapter,
took place on a Wednesday afternoon. On the Thursday, Friday, Monday,
and Tuesday following, the great debate on Mr. Mildmay's bill was
continued, and at three on the Tuesday night the House divided. There
was a majority in favour of the Ministers, not large enough to permit
them to claim a triumph for their party, or even an ovation for
themselves; but still sufficient to enable them to send their bill
into committee. Mr. Daubeny and Mr. Turnbull had again joined
their forces together in opposition to the ministerial measure. On
the Thursday Phineas had shown himself in the House, but during
the remainder of this interesting period he was absent from his
place, nor was he seen at the clubs, nor did any man know of his
whereabouts. I think that Lady Laura Kennedy was the first to miss
him with any real sense of his absence. She would now go to Portman
Square on the afternoon of every Sunday,--at which time her husband
was attending the second service of his church,--and there she would
receive those whom she called her father's guests. But as her father
was never there on the Sundays, and as these gatherings had been
created by herself, the reader will probably think that she was
obeying her husband's behests in regard to the Sabbath after a very
indifferent fashion. The reader may be quite sure, however, that Mr.
Kennedy knew well what was being done in Portman Square. Whatever
might be Lady Laura's faults, she did not commit the fault of
disobeying her husband in secret. There were, probably, a few words
on the subject; but we need not go very closely into that matter at
the present moment.

On the Sunday which afforded some rest in the middle of the great
Reform debate Lady Laura asked for Mr. Finn, and no one could answer
her question. And then it was remembered that Laurence Fitzgibbon
was also absent. Barrington Erle knew nothing of Phineas,--had heard
nothing; but was able to say that Fitzgibbon had been with Mr.
Ratler, the patronage secretary and liberal whip, early on Thursday,
expressing his intention of absenting himself for two days. Mr.
Ratler had been wroth, bidding him remain at his duty, and pointing
out to him the great importance of the moment. Then Barrington Erle
quoted Laurence Fitzgibbon's reply. "My boy," said Laurence to poor
Ratler, "the path of duty leads but to the grave. All the same; I'll
be in at the death, Ratler, my boy, as sure as the sun's in heaven."
Not ten minutes after the telling of this little story, Fitzgibbon
entered the room in Portman Square, and Lady Laura at once asked him
after Phineas. "Bedad, Lady Laura, I have been out of town myself for
two days, and I know nothing."

"Mr. Finn has not been with you, then?"

"With me! No,--not with me. I had a job of business of my own which
took me over to Paris. And has Phinny fled too? Poor Ratler! I
shouldn't wonder if it isn't an asylum he's in before the session is
over."

Laurence Fitzgibbon certainly possessed the rare accomplishment of
telling a lie with a good grace. Had any man called him a liar he
would have considered himself to be not only insulted, but injured
also. He believed himself to be a man of truth. There were, however,
in his estimation certain subjects on which a man might depart as
wide as the poles are asunder from truth without subjecting himself
to any ignominy for falsehood. In dealing with a tradesman as to his
debts, or with a rival as to a lady, or with any man or woman in
defence of a lady's character, or in any such matter as that of a
duel, Laurence believed that a gentleman was bound to lie, and that
he would be no gentleman if he hesitated to do so. Not the slightest
prick of conscience disturbed him when he told Lady Laura that he
had been in Paris, and that he knew nothing of Phineas Finn. But, in
truth, during the last day or two he had been in Flanders, and not in
Paris, and had stood as second with his friend Phineas on the sands
at Blankenberg, a little fishing-town some twelve miles distant
from Bruges, and had left his friend since that at an hotel at
Ostend,--with a wound just under the shoulder, from which a bullet
had been extracted.

The manner of the meeting had been in this wise. Captain Colepepper
and Laurence Fitzgibbon had held their meeting, and at this meeting
Laurence had taken certain standing-ground on behalf of his friend,
and in obedience to his friend's positive instruction;--which was
this, that his friend could not abandon his right of addressing the
young lady, should he hereafter ever think fit to do so. Let that
be granted, and Laurence would do anything. But then that could not
be granted, and Laurence could only shrug his shoulders. Nor would
Laurence admit that his friend had been false. "The question lies in
a nutshell," said Laurence, with that sweet Connaught brogue which
always came to him when he desired to be effective;--"here it is. One
gentleman tells another that he's sweet upon a young lady, but that
the young lady has refused him, and always will refuse him, for ever
and ever. That's the truth anyhow. Is the second gentleman bound by
that not to address the young lady? I say he is not bound. It'd be a
d----d hard tratement, Captain Colepepper, if a man's mouth and all
the ardent affections of his heart were to be stopped in that manner!
By Jases, I don't know who'd like to be the friend of any man if
that's to be the way of it."

Captain Colepepper was not very good at an argument. "I think they'd
better see each other," said Colepepper, pulling his thick grey
moustache.

"If you choose to have it so, so be it. But I think it the hardest
thing in the world;--I do indeed." Then they put their heads together
in the most friendly way, and declared that the affair should, if
possible, be kept private.

On the Thursday night Lord Chiltern and Captain Colepepper went over
by Calais and Lille to Bruges. Laurence Fitzgibbon, with his friend
Dr. O'Shaughnessy, crossed by the direct boat from Dover to Ostend.
Phineas went to Ostend by Dover and Calais, but he took the day
route on Friday. It had all been arranged among them, so that there
might be no suspicion as to the job in hand. Even O'Shaughnessy and
Laurence Fitzgibbon had left London by separate trains. They met on
the sands at Blankenberg about nine o'clock on the Saturday morning,
having reached that village in different vehicles from Ostend and
Bruges, and had met quite unobserved amidst the sand-heaps. But one
shot had been exchanged, and Phineas had been wounded in the right
shoulder. He had proposed to exchange another shot with his left
hand, declaring his capability of shooting quite as well with the
left as with the right; but to this both Colepepper and Fitzgibbon
had objected. Lord Chiltern had offered to shake hands with his late
friend in a true spirit of friendship, if only his late friend would
say that he did not intend to prosecute his suit with the young lady.
In all these disputes the young lady's name was never mentioned.
Phineas indeed had not once named Violet to Fitzgibbon, speaking of
her always as the lady in question; and though Laurence correctly
surmised the identity of the young lady, he never hinted that he had
even guessed her name. I doubt whether Lord Chiltern had been so wary
when alone with Captain Colepepper; but then Lord Chiltern was, when
he spoke at all, a very plain-spoken man. Of course his lordship's
late friend Phineas would give no such pledge, and therefore Lord
Chiltern moved off the ground and back to Blankenberg and Bruges, and
into Brussels, in still living enmity with our hero. Laurence and the
doctor took Phineas back to Ostend, and though the bullet was then in
his shoulder, Phineas made his way through Blankenberg after such a
fashion that no one there knew what had occurred. Not a living soul,
except the five concerned, was at that time aware that a duel had
been fought among the sand-hills.

Laurence Fitzgibbon made his way to Dover by the Saturday night's
boat, and was able to show himself in Portman Square on the Sunday.
"Know anything about Phinny Finn?" he said afterwards to Barrington
Erle, in answer to an inquiry from that anxious gentleman. "Not
a word! I think you'd better send the town-crier round after
him." Barrington, however, did not feel quite so well assured of
Fitzgibbon's truth as Lady Laura had done.

Dr. O'Shaughnessy remained during the Sunday and Monday at Ostend
with his patient, and the people at the inn only knew that Mr. Finn
had sprained his shoulder badly; and on the Tuesday they came back
to London again, via Calais and Dover. No bone had been broken, and
Phineas, though his shoulder was very painful, bore the journey well.
O'Shaughnessy had received a telegram on the Monday, telling him that
the division would certainly take place on the Tuesday,--and on the
Tuesday, at about ten in the evening, Phineas went down to the House.
"By ----, you're here," said Ratler, taking hold of him with an
affection that was too warm. "Yes; I'm here," said Phineas, wincing
in agony; "but be a little careful, there's a good fellow. I've been
down in Kent and put my arm out."

"Put your arm out, have you?" said Ratler, observing the sling for
the first time. "I'm sorry for that. But you'll stop and vote?"

"Yes;--I'll stop and vote. I've come up for the purpose. But I hope
it won't be very late."

"There are both Daubeny and Gresham to speak yet, and at least three
others. I don't suppose it will be much before three. But you're
all right now. You can go down and smoke if you like!" In this way
Phineas Finn spoke in the debate, and heard the end of it, voting for
his party, and fought his duel with Lord Chiltern in the middle of
it.

He did go and sit on a well-cushioned bench in the smoking-room, and
then was interrogated by many of his friends as to his mysterious
absence. He had, he said, been down in Kent, and had had an accident
with his arm, by which he had been confined. When this questioner and
that perceived that there was some little mystery in the matter, the
questioners did not push their questions, but simply entertained
their own surmises. One indiscreet questioner, however, did trouble
Phineas sorely, declaring that there must have been some affair in
which a woman had had a part, and asking after the young lady of
Kent. This indiscreet questioner was Laurence Fitzgibbon, who, as
Phineas thought, carried his spirit of intrigue a little too far.
Phineas stayed and voted, and then he went painfully home to his
lodgings.

How singular would it be if this affair of the duel should pass away,
and no one be a bit the wiser but those four men who had been with
him on the sands at Blankenberg! Again he wondered at his own luck.
He had told himself that a duel with Lord Chiltern must create
a quarrel between him and Lord Chiltern's relations, and also
between him and Violet Effingham; that it must banish him from
his comfortable seat for Loughton, and ruin him in regard to his
political prospects. And now he had fought his duel, and was back in
town,--and the thing seemed to have been a thing of nothing. He had
not as yet seen Lady Laura or Violet, but he had no doubt but they
both were as much in the dark as other people. The day might arrive,
he thought, on which it would be pleasant for him to tell Violet
Effingham what had occurred, but that day had not come as yet.
Whither Lord Chiltern had gone, or what Lord Chiltern intended to
do, he had not any idea; but he imagined that he should soon hear
something of her brother from Lady Laura. That Lord Chiltern should
say a word to Lady Laura of what had occurred,--or to any other
person in the world,--he did not in the least suspect. There could
be no man more likely to be reticent in such matters than Lord
Chiltern,--or more sure to be guided by an almost exaggerated sense
of what honour required of him. Nor did he doubt the discretion of
his friend Fitzgibbon;--if only his friend might not damage the
secret by being too discreet. Of the silence of the doctor and the
captain he was by no means equally sure; but even though they should
gossip, the gossiping would take so long a time in oozing out and
becoming recognised information, as to have lost much of its power
for injuring him. Were Lady Laura to hear at this moment that he
had been over to Belgium, and had fought a duel with Lord Chiltern
respecting Violet, she would probably feel herself obliged to quarrel
with him; but no such obligation would rest on her, if in the course
of six or nine months she should gradually have become aware that
such an encounter had taken place.

Lord Chiltern, during their interview at the rooms in Great
Marlborough Street, had said a word to him about the seat in
Parliament;--had expressed some opinion that as he, Phineas Finn, was
interfering with the views of the Standish family in regard to Miss
Effingham, he ought not to keep the Standish seat, which had been
conferred upon him in ignorance of any such intended interference.
Phineas, as he thought of this, could not remember Lord Chiltern's
words, but there was present to him an idea that such had been their
purport. Was he bound, in circumstances as they now existed, to give
up Loughton? He made up his mind that he was not so bound unless
Lord Chiltern should demand from him that he should do so; but,
nevertheless, he was uneasy in his position. It was quite true that
the seat now was his for this session by all parliamentary law, even
though the electors themselves might wish to be rid of him, and that
Lord Brentford could not even open his mouth upon the matter in a
tone more loud than that of a whisper. But Phineas, feeling that
he had consented to accept the favour of a corrupt seat from Lord
Brentford, felt also that he was bound to give up the spoil if it
were demanded from him. If it were demanded from him, either by the
father or the son, it should be given up at once.

On the following morning he found a leading article in the _People's
Banner_ devoted solely to himself. "During the late debate,"--so ran
a passage in the leading article,--"Mr. Finn, Lord Brentford's Irish
nominee for his pocket-borough at Loughton, did at last manage to
stand on his legs and open his mouth. If we are not mistaken, this
is Mr. Finn's third session in Parliament, and hitherto he has been
unable to articulate three sentences, though he has on more than one
occasion made the attempt. For what special merit this young man has
been selected for aristocratic patronage we do not know,--but that
there must be some merit recognisable by aristocratic eyes, we
surmise. Three years ago he was a raw young Irishman, living in
London as Irishmen only know how to live, earning nothing, and
apparently without means; and then suddenly he bursts out as a member
of Parliament and as the friend of Cabinet Ministers. The possession
of one good gift must be acceded to the honourable member for
Loughton,--he is a handsome young man, and looks to be as strong as
a coal-porter. Can it be that his promotion has sprung from this? Be
this as it may, we should like to know where he has been during his
late mysterious absence from Parliament, and in what way he came by
the wound in his arm. Even handsome young members of Parliament,
fêted by titled ladies and their rich lords, are amenable to the
laws,--to the laws of this country, and to the laws of any other
which it may suit them to visit for a while!"

"Infamous scoundrel!" said Phineas to himself, as he read this.
"Vile, low, disreputable blackguard!" It was clear enough, however,
that Quintus Slide had found out something of his secret. If so, his
only hope would rest on the fact that his friends were not likely to
see the columns of the _People's Banner_.




CHAPTER XXXIX

Lady Laura Is Told


By the time that Mr. Mildmay's great bill was going into committee
Phineas was able to move about London in comfort,--with his arm,
however, still in a sling. There had been nothing more about him and
his wound in the _People's Banner_, and he was beginning to hope that
that nuisance would also be allowed to die away. He had seen Lady
Laura,--having dined in Grosvenor Place, where he had been petted
to his heart's content. His dinner had been cut up for him, and his
wound had been treated with the tenderest sympathy. And, singular to
say, no questions were asked. He had been to Kent and had come by
an accident. No more than that was told, and his dear sympathising
friends were content to receive so much information, and to ask for
no more. But he had not as yet seen Violet Effingham, and he was
beginning to think that this romance about Violet might as well be
brought to a close. He had not, however, as yet been able to go into
crowded rooms, and unless he went out to large parties he could not
be sure that he would meet Miss Effingham.

At last he resolved that he would tell Lady Laura the whole
truth,--not the truth about the duel, but the truth about Violet
Effingham, and ask for her assistance. When making this resolution, I
think that he must have forgotten much that he had learned of his
friend's character; and by making it, I think that he showed also
that he had not learned as much as his opportunities might have
taught him. He knew Lady Laura's obstinacy of purpose, he knew her
devotion to her brother, and he knew also how desirous she had been
that her brother should win Violet Effingham for himself. This
knowledge should, I think, have sufficed to show him how improbable
it was that Lady Laura should assist him in his enterprise. But
beyond all this was the fact,--a fact as to the consequences of which
Phineas himself was entirely blind, beautifully ignorant,--that Lady
Laura had once condescended to love himself. Nay;--she had gone
farther than this, and had ventured to tell him, even after her
marriage, that the remembrance of some feeling that had once dwelt in
her heart in regard to him was still a danger to her. She had warned
him from Loughlinter, and then had received him in London;--and now
he selected her as his confidante in this love affair! Had he not
been beautifully ignorant and most modestly blind, he would surely
have placed his confidence elsewhere.

It was not that Lady Laura Kennedy ever confessed to herself the
existence of a vicious passion. She had, indeed, learned to tell
herself that she could not love her husband; and once, in the
excitement of such silent announcements to herself, she had asked
herself whether her heart was quite a blank, and had answered herself
by desiring Phineas Finn to absent himself from Loughlinter. During
all the subsequent winter she had scourged herself inwardly for her
own imprudence, her quite unnecessary folly in so doing. What! could
not she, Laura Standish, who from her earliest years of girlish
womanhood had resolved that she would use the world as men use it,
and not as women do,--could not she have felt the slight shock of
a passing tenderness for a handsome youth without allowing the
feeling to be a rock before her big enough and sharp enough for the
destruction of her entire barque? Could not she command, if not her
heart, at any rate her mind, so that she might safely assure herself
that, whether this man or any man was here or there, her course would
be unaltered? What though Phineas Finn had been in the same house
with her throughout all the winter, could not she have so lived with
him on terms of friendship, that every deed and word and look of her
friendship might have been open to her husband,--or open to all
the world? She could have done so. She told herself that that was
not,--need not have been her great calamity. Whether she could endure
the dull, monotonous control of her slow but imperious lord,--or
whether she must not rather tell him that it was not to be
endured,--that was her trouble. So she told herself, and again
admitted Phineas to her intimacy in London. But, nevertheless,
Phineas, had he not been beautifully ignorant and most blind to his
own achievements, would not have expected from Lady Laura Kennedy
assistance with Miss Violet Effingham.

Phineas knew when to find Lady Laura alone, and he came upon her one
day at the favourable hour. The two first clauses of the bill had
been passed after twenty fights and endless divisions. Two points had
been settled, as to which, however, Mr. Gresham had been driven to
give way so far and to yield so much, that men declared that such
a bill as the Government could consent to call its own could never
be passed by that Parliament in that session. Immediately on his
entrance into her room Lady Laura began about the third clause. Would
the House let Mr. Gresham have his way about the--? Phineas stopped
her at once. "My dear friend," he said, "I have come to you in a
private trouble, and I want you to drop politics for half an hour. I
have come to you for help."

"A private trouble, Mr. Finn! Is it serious?"

"It is very serious,--but it is no trouble of the kind of which you
are thinking. But it is serious enough to take up every thought."

"Can I help you?"

"Indeed you can. Whether you will or no is a different thing."

"I would help you in anything in my power, Mr. Finn. Do you not know
it?"

"You have been very kind to me!"

"And so would Mr. Kennedy."

"Mr. Kennedy cannot help me here."

"What is it, Mr. Finn?"

"I suppose I may as well tell you at once,--in plain language, I do
not know how to put my story into words that shall fit it. I love
Violet Effingham. Will you help me to win her to be my wife?"

"You love Violet Effingham!" said Lady Laura. And as she spoke the
look of her countenance towards him was so changed that he became at
once aware that from her no assistance might be expected. His eyes
were not opened in any degree to the second reason above given for
Lady Laura's opposition to his wishes, but he instantly perceived
that she would still cling to that destination of Violet's hand which
had for years past been the favourite scheme of her life. "Have you
not always known, Mr. Finn, what have been our hopes for Violet?"

Phineas, though he had perceived his mistake, felt that he must go
on with his cause. Lady Laura must know his wishes sooner or later,
and it was as well that she should learn them in this way as in
any other. "Yes;--but I have known also, from your brother's own
lips,--and indeed from yours also, Lady Laura,--that Chiltern has
been three times refused by Miss Effingham."

"What does that matter? Do men never ask more than three times?"

"And must I be debarred for ever while he prosecutes a hopeless
suit?"

"Yes;--you of all men."

"Why so, Lady Laura?"

"Because in this matter you have been his chosen friend,--and mine.
We have told you everything, trusting to you. We have believed in
your honour. We have thought that with you, at any rate, we were
safe." These words were very bitter to Phineas, and yet when he had
written his letter at Loughton, he had intended to be so perfectly
honest, chivalrously honest! Now Lady Laura spoke to him and looked
at him as though he had been most basely false--most untrue to that
noble friendship which had been lavished upon him by all her family.
He felt that he would become the prey of her most injurious thoughts
unless he could fully explain his ideas, and he felt, also, that the
circumstances did not admit of his explaining them. He could not take
up the argument on Violet's side, and show how unfair it would be to
her that she should be debarred from the homage due to her by any man
who really loved her, because Lord Chiltern chose to think that he
still had a claim,--or at any rate a chance. And Phineas knew well
of himself,--or thought that he knew well,--that he would not have
interfered had there been any chance for Lord Chiltern. Lord Chiltern
had himself told him more than once that there was no such chance.
How was he to explain all this to Lady Laura? "Mr. Finn," said Lady
Laura, "I can hardly believe this of you, even when you tell it me
yourself."

"Listen to me, Lady Laura, for a moment."

"Certainly, I will listen. But that you should come to me for
assistance! I cannot understand it. Men sometimes become harder than
stones."

"I do not think that I am hard." Poor blind fool! He was still
thinking only of Violet, and of the accusation made against him that
he was untrue to his friendship for Lord Chiltern. Of that other
accusation which could not be expressed in open words he understood
nothing,--nothing at all as yet.

"Hard and false,--capable of receiving no impression beyond the
outside husk of the heart."

"Oh, Lady Laura, do not say that. If you could only know how true I
am in my affection for you all."

"And how do you show it?--by coming in between Oswald and the only
means that are open to us of reconciling him to his father;--means
that have been explained to you exactly as though you had been one of
ourselves. Oswald has treated you as a brother in the matter, telling
you everything, and this is the way you would repay him for his
confidence!"

"Can I help it, that I have learnt to love this girl?"

"Yes, sir,--you can help it. What if she had been Oswald's
wife;--would you have loved her then? Do you speak of loving a woman
as if it were an affair of fate, over which you have no control? I
doubt whether your passions are so strong as that. You had better put
aside your love for Miss Effingham. I feel assured that it will never
hurt you." Then some remembrance of what had passed between him and
Lady Laura Standish near the falls of the Linter, when he first
visited Scotland, came across his mind. "Believe me," she said with a
smile, "this little wound in your heart will soon be cured."

He stood silent before her, looking away from her, thinking over it
all. He certainly had believed himself to be violently in love with
Lady Laura, and yet when he had just now entered her drawing-room, he
had almost forgotten that there had been such a passage in his life.
And he had believed that she had forgotten it,--even though she
had counselled him not to come to Loughlinter within the last nine
months! He had been a boy then, and had not known himself;--but now
he was a man, and was proud of the intensity of his love. There came
upon him some passing throb of pain from his shoulder, reminding him
of the duel, and he was proud also of that. He had been willing to
risk everything,--life, prospects, and position,--sooner than abandon
the slight hope which was his of possessing Violet Effingham. And now
he was told that this wound in his heart would soon be cured, and
was told so by a woman to whom he had once sung a song of another
passion. It is very hard to answer a woman in such circumstances,
because her womanhood gives her so strong a ground of vantage! Lady
Laura might venture to throw in his teeth the fickleness of his
heart, but he could not in reply tell her that to change a love was
better than to marry without love,--that to be capable of such a
change showed no such inferiority of nature as did the capacity for
such a marriage. She could hit him with her argument; but he could
only remember his, and think how violent might be the blow he could
inflict,--if it were not that she were a woman, and therefore
guarded. "You will not help me then?" he said, when they had both
been silent for a while.

"Help you? How should I help you?"

"I wanted no other help than this,--that I might have had an
opportunity of meeting Violet here, and of getting from her some
answer."

"Has the question then never been asked already?" said Lady Laura.
To this Phineas made no immediate reply. There was no reason why he
should show his whole hand to an adversary. "Why do you not go to
Lady Baldock's house?" continued Lady Laura. "You are admitted there.
You know Lady Baldock. Go and ask her to stand your friend with her
niece. See what she will say to you. As far as I understand these
matters, that is the fair, honourable, open way in which gentlemen
are wont to make their overtures."

"I would make mine to none but to herself," said Phineas.

"Then why have you made it to me, sir?" demanded Lady Laura.

"I have come to you as I would to my sister."

"Your sister? Psha! I am not your sister, Mr. Finn. Nor, were I so,
should I fail to remember that I have a dearer brother to whom my
faith is pledged. Look here. Within the last three weeks Oswald has
sacrificed everything to his father, because he was determined that
Mr. Kennedy should have the money which he thought was due to my
husband. He has enabled my father to do what he will with Saulsby.
Papa will never hurt him;--I know that. Hard as papa is with him, he
will never hurt Oswald's future position. Papa is too proud to do
that. Violet has heard what Oswald has done; and now that he has
nothing of his own to offer her for the future but his bare title,
now that he has given papa power to do what he will with the
property, I believe that she would accept him instantly. That is her
disposition."

Phineas again paused a moment before he replied. "Let him try," he
said.

"He is away,--in Brussels."

"Send to him, and bid him return. I will be patient, Lady Laura. Let
him come and try, and I will bide my time. I confess that I have no
right to interfere with him if there be a chance for him. If there is
no chance, my right is as good as that of any other."

There was something in this which made Lady Laura feel that she
could not maintain her hostility against this man on behalf of her
brother;--and yet she could not force herself to be other than
hostile to him. Her heart was sore, and it was he that had made
it sore. She had lectured herself, schooling herself with mental
sackcloth and ashes, rebuking herself with heaviest censures from day
to day, because she had found herself to be in danger of regarding
this man with a perilous love; and she had been constant in this
work of penance till she had been able to assure herself that the
sackcloth and ashes had done their work, and that the danger was
past. "I like him still and love him well," she had said to herself
with something almost of triumph, "but I have ceased to think of him
as one who might have been my lover." And yet she was now sick and
sore, almost beside herself with the agony of the wound, because this
man whom she had been able to throw aside from her heart had also
been able so to throw her aside. And she felt herself constrained to
rebuke him with what bitterest words she might use. She had felt it
easy to do this at first, on her brother's score. She had accused him
of treachery to his friendship,--both as to Oswald and as to herself.
On that she could say cutting words without subjecting herself to
suspicion even from herself. But now this power was taken away from
her, and still she wished to wound him. She desired to taunt him
with his old fickleness, and yet to subject herself to no imputation.
"Your right!" she said. "What gives you any right in the matter?"

"Simply the right of a fair field, and no favour."

"And yet you come to me for favour,--to me, because I am her friend.
You cannot win her yourself, and think I may help you! I do not
believe in your love for her. There! If there were no other reason,
and I could help you, I would not, because I think your heart is a
sham heart. She is pretty, and has money--"

"Lady Laura!"

"She is pretty, and has money, and is the fashion. I do not wonder
that you should wish to have her. But, Mr. Finn, I believe that
Oswald really loves her;--and that you do not. His nature is deeper
than yours."

He understood it all now as he listened to the tone of her voice, and
looked into the lines of her face. There was written there plainly
enough that spretæ injuria formæ of which she herself was conscious,
but only conscious. Even his eyes, blind as he had been, were
opened,--and he knew that he had been a fool.

"I am sorry that I came to you," he said.

"It would have been better that you should not have done so," she
replied.

"And yet perhaps it is well that there should be no misunderstanding
between us."

"Of course I must tell my brother."

He paused but for a moment, and then he answered her with a sharp
voice, "He has been told."

"And who told him?"

"I did. I wrote to him the moment that I knew my own mind. I owed it
to him to do so. But my letter missed him, and he only learned it the
other day."

"Have you seen him since?"

"Yes;--I have seen him."

"And what did he say? How did he take it? Did he bear it from you
quietly?"

"No, indeed;" and Phineas smiled as he spoke.

"Tell me, Mr. Finn; what happened? What is to be done?"

"Nothing is to be done. Everything has been done. I may as well
tell you all. I am sure that for the sake of me, as well as of your
brother, you will keep our secret. He required that I should either
give up my suit, or that I should,--fight him. As I could not comply
with the one request, I found myself bound to comply with the other."

"And there has been a duel?"

"Yes;--there has been a duel. We went over to Belgium, and it was
soon settled. He wounded me here in the arm."

"Suppose you had killed him, Mr. Finn?"

"That, Lady Laura, would have been a misfortune so terrible that I
was bound to prevent it." Then he paused again, regretting what he
had said. "You have surprised me, Lady Laura, into an answer that I
should not have made. I may be sure,--may I not,--that my words will
not go beyond yourself?"

"Yes;--you may be sure of that." This she said plaintively, with a
tone of voice and demeanour of body altogether different from that
which she lately bore. Neither of them knew what was taking place
between them; but she was, in truth, gradually submitting herself
again to this man's influence. Though she rebuked him at every turn
for what he said, for what he had done, for what he proposed to do,
still she could not teach herself to despise him, or even to cease to
love him for any part of it. She knew it all now,--except that word
or two which had passed between Violet and Phineas in the rides of
Saulsby Park. But she suspected something even of that, feeling sure
that the only matter on which Phineas would say nothing would be
that of his own success,--if success there had been. "And so you and
Oswald have quarrelled, and there has been a duel. That is why you
were away?"

"That is why I was away."

"How wrong of you,--how very wrong! Had he been,--killed, how could
you have looked us in the face again?"

"I could not have looked you in the face again."

"But that is over now. And were you friends afterwards?"

"No;--we did not part as friends. Having gone there to fight with
him,--most unwillingly,--I could not afterwards promise him that I
would give up Miss Effingham. You say she will accept him now. Let
him come and try." She had nothing further to say,--no other argument
to use. There was the soreness at her heart still present to her,
making her wretched, instigating her to hurt him if she knew how to
do so, in spite of her regard for him. But she felt that she was weak
and powerless. She had shot her arrows at him,--all but one,--and if
she used that, its poisoned point would wound herself far more surely
than it would touch him. "The duel was very silly," he said. "You
will not speak of it."

"No; certainly not."

"I am glad at least that I have told you everything."

"I do not know why you should be glad. I cannot help you."

"And you will say nothing to Violet?"

"Everything that I can say in Oswald's favour. I will say nothing of
the duel; but beyond that you have no right to demand my secrecy with
her. Yes; you had better go, Mr. Finn, for I am hardly well. And
remember this,--If you can forget this little episode about Miss
Effingham, so will I forget it also; and so will Oswald. I can
promise for him." Then she smiled and gave him her hand, and he went.

She rose from her chair as he left the room, and waited till she
heard the sound of the great door closing behind him before she again
sat down. Then, when he was gone,--when she was sure that he was no
longer there with her in the same house,--she laid her head down upon
the arm of the sofa, and burst into a flood of tears. She was no
longer angry with Phineas. There was no further longing in her heart
for revenge. She did not now desire to injure him, though she had
done so as long as he was with her. Nay,--she resolved instantly,
almost instinctively, that Lord Brentford must know nothing of all
this, lest the political prospects of the young member for Loughton
should be injured. To have rebuked him, to rebuke him again and
again, would be only fair,--would at least be womanly; but she
would protect him from all material injury as far as her power of
protection might avail. And why was she weeping now so bitterly?
Of course she asked herself, as she rubbed away the tears with her
hands,--Why should she weep? She was not weak enough to tell herself
that she was weeping for any injury that had been done to Oswald.
She got up suddenly from the sofa, and pushed away her hair from her
face, and pushed away the tears from her cheeks, and then clenched
her fists as she held them out at full length from her body, and
stood, looking up with her eyes fixed upon the wall. "Ass!" she
exclaimed. "Fool! Idiot! That I should not be able to crush it into
nothing and have done with it! Why should he not have her? After all,
he is better than Oswald. Oh,--is that you?" The door of the room had
been opened while she was standing thus, and her husband had entered.

"Yes,--it is I. Is anything wrong?"

"Very much is wrong."

"What is it, Laura?"

"You cannot help me."

"If you are in trouble you should tell me what it is, and leave it to
me to try to help you."

"Nonsense!" she said, shaking her head.

"Laura, that is uncourteous,--not to say undutiful also."

"I suppose it was,--both. I beg your pardon, but I could not help
it."

"Laura, you should help such words to me."

"There are moments, Robert, when even a married woman must be
herself rather than her husband's wife. It is so, though you cannot
understand it."

"I certainly do not understand it."

"You cannot make a woman subject to you as a dog is so. You may have
all the outside and as much of the inside as you can master. With a
dog you may be sure of both."

"I suppose this means that you have secrets in which I am not to
share."

"I have troubles about my father and my brother which you cannot
share. My brother is a ruined man."

"Who ruined him?"

"I will not talk about it any more. I will not speak to you of him or
of papa. I only want you to understand that there is a subject which
must be secret to myself, and on which I may be allowed to shed
tears,--if I am so weak. I will not trouble you on a matter in which
I have not your sympathy." Then she left him, standing in the middle
of the room, depressed by what had occurred,--but not thinking of it
as of a trouble which would do more than make him uncomfortable for
that day.




CHAPTER XL

Madame Max Goesler


Day after day, and clause after clause, the bill was fought in
committee, and few men fought with more constancy on the side of the
Ministers than did the member for Loughton. Troubled though he was by
his quarrel with Lord Chiltern, by his love for Violet Effingham, by
the silence of his friend Lady Laura,--for since he had told her of
the duel she had become silent to him, never writing to him, and
hardly speaking to him when she met him in society,--nevertheless
Phineas was not so troubled but what he could work at his vocation.
Now, when he would find himself upon his legs in the House, he would
wonder at the hesitation which had lately troubled him so sorely. He
would sit sometimes and speculate upon that dimness of eye, upon that
tendency of things to go round, upon that obtrusive palpitation of
heart, which had afflicted him so seriously for so long a time. The
House now was no more to him than any other chamber, and the members
no more than other men. He guarded himself from orations, speaking
always very shortly,--because he believed that policy and good
judgment required that he should be short. But words were very easy
to him, and he would feel as though he could talk for ever. And there
quickly came to him a reputation for practical usefulness. He was a
man with strong opinions, who could yet be submissive. And no man
seemed to know how his reputation had come. He had made one good
speech after two or three failures. All who knew him, his whole
party, had been aware of his failure; and his one good speech had
been regarded by many as no very wonderful effort. But he was a man
who was pleasant to other men,--not combative, not self-asserting
beyond the point at which self-assertion ceases to be a necessity of
manliness. Nature had been very good to him, making him comely inside
and out,--and with this comeliness he had crept into popularity.

The secret of the duel was, I think, at this time, known to a great
many men and women. So Phineas perceived; but it was not, he thought,
known either to Lord Brentford or to Violet Effingham. And in this
he was right. No rumour of it had yet reached the ears of either of
these persons;--and rumour, though she flies so fast and so far, is
often slow in reaching those ears which would be most interested in
her tidings. Some dim report of the duel reached even Mr. Kennedy,
and he asked his wife. "Who told you?" said she, sharply.

"Bonteen told me that it was certainly so."

"Mr. Bonteen always knows more than anybody else about everything
except his own business."

"Then it is not true?"

Lady Laura paused,--and then she lied. "Of course it is not true. I
should be very sorry to ask either of them, but to me it seems to be
the most improbable thing in life." Then Mr. Kennedy believed that
there had been no duel. In his wife's word he put absolute faith, and
he thought that she would certainly know anything that her brother
had done. As he was a man given to but little discourse, he asked no
further questions about the duel either in the House or at the Clubs.

At first, Phineas had been greatly dismayed when men had asked
him questions tending to elicit from him some explanation of the
mystery;--but by degrees he became used to it, and as the tidings
which had got abroad did not seem to injure him, and as the
questionings were not pushed very closely, he became indifferent.
There came out another article in the _People's Banner_ in which Lord
C----n and Mr. P----s F----n were spoken of as glaring examples of
that aristocratic snobility,--that was the expressive word coined,
evidently with great delight, for the occasion,--which the rotten
state of London society in high quarters now produced. Here was
a young lord, infamously notorious, quarrelling with one of his
boon-companions, whom he had appointed to a private seat in the
House of Commons, fighting duels, breaking the laws, scandalising
the public,--and all this was done without punishment to the guilty!
There were old stories afloat,--so said the article--of what in a
former century had been done by Lord Mohuns and Mr. Bests; but now,
in 186--, &c. &c. &c. And so the article went on. Any reader may fill
in without difficulty the concluding indignation and virtuous appeal
for reform in social morals as well as Parliament. But Phineas had so
far progressed that he had almost come to like this kind of thing.

Certainly I think that the duel did him no harm in society. Otherwise
he would hardly have been asked to a semi-political dinner at Lady
Glencora Palliser's, even though he might have been invited to make
one of the five hundred guests who were crowded into her saloons
and staircases after the dinner was over. To have been one of the
five hundred was nothing; but to be one of the sixteen was a great
deal,--was indeed so much that Phineas, not understanding as yet the
advantage of his own comeliness, was at a loss to conceive why so
pleasant an honour was conferred upon him. There was no man among the
eight men at the dinner-party not in Parliament,--and the only other
except Phineas not attached to the Government was Mr. Palliser's
great friend, John Grey, the member for Silverbridge. There were four
Cabinet Ministers in the room,--the Duke, Lord Cantrip, Mr. Gresham,
and the owner of the mansion. There was also Barrington Erle and
young Lord Fawn, an Under-Secretary of State. But the wit and grace
of the ladies present lent more of character to the party than even
the position of the men. Lady Glencora Palliser herself was a host.
There was no woman then in London better able to talk to a dozen
people on a dozen subjects; and then, moreover, she was still in
the flush of her beauty and the bloom of her youth. Lady Laura was
there;--by what means divided from her husband Phineas could not
imagine; but Lady Glencora was good at such divisions. Lady Cantrip
had been allowed to come with her lord;--but, as was well understood,
Lord Cantrip was not so manifestly a husband as was Mr. Kennedy.
There are men who cannot guard themselves from the assertion of
marital rights at most inappropriate moments. Now Lord Cantrip lived
with his wife most happily; yet you should pass hours with him and
her together, and hardly know that they knew each other. One of the
Duke's daughters was there,--but not the Duchess, who was known to be
heavy;--and there was the beauteous Marchioness of Hartletop. Violet
Effingham was in the room also,--giving Phineas a blow at the heart
as he saw her smile. Might it be that he could speak a word to her on
this occasion? Mr. Grey had also brought his wife;--and then there
was Madame Max Goesler. Phineas found that it was his fortune to take
down to dinner,--not Violet Effingham, but Madame Max Goesler. And,
when he was placed at dinner, on the other side of him there sat Lady
Hartletop, who addressed the few words which she spoke exclusively
to Mr. Palliser. There had been in former days matters difficult of
arrangement between those two; but I think that those old passages
had now been forgotten by them both. Phineas was, therefore, driven
to depend exclusively on Madame Max Goesler for conversation, and
he found that he was not called upon to cast his seed into barren
ground.

Up to that moment he had never heard of Madame Max Goesler. Lady
Glencora, in introducing them, had pronounced the lady's name so
clearly that he had caught it with accuracy, but he could not surmise
whence she had come, or why she was there. She was a woman probably
something over thirty years of age. She had thick black hair, which
she wore in curls,--unlike anybody else in the world,--in curls which
hung down low beneath her face, covering, and perhaps intended to
cover, a certain thinness in her cheeks which would otherwise have
taken something from the charm of her countenance. Her eyes were
large, of a dark blue colour, and very bright,--and she used them in
a manner which is as yet hardly common with Englishwomen. She seemed
to intend that you should know that she employed them to conquer
you, looking as a knight may have looked in olden days who entered a
chamber with his sword drawn from the scabbard and in his hand. Her
forehead was broad and somewhat low. Her nose was not classically
beautiful, being broader at the nostrils than beauty required, and,
moreover, not perfectly straight in its line. Her lips were thin.
Her teeth, which she endeavoured to show as little as possible, were
perfect in form and colour. They who criticised her severely said,
however, that they were too large. Her chin was well formed, and
divided by a dimple which gave to her face a softness of grace which
would otherwise have been much missed. But perhaps her great beauty
was in the brilliant clearness of her dark complexion. You might
almost fancy that you could see into it so as to read the different
lines beneath the skin. She was somewhat tall, though by no means
tall to a fault, and was so thin as to be almost meagre in her
proportions. She always wore her dress close up to her neck, and
never showed the bareness of her arms. Though she was the only woman
so clad now present in the room, this singularity did not specially
strike one, because in other respects her apparel was so rich and
quaint as to make inattention to it impossible. The observer who did
not observe very closely would perceive that Madame Max Goesler's
dress was unlike the dress of other women, but seeing that it was
unlike in make, unlike in colour, and unlike in material, the
ordinary observer would not see also that it was unlike in form for
any other purpose than that of maintaining its general peculiarity
of character. In colour she was abundant, and yet the fabric of
her garment was always black. My pen may not dare to describe the
traceries of yellow and ruby silk which went in and out through
the black lace, across her bosom, and round her neck, and over her
shoulders, and along her arms, and down to the very ground at her
feet, robbing the black stuff of all its sombre solemnity, and
producing a brightness in which there was nothing gaudy. She wore
no vestige of crinoline, and hardly anything that could be called a
train. And the lace sleeves of her dress, with their bright traceries
of silk, were fitted close to her arms; and round her neck she wore
the smallest possible collar of lace, above which there was a short
chain of Roman gold with a ruby pendant. And she had rubies in her
ears, and a ruby brooch, and rubies in the bracelets on her arms.
Such, as regarded the outward woman, was Madame Max Goesler; and
Phineas, as he took his place by her side, thought that fortune for
the nonce had done well with him,--only that he should have liked it
so much better could he have been seated next to Violet Effingham!

I have said that in the matter of conversation his morsel of seed was
not thrown into barren ground. I do not know that he can truly be
said to have produced even a morsel. The subjects were all mooted
by the lady, and so great was her fertility in discoursing that all
conversational grasses seemed to grow with her spontaneously. "Mr.
Finn," she said, "what would I not give to be a member of the British
Parliament at such a moment as this!"

"Why at such a moment as this particularly?"

"Because there is something to be done, which, let me tell you,
senator though you are, is not always the case with you."

"My experience is short, but it sometimes seems to me that there is
too much to be done."

"Too much of nothingness, Mr. Finn. Is not that the case? But now
there is a real fight in the lists. The one great drawback to the
life of women is that they cannot act in politics."

"And which side would you take?"

"What, here in England?" said Madame Max Goesler,--from which
expression, and from one or two others of a similar nature, Phineas
was led into a doubt whether the lady were a countrywoman of his
or not. "Indeed, it is hard to say. Politically I should want to
out-Turnbull Mr. Turnbull, to vote for everything that could be
voted for,--ballot, manhood suffrage, womanhood suffrage, unlimited
right of striking, tenant right, education of everybody, annual
parliaments, and the abolition of at least the bench of bishops."

"That is a strong programme," said Phineas.

"It is strong, Mr. Finn, but that's what I should like. I think,
however, that I should be tempted to feel a dastard security in the
conviction that I might advocate my views without any danger of
seeing them carried out. For, to tell you the truth, I don't at all
want to put down ladies and gentlemen."

"You think that they would go with the bench of bishops?"

"I don't want anything to go,--that is, as far as real life is
concerned. There's that dear good Bishop of Abingdon is the best
friend I have in the world,--and as for the Bishop of Dorchester,
I'd walk from here to there to hear him preach. And I'd sooner hem
aprons for them all myself than that they should want those pretty
decorations. But then, Mr. Finn, there is such a difference between
life and theory;--is there not?"

"And it is so comfortable to have theories that one is not bound to
carry out," said Phineas.

"Isn't it? Mr. Palliser, do you live up to your political theories?"
At this moment Mr. Palliser was sitting perfectly silent between Lady
Hartletop and the Duke's daughter, and he gave a little spring in his
chair as this sudden address was made to him. "Your House of Commons
theories, I mean, Mr. Palliser. Mr. Finn is saying that it is
very well to have far advanced ideas,--it does not matter how
far advanced,--because one is never called upon to act upon them
practically."

"That is a dangerous doctrine, I think," said Mr. Palliser.

"But pleasant,--so at least Mr. Finn says."

"It is at least very common," said Phineas, not caring to protect
himself by a contradiction.

"For myself," said Mr. Palliser gravely, "I think I may say that I
always am really anxious to carry into practice all those doctrines
of policy which I advocate in theory."

During this conversation Lady Hartletop sat as though no word of it
reached her ears. She did not understand Madame Max Goesler, and by
no means loved her. Mr. Palliser, when he had made his little speech,
turned to the Duke's daughter and asked some question about the
conservatories at Longroyston.

"I have called forth a word of wisdom," said Madame Max Goesler,
almost in a whisper.

"Yes," said Phineas, "and taught a Cabinet Minister to believe that
I am a most unsound politician. You may have ruined my prospects for
life, Madame Max Goesler."

"Let me hope not. As far as I can understand the way of things in
your Government, the aspirants to office succeed chiefly by making
themselves uncommonly unpleasant to those who are in power. If a man
can hit hard enough he is sure to be taken into the elysium of the
Treasury bench,--not that he may hit others, but that he may cease to
hit those who are there. I don't think men are chosen because they
are useful."

"You are very severe upon us all."

"Indeed, as far as I can see, one man is as useful as another. But
to put aside joking,--they tell me that you are sure to become a
minister."

Phineas felt that he blushed. Could it be that people said of him
behind his back that he was a man likely to rise high in political
position? "Your informants are very kind," he replied awkwardly,
"but I do not know who they are. I shall never get up in the way you
describe,--that is, by abusing the men I support."

After that Madame Max Goesler turned round to Mr. Grey, who was
sitting on the other side of her, and Phineas was left for a moment
in silence. He tried to say a word to Lady Hartletop, but Lady
Hartletop only bowed her head gracefully in recognition of the truth
of the statement he made. So he applied himself for a while to his
dinner.

"What do you think of Miss Effingham?" said Madame Max Goesler, again
addressing him suddenly.

"What do I think about her?"

"You know her, I suppose."

"Oh yes, I know her. She is closely connected with the Kennedys, who
are friends of mine."

"So I have heard. They tell me that scores of men are raving about
her. Are you one of them?"

"Oh yes;--I don't mind being one of sundry scores. There is nothing
particular in owning to that."

"But you admire her?"

"Of course I do," said Phineas.

"Ah, I see you are joking. I do amazingly. They say women never do
admire women, but I most sincerely do admire Miss Effingham."

"Is she a friend of yours?"

"Oh no;--I must not dare to say so much as that. I was with her last
winter for a week at Matching, and of course I meet her about at
people's houses. She seems to me to be the most independent girl I
ever knew in my life. I do believe that nothing would make her marry
a man unless she loved him and honoured him, and I think it is so
very seldom that you can say that of a girl."

"I believe so also," said Phineas. Then he paused a moment before he
continued to speak. "I cannot say that I know Miss Effingham very
intimately, but from what I have seen of her, I should think it very
probable that she may not marry at all."

"Very probably," said Madame Max Goesler, who then again turned away
to Mr. Grey.

Ten minutes after this, when the moment was just at hand in which the
ladies were to retreat, Madame Max Goesler again addressed Phineas,
looking very full into his face as she did so. "I wonder whether the
time will ever come, Mr. Finn, in which you will give me an account
of that day's journey to Blankenberg?"

"To Blankenberg!"

"Yes;--to Blankenberg. I am not asking for it now. But I shall look
for it some day." Then Lady Glencora rose from her seat, and Madame
Max Goesler went out with the others.




CHAPTER XLI

Lord Fawn


What had Madame Max Goesler to do with his journey to Blankenberg?
thought Phineas, as he sat for a while in silence between Mr.
Palliser and Mr. Grey; and why should she, who was a perfect
stranger to him, have dared to ask him such a question? But as the
conversation round the table, after the ladies had gone, soon drifted
into politics and became general, Phineas, for a while, forgot Madame
Max Goesler and the Blankenberg journey, and listened to the eager
words of Cabinet Ministers, now and again uttering a word of his own,
and showing that he, too, was as eager as others. But the session
in Mr. Palliser's dining-room was not long, and Phineas soon found
himself making his way amidst a throng of coming guests into the
rooms above. His object was to meet Violet Effingham, but, failing
that, he would not be unwilling to say a few more words to Madame Max
Goesler.

He first encountered Lady Laura, to whom he had not spoken as yet,
and, finding himself standing close to her for a while, he asked her
after his late neighbour. "Do tell me one thing, Lady Laura;--who is
Madame Max Goesler, and why have I never met her before?"

"That will be two things, Mr. Finn; but I will answer both questions
as well as I can. You have not met her before, because she was in
Germany last spring and summer, and in the year before that you were
not about so much as you have been since. Still you must have seen
her, I think. She is the widow of an Austrian banker, and has lived
the greater part of her life at Vienna. She is very rich, and has a
small house in Park Lane, where she receives people so exclusively
that it has come to be thought an honour to be invited by Madame Max
Goesler. Her enemies say that her father was a German Jew, living in
England, in the employment of the Viennese bankers, and they say also
that she has been married a second time to an Austrian Count, to whom
she allows ever so much a year to stay away from her. But of all
this, nobody, I fancy, knows anything. What they do know is that
Madame Max Goesler spends seven or eight thousand a year, and that
she will give no man an opportunity of even asking her to marry him.
People used to be shy of her, but she goes almost everywhere now."

"She has not been at Portman Square?"

"Oh no; but then Lady Glencora is so much more advanced than we are!
After all, we are but humdrum people, as the world goes now."

Then Phineas began to roam about the rooms, striving to find an
opportunity of engrossing five minutes of Miss Effingham's attention.
During the time that Lady Laura was giving him the history of Madame
Max Goesler his eyes had wandered round, and he had perceived that
Violet was standing in the further corner of a large lobby on to
which the stairs opened,--so situated, indeed, that she could hardly
escape, because of the increasing crowd, but on that very account
almost impossible to be reached. He could see, also, that she was
talking to Lord Fawn, an unmarried peer of something over thirty
years of age, with an unrivalled pair of whiskers, a small estate,
and a rising political reputation. Lord Fawn had been talking to
Violet through the whole dinner, and Phineas was beginning to think
that he should like to make another journey to Blankenberg, with the
object of meeting his lordship on the sands. When Lady Laura had done
speaking, his eyes were turned through a large open doorway towards
the spot on which his idol was standing. "It is of no use, my
friend," she said, touching his arm. "I wish I could make you know
that it is of no use, because then I think you would be happier." To
this Phineas made no answer, but went and roamed about the rooms. Why
should it be of no use? Would Violet Effingham marry any man merely
because he was a lord?

Some half-hour after this he had succeeded in making his way up to
the place in which Violet was still standing, with Lord Fawn beside
her. "I have been making such a struggle to get to you," he said.

"And now you are here, you will have to stay, for it is impossible to
get out," she answered. "Lord Fawn has made the attempt half-a-dozen
times, but has failed grievously."

"I have been quite contented," said Lord Fawn;--"more than
contented."

Phineas felt that he ought to give some special reason to Miss
Effingham to account for his efforts to reach her, but yet he had
nothing special to say. Had Lord Fawn not been there, he would
immediately have told her that he was waiting for an answer to the
question he had asked her in Saulsby Park, but he could hardly do
this in presence of the noble Under-Secretary of State. She received
him with her pleasant genial smile, looking exactly as she had looked
when he had parted from her on the morning after their ride. She did
not show any sign of anger, or even of indifference at his approach.
But still it was almost necessary that he should account for his
search of her. "I have so longed to hear from you how you got on at
Loughlinter," he said.

"Yes,--yes; and I will tell you something of it some day, perhaps.
Why do you not come to Lady Baldock's?"

"I did not even know that Lady Baldock was in town."

"You ought to have known. Of course she is in town. Where did you
suppose I was living? Lord Fawn was there yesterday, and can tell you
that my aunt is quite blooming."

"Lady Baldock is blooming," said Lord Fawn; "certainly
blooming;--that is, if evergreens may be said to bloom."

"Evergreens do bloom, as well as spring plants, Lord Fawn. You come
and see her, Mr. Finn;--only you must bring a little money with you
for the Female Protestant Unmarried Women's Emigration Society. That
is my aunt's present hobby, as Lord Fawn knows to his cost."

"I wish I may never spend half-a-sovereign worse."

"But it is a perilous affair for me, as my aunt wants me to go out
as a sort of leading Protestant unmarried female emigrant pioneer
myself."

"You don't mean that," said Lord Fawn, with much anxiety.

"Of course you'll go," said Phineas. "I should, if I were you."

"I am in doubt," said Violet.

"It is such a grand prospect," said he. "Such an opening in life. So
much excitement, you know; and such a useful career."

"As if there were not plenty of opening here for Miss Effingham,"
said Lord Fawn, "and plenty of excitement."

"Do you think there is?" said Violet. "You are much more civil than
Mr. Finn, I must say." Then Phineas began to hope that he need not be
afraid of Lord Fawn. "What a happy man you were at dinner!" continued
Violet, addressing herself to Phineas.

"I thought Lord Fawn was the happy man."

"You had Madame Max Goesler all to yourself for nearly two hours, and
I suppose there was not a creature in the room who did not envy you.
I don't doubt that ever so much interest was made with Lady Glencora
as to taking Madame Max down to dinner. Lord Fawn, I know,
intrigued."

"Miss Effingham, really I must--contradict you."

"And Barrington Erle begged for it as a particular favour. The Duke,
with a sigh, owned that it was impossible, because of his cumbrous
rank; and Mr. Gresham, when it was offered to him, declared that
he was fatigued with the business of the House, and not up to the
occasion. How much did she say to you; and what did she talk about?"

"The ballot chiefly,--that, and manhood suffrage."

"Ah! she said something more than that, I am sure. Madame Max Goesler
never lets any man go without entrancing him. If you have anything
near your heart, Mr. Finn, Madame Max Goesler touched it, I am sure."
Now Phineas had two things near his heart,--political promotion and
Violet Effingham,--and Madame Max Goesler had managed to touch them
both. She had asked him respecting his journey to Blankenberg, and
had touched him very nearly in reference to Miss Effingham. "You know
Madame Max Goesler, of course?" said Violet to Lord Fawn.

"Oh yes, I know the lady;--that is, as well as other people do. No
one, I take it, knows much of her; and it seems to me that the world
is becoming tired of her. A mystery is good for nothing if it remains
always a mystery."

"And it is good for nothing at all when it is found out," said
Violet.

"And therefore it is that Madame Max Goesler is a bore," said Lord
Fawn.

"You did not find her a bore?" said Violet. Then Phineas, choosing
to oppose Lord Fawn as well as he could on that matter, as on every
other, declared that he had found Madame Max Goesler most delightful.
"And beautiful,--is she not?" said Violet.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed Lord Fawn.

"I think her very beautiful," said Phineas.

"So do I," said Violet. "And she is a dear ally of mine. We were a
week together last winter, and swore an undying friendship. She told
me ever so much about Mr. Goesler."

"But she told you nothing of her second husband?" said Lord Fawn.

"Now that you have run into scandal, I shall have done," said Violet.

Half an hour after this, when Phineas was preparing to fight his way
out of the house, he was again close to Madame Max Goesler. He had
not found a single moment in which to ask Violet for an answer to his
old question, and was retiring from the field discomfited, but not
dispirited. Lord Fawn, he thought, was not a serious obstacle in his
way. Lady Laura had told him that there was no hope for him; but
then Lady Laura's mind on that subject was, he thought, prejudiced.
Violet Effingham certainly knew what were his wishes, and knowing
them, smiled on him and was gracious to him. Would she do so if his
pretensions were thoroughly objectionable to her?

"I saw that you were successful this evening," said Madame Max
Goesler to him.

"I was not aware of any success."

"I call it great success to be able to make your way where you will
through such a crowd as there is here. You seem to me to be so stout
a cavalier that I shall ask you to find my servant, and bid him
get my carriage. Will you mind?" Phineas, of course, declared that
he would be delighted. "He is a German, and not in livery. But if
somebody will call out, he will hear. He is very sharp, and much more
attentive than your English footmen. An Englishman hardly ever makes
a good servant."

"Is that a compliment to us Britons?"

"No, certainly not. If a man is a servant, he should be clever enough
to be a good one." Phineas had now given the order for the carriage,
and, having returned, was standing with Madame Max Goesler in the
cloak-room. "After all, we are surely the most awkward people in
the world," she said. "You know Lord Fawn, who was talking to Miss
Effingham just now. You should have heard him trying to pay me a
compliment before dinner. It was like a donkey walking a minuet, and
yet they say he is a clever man and can make speeches." Could it be
possible that Madame Max Goesler's ears were so sharp that she had
heard the things which Lord Fawn had said of her?

"He is a well-informed man," said Phineas.

"For a lord, you mean," said Madame Max Goesler. "But he is an oaf,
is he not? And yet they say he is to marry that girl."

"I do not think he will," said Phineas, stoutly.

"I hope not, with all my heart; and I hope that somebody else
may,--unless somebody else should change his mind. Thank you; I am so
much obliged to you. Mind you come and call on me,--193, Park Lane. I
dare say you know the little cottage." Then he put Madame Max Goesler
into her carriage, and walked away to his club.




CHAPTER XLII

Lady Baldock Does Not Send a Card to Phineas Finn


Lady Baldock's house in Berkeley Square was very stately,--a large
house with five front windows in a row, and a big door, and a huge
square hall, and a fat porter in a round-topped chair;--but it was
dingy and dull, and could not have been painted for the last ten
years, or furnished for the last twenty. Nevertheless, Lady Baldock
had "evenings," and people went to them,--though not such a crowd of
people as would go to the evenings of Lady Glencora. Now Mr. Phineas
Finn had not been asked to the evenings of Lady Baldock for the
present season, and the reason was after this wise.

"Yes, Mr. Finn," Lady Baldock had said to her daughter, who, early in
the spring, was preparing the cards. "You may send one to Mr. Finn,
certainly."

"I don't know that he is very nice," said Augusta Boreham, whose eyes
at Saulsby had been sharper perhaps than her mother's, and who had
her suspicions.

But Lady Baldock did not like interference from her daughter. "Mr.
Finn, certainly," she continued. "They tell me that he is a very
rising young man, and he sits for Lord Brentford's borough. Of course
he is a Radical, but we cannot help that. All the rising young men
are Radicals now. I thought him very civil at Saulsby."

"But, mamma--"

"Well!"

"Don't you think that he is a little free with Violet?"

"What on earth do you mean, Augusta?"

"Have you not fancied that he is--fond of her?"

"Good gracious, no!"

"I think he is. And I have sometimes fancied that she is fond of him,
too."

"I don't believe a word of it, Augusta,--not a word. I should have
seen it if it was so. I am very sharp in seeing such things. They
never escape me. Even Violet would not be such a fool as that. Send
him a card, and if he comes I shall soon see." Miss Boreham quite
understood her mother, though she could never master her,--and the
card was prepared. Miss Boreham could never master her mother by her
own efforts; but it was, I think, by a little intrigue on her part
that Lady Baldock was mastered, and, indeed, altogether cowed, in
reference to our hero, and that this victory was gained on that very
afternoon in time to prevent the sending of the card.

When the mother and daughter were at tea, before dinner, Lord Baldock
came into the room, and, after having been patted and petted and
praised by his mother, he took up all the cards out of a china bowl
and ran his eyes over them. "Lord Fawn!" he said, "the greatest ass
in all London! Lady Hartletop! you know she won't come." "I don't
see why she shouldn't come," said Lady Baldock;--"a mere country
clergyman's daughter!" "Julius Cæsar Conway;--a great friend of mine,
and therefore he always blackballs my other friends at the club. Lord
Chiltern; I thought you were at daggers drawn with Chiltern." "They
say he is going to be reconciled to his father, Gustavus, and I do it
for Lord Brentford's sake. And he won't come, so it does not signify.
And I do believe that Violet has really refused him." "You are quite
right about his not coming," said Lord Baldock, continuing to read
the cards; "Chiltern certainly won't come. Count Sparrowsky;--I
wonder what you know about Sparrowsky that you should ask him here."
"He is asked about, Gustavus; he is indeed," pleaded Lady Baldock. "I
believe that Sparrowsky is a penniless adventurer. Mr. Monk; well,
he is a Cabinet Minister. Sir Gregory Greeswing; you mix your people
nicely at any rate. Sir Gregory Greeswing is the most old-fashioned
Tory in England." "Of course we are not political, Gustavus."
"Phineas Finn. They come alternately,--one and one.

"Mr. Finn is asked everywhere, Gustavus."

"I don't doubt it. They say he is a very good sort of fellow. They
say also that Violet has found that out as well as other people."

"What do you mean, Gustavus?"

"I mean that everybody is saying that this Phineas Finn is going to
set himself up in the world by marrying your niece. He is quite right
to try it on, if he has a chance."

"I don't think he would be right at all," said Lady Baldock, with
much energy. "I think he would be wrong,--shamefully wrong. They say
he is the son of an Irish doctor, and that he hasn't a shilling in
the world."

"That is just why he would be right. What is such a man to do, but to
marry money? He's a deuced good-looking fellow, too, and will be sure
to do it."

"He should work for his money in the city, then, or somewhere there.
But I don't believe it, Gustavus; I don't, indeed."

"Very well. I only tell you what I hear. The fact is that he and
Chiltern have already quarrelled about her. If I were to tell you
that they have been over to Holland together and fought a duel about
her, you wouldn't believe that."

"Fought a duel about Violet! People don't fight duels now, and I
should not believe it."

"Very well. Then send your card to Mr. Finn." And, so saying, Lord
Baldock left the room.

Lady Baldock sat in silence for some time toasting her toes at the
fire, and Augusta Boreham sat by, waiting for orders. She felt pretty
nearly sure that new orders would be given if she did not herself
interfere. "You had better put by that card for the present, my
dear," said Lady Baldock at last. "I will make inquiries. I don't
believe a word of what Gustavus has said. I don't think that even
Violet is such a fool as that. But if rash and ill-natured people
have spoken of it, it may be as well to be careful."

"It is always well to be careful;--is it not, mamma?"

"Not but what I think it very improper that these things should be
said about a young woman; and as for the story of the duel, I don't
believe a word of it. It is absurd. I dare say that Gustavus invented
it at the moment, just to amuse himself."

The card of course was not sent, and Lady Baldock at any rate put so
much faith in her son's story as to make her feel it to be her duty
to interrogate her niece on the subject. Lady Baldock at this period
of her life was certainly not free from fear of Violet Effingham.
In the numerous encounters which took place between them, the aunt
seldom gained that amount of victory which would have completely
satisfied her spirit. She longed to be dominant over her niece as she
was dominant over her daughter; and when she found that she missed
such supremacy, she longed to tell Violet to depart from out her
borders, and be no longer niece of hers. But had she ever done so,
Violet would have gone at the instant, and then terrible things would
have followed. There is a satisfaction in turning out of doors a
nephew or niece who is pecuniarily dependent, but when the youthful
relative is richly endowed, the satisfaction is much diminished. It
is the duty of a guardian, no doubt, to look after the ward; but if
this cannot be done, the ward's money should at least be held with as
close a fist as possible. But Lady Baldock, though she knew that she
would be sorely wounded, poked about on her old body with the sharp
lances of disobedience, and struck with the cruel swords of satire,
if she took upon herself to scold or even to question Violet,
nevertheless would not abandon the pleasure of lecturing and
teaching. "It is my duty," she would say to herself, "and though it
be taken in a bad spirit, I will always perform my duty." So she
performed her duty, and asked Violet Effingham some few questions
respecting Phineas Finn. "My dear," she said, "do you remember
meeting a Mr. Finn at Saulsby?"

"A Mr. Finn, aunt! Why, he is a particular friend of mine. Of course
I do, and he was at Saulsby. I have met him there more than once.
Don't you remember that we were riding about together?"

"I remember that he was there, certainly; but I did not know that he
was a special--friend."

"Most especial, aunt. A 1, I may say;--among young men, I mean."

Lady Baldock was certainly the most indiscreet of old women in such a
matter as this, and Violet the most provoking of young ladies. Lady
Baldock, believing that there was something to fear,--as, indeed,
there was, much to fear,--should have been content to destroy the
card, and to keep the young lady away from the young gentleman,
if such keeping away was possible to her. But Miss Effingham was
certainly very wrong to speak of any young man as being A 1. Fond as
I am of Miss Effingham, I cannot justify her, and must acknowledge
that she used the most offensive phrase she could find, on purpose to
annoy her aunt.

"Violet," said Lady Baldock, bridling up, "I never heard such a word
before from the lips of a young lady."

"Not as A 1? I thought it simply meant very good."

"A 1 is a nobleman," said Lady Baldock.

"No, aunt;--A 1 is a ship,--a ship that is very good," said Violet.

"And do you mean to say that Mr. Finn is,--is,--is,--very good?"

"Yes, indeed. You ask Lord Brentford, and Mr. Kennedy. You know he
saved poor Mr. Kennedy from being throttled in the streets."

"That has nothing to do with it. A policeman might have done that."

"Then he would have been A 1 of policemen,--though A 1 does not mean
a policeman."

"He would have done his duty, and so perhaps did Mr. Finn."

"Of course he did, aunt. It couldn't have been his duty to stand
by and see Mr. Kennedy throttled. And he nearly killed one of the
men, and took the other prisoner with his own hands. And he made a
beautiful speech the other day. I read every word of it. I am so glad
he's a Liberal. I do like young men to be Liberals." Now Lord Baldock
was a Tory, as had been all the Lord Baldocks,--since the first who
had been bought over from the Whigs in the time of George III at the
cost of a barony.

"You have nothing to do with politics, Violet."

"Why shouldn't I have something to do with politics, aunt?"

"And I must tell you that your name is being very unpleasantly
mentioned in connection with that of this young man because of your
indiscretion."

"What indiscretion?" Violet, as she made her demand for a more direct
accusation, stood quite upright before her aunt, looking the old
woman full in the face,--almost with her arms akimbo.

"Calling him A 1, Violet."

"People have been talking about me and Mr. Finn, because I just now,
at this very moment, called him A 1 to you! If you want to scold me
about anything, aunt, do find out something less ridiculous than
that."

"It was most improper language,--and if you used it to me, I am sure
you would to others."

"To what others?"

"To Mr. Finn,--and those sort of people."

"Call Mr. Finn A 1 to his face! Well,--upon my honour I don't know
why I should not. Lord Chiltern says he rides beautifully, and if we
were talking about riding I might do so."

"You have no business to talk to Lord Chiltern about Mr. Finn at
all."

"Have I not? I thought that perhaps the one sin might palliate
the other. You know, aunt, no young lady, let her be ever so
ill-disposed, can marry two objectionable young men,--at the same
time."

"I said nothing about your marrying Mr. Finn."

"Then, aunt, what did you mean?"

"I meant that you should not allow yourself to be talked of with an
adventurer, a young man without a shilling, a person who has come
from nobody knows where in the bogs of Ireland."

"But you used to ask him here."

"Yes,--as long as he knew his place. But I shall not do so again. And
I must beg you to be circumspect."

"My dear aunt, we may as well understand each other. I will not be
circumspect, as you call it. And if Mr. Finn asked me to marry him
to-morrow, and if I liked him well enough, I would take him,--even
though he had been dug right out of a bog. Not only because I liked
him,--mind! If I were unfortunate enough to like a man who was
nothing, I would refuse him in spite of my liking,--because he was
nothing. But this young man is not nothing. Mr. Finn is a fine
fellow, and if there were no other reason to prevent my marrying him
than his being the son of a doctor, and coming out of the bogs, that
would not do so. Now I have made a clean breast to you as regards
Mr. Finn; and if you do not like what I've said, aunt, you must
acknowledge that you have brought it on yourself."

Lady Baldock was left for a time speechless. But no card was sent to
Phineas Finn.




CHAPTER XLIII

Promotion


Phineas got no card from Lady Baldock, but one morning he received
a note from Lord Brentford which was of more importance to him than
any card could have been. At this time, bit by bit, the Reform
Bill of the day had nearly made its way through the committee, but
had been so mutilated as to be almost impossible of recognition
by its progenitors. And there was still a clause or two as to
the rearrangement of seats, respecting which it was known that
there would be a combat,--probably combats,--carried on after the
internecine fashion. There was a certain clipping of counties to be
done, as to which it was said that Mr. Daubeny had declared that
he would not yield till he was made to do so by the brute force of
majorities;--and there was another clause for the drafting of certain
superfluous members from little boroughs, and bestowing them on
populous towns at which they were much wanted, respecting which
Mr. Turnbull had proclaimed that the clause as it now stood was a
fainéant clause, capable of doing, and intended to do, no good in the
proper direction; a clause put into the bill to gull ignorant folk
who had not eyes enough to recognise the fact that it was fainéant; a
make-believe clause,--so said Mr. Turnbull,--to be detested on that
account by every true reformer worse than the old Philistine bonds
and Tory figments of representation, as to which there was at least
no hypocritical pretence of popular fitness. Mr. Turnbull had been
very loud and very angry,--had talked much of demonstrations among
the people, and had almost threatened the House. The House in its
present mood did not fear any demonstrations,--but it did fear that
Mr. Turnbull might help Mr. Daubeny, and that Mr. Daubeny might help
Mr. Turnbull. It was now May,--the middle of May,--and ministers, who
had been at work on their Reform Bill ever since the beginning of the
session, were becoming weary of it. And then, should these odious
clauses escape the threatened Turnbull-Daubeny alliance,--then there
was the House of Lords! "What a pity we can't pass our bills at the
Treasury, and have done with them!" said Laurence Fitzgibbon. "Yes,
indeed," replied Mr. Ratler. "For myself, I was never so tired of a
session in my life. I wouldn't go through it again to be made,--no,
not to be made Chancellor of the Exchequer."

Lord Brentford's note to Phineas Finn was as follows:--


   House of Lords, 16th May, 186--.

   MY DEAR MR. FINN,

   You are no doubt aware that Lord Bosanquet's death has
   taken Mr. Mottram into the Upper House, and that as
   he was Under-Secretary for the Colonies, and as the
   Under-Secretary must be in the Lower House, the vacancy
   must be filled up.


The heart of Phineas Finn at this moment was almost in his mouth. Not
only to be selected for political employment, but to be selected at
once for an office so singularly desirable! Under-Secretaries, he
fancied, were paid two thousand a year. What would Mr. Low say now?
But his great triumph soon received a check. "Mr. Mildmay has spoken
to me on the subject," continued the letter, "and informs me that
he has offered the place at the colonies to his old supporter, Mr.
Laurence Fitzgibbon." Laurence Fitzgibbon!


   I am inclined to think that he could not have done better,
   as Mr. Fitzgibbon has shown great zeal for his party. This
   will vacate the Irish seat at the Treasury Board, and I am
   commissioned by Mr. Mildmay to offer it to you. Perhaps
   you will do me the pleasure of calling on me to-morrow
   between the hours of eleven and twelve.

   Yours very sincerely,

   BRENTFORD.


Phineas was himself surprised to find that his first feeling on
reading this letter was one of dissatisfaction. Here were his golden
hopes about to be realised,--hopes as to the realisation of which
he had been quite despondent twelve months ago,--and yet he was
uncomfortable because he was to be postponed to Laurence Fitzgibbon.
Had the new Under-Secretary been a man whom he had not known, whom he
had not learned to look down upon as inferior to himself, he would
not have minded it,--would have been full of joy at the promotion
proposed for himself. But Laurence Fitzgibbon was such a poor
creature, that the idea of filling a place from which Laurence had
risen was distasteful to him. "It seems to be all a matter of favour
and convenience," he said to himself, "without any reference to the
service." His triumph would have been so complete had Mr. Mildmay
allowed him to go into the higher place at one leap. Other men who
had made themselves useful had done so. In the first hour after
receiving Lord Brentford's letter, the idea of becoming a Lord of the
Treasury was almost displeasing to him. He had an idea that junior
lordships of the Treasury were generally bestowed on young members
whom it was convenient to secure, but who were not good at doing
anything. There was a moment in which he thought that he would refuse
to be made a junior lord.

But during the night cooler reflections told him that he had been
very wrong. He had taken up politics with the express desire of
getting his foot upon a rung of the ladder of promotion, and now, in
his third session, he was about to be successful. Even as a junior
lord he would have a thousand a year; and how long might he have sat
in chambers, and have wandered about Lincoln's Inn, and have loitered
in the courts striving to look as though he had business, before he
would have earned a thousand a year! Even as a junior lord he could
make himself useful, and when once he should be known to be a good
working man, promotion would come to him. No ladder can be mounted
without labour; but this ladder was now open above his head, and he
already had his foot upon it.

At half-past eleven he was with Lord Brentford, who received him
with the blandest smile and a pressure of the hand which was quite
cordial. "My dear Finn," he said, "this gives me the most sincere
pleasure,--the greatest pleasure in the world. Our connection
together at Loughton of course makes it doubly agreeable to me."

"I cannot be too grateful to you, Lord Brentford."

"No, no; no, no. It is all your own doing. When Mr. Mildmay asked
me whether I did not think you the most promising of the young
members on our side in your House, I certainly did say that I quite
concurred. But I should be taking too much on myself, I should be
acting dishonestly, if I were to allow you to imagine that it was my
proposition. Had he asked me to recommend, I should have named you;
that I say frankly. But he did not. He did not. Mr. Mildmay named you
himself. 'Do you think,' he said, 'that your friend Finn would join
us at the Treasury?' I told him that I did think so. 'And do you not
think,' said he, 'that it would be a useful appointment?' Then I
ventured to say that I had no doubt whatever on that point;--that I
knew you well enough to feel confident that you would lend a strength
to the Liberal Government. Then there were a few words said about
your seat, and I was commissioned to write to you. That was all."

Phineas was grateful, but not too grateful, and bore himself very
well in the interview. He explained to Lord Brentford that of course
it was his object to serve the country,--and to be paid for his
services,--and that he considered himself to be very fortunate to be
selected so early in his career for parliamentary place. He would
endeavour to do his duty, and could safely say of himself that he did
not wish to eat the bread of idleness. As he made this assertion, he
thought of Laurence Fitzgibbon. Laurence Fitzgibbon had eaten the
bread of idleness, and yet he was promoted. But Phineas said nothing
to Lord Brentford about his idle friend. When he had made his little
speech he asked a question about the borough.

"I have already ventured to write a letter to my agent at Loughton,
telling him that you have accepted office, and that you will be
shortly there again. He will see Shortribs and arrange it. But if I
were you I should write to Shortribs and to Grating,--after I had
seen Mr. Mildmay. Of course you will not mention my name," And the
Earl looked very grave as he uttered this caution.

"Of course I will not," said Phineas.

"I do not think you'll find any difficulty about the seat," said the
peer. "There never has been any difficulty at Loughton yet. I must
say that for them. And if we can scrape through with Clause 72 we
shall be all right;--shall we not?" This was the clause as to which
so violent an opposition was expected from Mr. Turnbull,--a clause as
to which Phineas himself had felt that he would hardly know how to
support the Government, in the event of the committee being pressed
to a division upon it. Could he, an ardent reformer, a reformer
at heart,--could he say that such a borough as Loughton should be
spared;--that the arrangement by which Shortribs and Grating had sent
him to Parliament, in obedience to Lord Brentford's orders, was in
due accord with the theory of a representative legislature? In what
respect had Gatton and Old Sarum been worse than Loughton? Was he
not himself false to his principle in sitting for such a borough
as Loughton? He had spoken to Mr. Monk, and Mr. Monk had told him
that Rome was not built in a day,--and had told him also that good
things were most valued and were more valuable when they came by
instalments. But then Mr. Monk himself enjoyed the satisfaction of
sitting for a popular Constituency. He was not personally pricked
in the conscience by his own parliamentary position. Now, however,
--now that Phineas had consented to join the Government, any such
considerations as these must be laid aside. He could no longer be a
free agent, or even a free thinker. He had been quite aware of this,
and had taught himself to understand that members of Parliament in
the direct service of the Government were absolved from the necessity
of free-thinking. Individual free-thinking was incompatible with the
position of a member of the Government, and unless such abnegation
were practised, no government would be possible. It was of course a
man's duty to bind himself together with no other men but those with
whom, on matters of general policy, he could agree heartily;--but
having found that he could so agree, he knew that it would be his
duty as a subaltern to vote as he was directed. It would trouble his
conscience less to sit for Loughton and vote for an objectionable
clause as a member of the Government, than it would have done to give
such a vote as an independent member. In so resolving, he thought
that he was simply acting in accordance with the acknowledged rules
of parliamentary government. And therefore, when Lord Brentford spoke
of Clause 72, he could answer pleasantly, "I think we shall carry
it; and, you see, in getting it through committee, if we can carry
it by one, that is as good as a hundred. That's the comfort of
close-fighting in committee. In the open House we are almost as much
beaten by a narrow majority as by a vote against us."

"Just so; just so," said Lord Brentford, delighted to see that his
young pupil,--as he regarded him,--understood so well the system of
parliamentary management. "By-the-bye, Finn, have you seen Chiltern
lately?"

"Not quite lately," said Phineas, blushing up to his eyes.

"Or heard from him?"

"No;--nor heard from him. When last I heard of him he was in
Brussels."

"Ah,--yes; he is somewhere on the Rhine now. I thought that as you
were so intimate, perhaps you corresponded with him. Have you heard
that we have arranged about Lady Laura's money?"

"I have heard. Lady Laura has told me."

"I wish he would return," said Lord Brentford sadly,--almost
solemnly. "As that great difficulty is over, I would receive him
willingly, and make my house pleasant to him, if I can do so. I am
most anxious that he should settle, and marry. Could you not write
to him?" Phineas, not daring to tell Lord Brentford that he had
quarrelled with Lord Chiltern,--feeling that if he did so everything
would go wrong,--said that he would write to Lord Chiltern.

As he went away he felt that he was bound to get an answer from
Violet Effingham. If it should be necessary, he was willing to break
with Lord Brentford on that matter,--even though such breaking should
lose him his borough and his place;--but not on any other matter.




CHAPTER XLIV

Phineas and His Friends


Our hero's friends were, I think, almost more elated by our hero's
promotion than was our hero himself. He never told himself that it
was a great thing to be a junior lord of the Treasury, though he
acknowledged to himself that to have made a successful beginning
was a very great thing. But his friends were loud in their
congratulations,--or condolements as the case might be.

He had his interview with Mr. Mildmay, and, after that, one of
his first steps was to inform Mrs. Bunce that he must change his
lodgings. "The truth is, Mrs. Bunce, not that I want anything better;
but that a better position will be advantageous to me, and that I
can afford to pay for it." Mrs. Bunce acknowledged the truth of the
argument, with her apron up to her eyes. "I've got to be so fond of
looking after you, Mr. Finn! I have indeed," said Mrs. Bunce. "It is
not just what you pays like, because another party will pay as much.
But we've got so used to you, Mr. Finn,--haven't we?" Mrs. Bunce was
probably not aware herself that the comeliness of her lodger had
pleased her feminine eye, and touched her feminine heart. Had anybody
said that Mrs. Bunce was in love with Phineas, the scandal would have
been monstrous. And yet it was so,--after a fashion. And Bunce knew
it,--after his fashion. "Don't be such an old fool," he said, "crying
after him because he's six foot high." "I ain't crying after him
because he's six foot high," whined the poor woman;--"but one does
like old faces better than new, and a gentleman about one's place
is pleasant." "Gentleman be d----d," said Bunce. But his anger was
excited, not by his wife's love for Phineas, but by the use of an
objectionable word.

Bunce himself had been on very friendly terms with Phineas, and they
two had had many discussions on matters of politics, Bunce taking
up the cudgels always for Mr. Turnbull, and generally slipping away
gradually into some account of his own martyrdom. For he had been a
martyr, having failed in obtaining any redress against the policeman
who had imprisoned him so wrongfully. The _People's Banner_
had fought for him manfully, and therefore there was a little
disagreement between him and Phineas on the subject of that great
organ of public opinion. And as Mr. Bunce thought that his lodger
was very wrong to sit for Lord Brentford's borough, subjects were
sometimes touched which were a little galling to Phineas.

Touching this promotion, Bunce had nothing but condolement to offer
to the new junior lord. "Oh yes," said he, in answer to an argument
from Phineas, "I suppose there must be lords, as you call 'em; though
for the matter of that I can't see as they is of any mortal use."

"Wouldn't you have the Government carried on?"

"Government! Well; I suppose there must be government. But the less
of it the better. I'm not against government;--nor yet against laws,
Mr. Finn; though the less of them, too, the better. But what does
these lords do in the Government? Lords indeed! I'll tell you what
they do, Mr. Finn. They wotes; that's what they do! They wotes hard;
black or white, white or black. Ain't that true? When you're a
'lord,' will you be able to wote against Mr. Mildmay to save your
very soul?"

"If it comes to be a question of soul-saving, Mr. Bunce, I shan't
save my place at the expense of my conscience."

"Not if you knows it, you mean. But the worst of it is that a man
gets so thick into the mud that he don't know whether he's dirty or
clean. You'll have to wote as you're told, and of course you'll think
it's right enough. Ain't you been among Parliament gents long enough
to know that that's the way it goes?"

"You think no honest man can be a member of the Government?"

"I don't say that, but I think honesty's a deal easier away from 'em.
The fact is, Mr. Finn, it's all wrong with us yet, and will be till
we get it nigher to the great American model. If a poor man gets into
Parliament,--you'll excuse me, Mr. Finn, but I calls you a poor man."

"Certainly,--as a member of Parliament I am a very poor man."

"Just so,--and therefore what do you do? You goes and lays yourself
out for government! I'm not saying as how you're anyways wrong. A man
has to live. You has winning ways, and a good physiognomy of your
own, and are as big as a life-guardsman." Phineas as he heard this
doubtful praise laughed and blushed. "Very well; you makes your
way with the big wigs, lords and earls and them like, and you gets
returned for a rotten borough;--you'll excuse me, but that's about
it, ain't it?--and then you goes in for government! A man may have
a mission to govern, such as Washington and Cromwell and the like
o' them. But when I hears of Mr. Fitzgibbon a-governing, why then I
says,--d----n it all."

"There must be good and bad you know."

"We've got to change a deal yet, Mr. Finn, and we'll do it. When a
young man as has liberal feelings gets into Parliament, he shouldn't
be snapped up and brought into the governing business just because
he's poor and wants a salary. They don't do it that way in the
States; and they won't do it that way here long. It's the system as I
hates, and not you, Mr. Finn. Well, good-bye, sir. I hope you'll like
the governing business, and find it suits your health."

These condolements from Mr. Bunce were not pleasant, but they set
him thinking. He felt assured that Bunce and Quintus Slide and Mr.
Turnbull were wrong. Bunce was ignorant. Quintus Slide was dishonest.
Turnbull was greedy of popularity. For himself, he thought that as a
young man he was fairly well informed. He knew that he meant to be
true in his vocation. And he was quite sure that the object nearest
to his heart in politics was not self-aggrandisement, but the welfare
of the people in general. And yet he could not but agree with Bunce
that there was something wrong. When such men as Laurence Fitzgibbon
were called upon to act as governors, was it not to be expected
that the ignorant but still intelligent Bunces of the population
should--"d----n it all"?

On the evening of that day he went up to Mrs. Low's, very sure that
he should receive some encouragement from her and from her husband.
She had been angry with him because he had put himself into a
position in which money must be spent and none could be made. The
Lows, especially Mrs. Low, had refused to believe that any success
was within his reach. Now that he had succeeded, now that he was in
receipt of a salary on which he could live and save money, he would
be sure of sympathy from his old friends the Lows!

But Mrs. Low was as severe upon him as Mr. Bunce had been, and
even from Mr. Low he could extract no real comfort. "Of course I
congratulate you," said Mr. Low coldly.

"And you, Mrs. Low?"

"Well, you know, Mr. Finn, I think you have begun at the wrong end. I
thought so before, and I think so still. I suppose I ought not to say
so to a Lord of the Treasury, but if you ask me, what can I do?"

"Speak the truth out, of course."

"Exactly. That's what I must do. Well, the truth is, Mr. Finn, that
I do not think it is a very good opening for a young man to be made
what they call a Lord of the Treasury,--unless he has got a private
fortune, you know, to support that kind of life."

"You see, Phineas, a ministry is such an uncertain thing," said Mr.
Low.

"Of course it's uncertain;--but as I did go into the House, it's
something to have succeeded."

"If you call that success," said Mrs. Low.

"You did intend to go on with your profession," said Mr. Low. He
could not tell them that he had changed his mind, and that he meant
to marry Violet Effingham, who would much prefer a parliamentary life
for her husband to that of a working barrister. "I suppose that is
all given up now," continued Mr. Low.

"Just for the present," said Phineas.

"Yes;--and for ever I fear," said Mrs. Low, "You'll never go back to
real work after frittering away your time as a Lord of the Treasury.
What sort of work must it be when just anybody can do it that it
suits them to lay hold of? But of course a thousand a year is
something, though a man may have it for only six months."

It came out in the course of the evening that Mr. Low was going
to stand for the borough vacated by Mr. Mottram, at which it was
considered that the Conservatives might possibly prevail. "You see,
after all, Phineas," said Mr. Low, "that I am following your steps."

"Ah; you are going into the House in the course of your profession."

"Just so," said Mrs. Low.

"And are taking the first step towards being a Tory
Attorney-General."

"That's as may be," said Mr. Low. "But it's the kind of thing a man
does after twenty years of hard work. For myself, I really don't
care much whether I succeed or fail. I should like to live to be a
Vice-Chancellor. I don't mind saying as much as that to you. But I'm
not at all sure that Parliament is the best way to the Equity Bench."

"But it is a grand thing to get into Parliament when you do it by
means of your profession," said Mrs. Low.

Soon after that Phineas took his departure from the house, feeling
sore and unhappy. But on the next morning he was received in
Grosvenor Place with an amount of triumph which went far to
compensate him. Lady Laura had written to him to call there, and on
his arrival he found both Violet Effingham and Madame Max Goesler
with his friend. When Phineas entered the room his first feeling was
one of intense joy at seeing that Violet Effingham was present there.
Then there was one of surprise that Madame Max Goesler should make
one of the little party. Lady Laura had told him at Mr. Palliser's
dinner-party that they, in Portman Square, had not as yet advanced
far enough to receive Madame Max Goesler,--and yet here was the lady
in Mr. Kennedy's drawing-room. Now Phineas would have thought it more
likely that he should find her in Portman Square than in Grosvenor
Place. The truth was that Madame Goesler had been brought by Miss
Effingham,--with the consent, indeed, of Lady Laura, but with a
consent given with much of hesitation. "What are you afraid of?"
Violet had asked. "I am afraid of nothing," Lady Laura had answered;
"but one has to choose one's acquaintance in accordance with rules
which one doesn't lay down very strictly." "She is a clever woman,"
said Violet, "and everybody likes her; but if you think Mr. Kennedy
would object, of course you are right." Then Lady Laura had
consented, telling herself that it was not necessary that she should
ask her husband's approval as to every new acquaintance she might
form. At the same time Violet had been told that Phineas would be
there, and so the party had been made up.

"'See the conquering hero comes,' said Violet in her cheeriest voice.

"I am so glad that Mr. Finn has been made a lord of something,"
said Madame Max Goesler. "I had the pleasure of a long political
discussion with him the other night, and I quite approve of him."

"We are so much gratified, Mr. Finn," said Lady Laura. "Mr. Kennedy
says that it is the best appointment they could have made, and papa
is quite proud about it."

"You are Lord Brentford's member; are you not?" asked Madame Max
Goesler. This was a question which Phineas did not quite like, and
which he was obliged to excuse by remembering that the questioner had
lived so long out of England as to be probably ignorant of the myths,
and theories, and system, and working of the British Constitution.
Violet Effingham, little as she knew of politics, would never have
asked a question so imprudent.

But the question was turned off, and Phineas, with an easy grace,
submitted himself to be petted, and congratulated, and purred
over, and almost caressed by the three ladies, Their good-natured
enthusiasm was at any rate better than the satire of Bunce, or the
wisdom of Mrs. Low. Lady Laura had no misgivings as to Phineas being
fit for governing, and Violet Effingham said nothing as to the
short-lived tenure of ministers. Madame Max Goesler, though she had
asked an indiscreet question, thoroughly appreciated the advantage
of Government pay, and the prestige of Government power. "You are a
lord now," she said, speaking, as was customary with her, with the
slightest possible foreign accent, "and you will be a president soon,
and then perhaps a secretary. The order of promotion seems odd, but I
am told it is very pleasant."

"It is pleasant to succeed, of course," said Phineas, "let the
success be ever so little."

"We knew you would succeed," said Lady Laura. "We were quite sure of
it. Were we not, Violet?"

"You always said so, my dear. For myself I do not venture to have
an opinion on such matters. Will you always have to go to that big
building in the corner, Mr. Finn, and stay there from ten till four?
Won't that be a bore?"

"We have a half-holiday on Saturday, you know," said Phineas.

"And do the Lords of the Treasury have to take care of the money?"
asked Madame Max Goesler.

"Only their own; and they generally fail in doing that," said
Phineas.

He sat there for a considerable time, wondering whether Mr. Kennedy
would come in, and wondering also as to what Mr. Kennedy would say to
Madame Max Goesler when he did come in. He knew that it was useless
for him to expect any opportunity, then or there, of being alone for
a moment with Violet Effingham. His only chance in that direction
would be in some crowded room, at some ball at which he might ask her
to dance with him; but it seemed that fate was very unkind to him,
and that no such chance came in his way. Mr. Kennedy did not appear,
and Madame Max Goesler with Violet went away, leaving Phineas still
sitting with Lady Laura. Each of them said a kind word to him as
they went. "I don't know whether I may dare to expect that a Lord of
the Treasury will come and see me?" said Madame Max Goesler. Then
Phineas made a second promise that he would call in Park Lane. Violet
blushed as she remembered that she could not ask him to call at Lady
Baldock's. "Good-bye, Mr. Finn," she said, giving him her hand.
"I'm so very glad that they have chosen you; and I do hope that, as
Madame Max says, they'll make you a secretary and a president, and
everything else very quickly,--till it will come to your turn to
be making other people." "He is very nice," said Madame Goesler to
Violet as she took her place in the carriage. "He bears being petted
and spoilt without being either awkward or conceited." "On the whole,
he is rather nice," said Violet; "only he has not got a shilling in
the world, and has to make himself before he will be anybody." "He
must marry money, of course," said Madame Max Goesler.

"I hope you are contented?" said Lady Laura, rising from her chair
and coming opposite to him as soon as they were alone.

"Of course I am contented."

"I was not,--when I first heard of it. Why did they promote that
empty-headed countryman of yours to a place for which he was quite
unfit? I was not contented. But then I am more ambitious for you than
you are for yourself." He sat without answering her for awhile, and
she stood waiting for his reply. "Have you nothing to say to me?" she
asked.

"I do not know what to say. When I think of it all, I am lost in
amazement. You tell me that you are not contented;--that you are
ambitious for me. Why is it that you should feel any interest in the
matter?"

"Is it not reasonable that we should be interested for our friends?"

"But when you and I last parted here in this room you were hardly my
friend."

"Was I not? You wrong me there;--very deeply."

"I told you what was my ambition, and you resented it," said Phineas.

"I think I said that I could not help you, and I think I said also
that I thought you would fail. I do not know that I showed much
resentment. You see, I told her that you were here, that she might
come and meet you. You know that I wished my brother should succeed.
I wished it before I ever knew you. You cannot expect that I should
change my wishes."

"But if he cannot succeed," pleaded Phineas.

"Who is to say that? Has a woman never been won by devotion and
perseverance? Besides, how can I wish to see you go on with a suit
which must sever you from my father, and injure your political
prospects;--perhaps fatally injure them? It seems to me now that my
father is almost the only man in London who has not heard of this
duel."

"Of course he will hear of it. I have half made up my mind to tell
him myself."

"Do not do that, Mr. Finn. There can be no reason for it. But I
did not ask you to come here to-day to talk to you about Oswald or
Violet. I have given you my advice about that, and I can do no more."

"Lady Laura, I cannot take it. It is out of my power to take it."

"Very well. The matter shall be what you members of Parliament call
an open question between us. When papa asked you to accept this place
at the Treasury, did it ever occur to you to refuse it?"

"It did;--for half an hour or so."

"I hoped you would,--and yet I knew that I was wrong. I thought that
you should count yourself to be worth more than that, and that you
should, as it were, assert yourself. But then it is so difficult
to draw the line between proper self-assertion and proper
self-denial;--to know how high to go up the table, and how low to
go down. I do not doubt that you have been right,--only make them
understand that you are not as other junior lords;--that you have
been willing to be a junior lord, or anything else for a purpose;
but that the purpose is something higher than that of fetching and
carrying in Parliament for Mr. Mildmay and Mr. Palliser."

"I hope in time to get beyond fetching and carrying," said Phineas.

"Of course you will; and knowing that, I am glad that you are in
office. I suppose there will be no difficulty about Loughton."

Then Phineas laughed. "I hear," said he, "that Mr. Quintus Slide,
of the _People's Banner_, has already gone down to canvass the
electors."

"Mr. Quintus Slide! To canvass the electors of Loughton!" and Lady
Laura drew herself up and spoke of this unseemly intrusion on her
father's borough, as though the vulgar man who had been named had
forced his way into the very drawing-room in Portman Square. At that
moment Mr. Kennedy came in. "Do you hear what Mr. Finn tells me?" she
said. "He has heard that Mr. Quintus Slide has gone down to Loughton
to stand against him."

"And why not?" said Mr. Kennedy.

"My dear!" ejaculated Lady Laura.

"Mr. Quintus Slide will no doubt lose his time and his money;--but he
will gain the prestige of having stood for a borough, which will be
something for him on the staff of the _People's Banner_," said Mr.
Kennedy.

"He will get that horrid man Vellum to propose him," said Lady Laura.

"Very likely," said Mr. Kennedy. "And the less any of us say about
it the better. Finn, my dear fellow, I congratulate you heartily.
Nothing for a long time has given me greater pleasure than hearing
of your appointment. It is equally honourable to yourself and to Mr.
Mildmay. It is a great step to have gained so early."

Phineas, as he thanked his friend, could not help asking himself what
his friend had done to be made a Cabinet Minister. Little as he,
Phineas, himself had done in the House in his two sessions and a
half, Mr. Kennedy had hardly done more in his fifteen or twenty. But
then Mr. Kennedy was possessed of almost miraculous wealth, and owned
half a county, whereas he, Phineas, owned almost nothing at all.
Of course no Prime Minister would offer a junior lordship at the
Treasury to a man with £30,000 a year. Soon after this Phineas took
his leave. "I think he will do well," said Mr. Kennedy to his wife.

"I am sure he will do well," replied Lady Laura, almost scornfully.

"He is not quite such a black swan with me as he is with you; but
still I think he will succeed, if he takes care of himself. It is
astonishing how that absurd story of his duel with Chiltern has got
about."

"It is impossible to prevent people talking," said Lady Laura.

"I suppose there was some quarrel, though neither of them will tell
you. They say it was about Miss Effingham. I should hardly think that
Finn could have any hopes in that direction."

"Why should he not have hopes?"

"Because he has neither position, nor money, nor birth," said Mr.
Kennedy.

"He is a gentleman." said Lady Laura; "and I think he has position. I
do not see why he should not ask any girl to marry him."

"There is no understanding you, Laura," said Mr. Kennedy, angrily. "I
thought you had quite other hopes about Miss Effingham."

"So I have; but that has nothing to do with it. You spoke of Mr. Finn
as though he would be guilty of some crime were he to ask Violet
Effingham to be his wife. In that I disagree with you. Mr. Finn is--"

"You will make me sick of the name of Mr. Finn."

"I am sorry that I offend you by my gratitude to a man who saved your
life." Mr. Kennedy shook his head. He knew that the argument used
against him was false, but he did not know how to show that he knew
that it was false. "Perhaps I had better not mention his name any
more," continued Lady Laura.

"Nonsense!"

"I quite agree with you that it is nonsense, Robert."

"All I mean to say is, that if you go on as you do, you will turn his
head and spoil him. Do you think I do not know what is going on among
you?"

"And what is going on among us,--as you call it?"

"You are taking this young man up and putting him on a pedestal and
worshipping him, just because he is well-looking, and rather clever
and decently behaved. It's always the way with women who have nothing
to do, and who cannot be made to understand that they should have
duties. They cannot live without some kind of idolatry."

"Have I neglected my duty to you, Robert?"

"Yes,--you know you have;--in going to those receptions at your
father's house on Sundays."

"What has that to do with Mr. Finn?"

"Psha!"

"I begin to think I had better tell Mr. Finn not to come here any
more, since his presence is disagreeable to you. All the world knows
how great is the service he did you, and it will seem to be very
ridiculous. People will say all manner of things; but anything will
be better than that you should go on as you have done,--accusing your
wife of idolatry towards--a young man, because--he is--well-looking."

"I never said anything of the kind."

"You did, Robert."

"I did not. I did not speak more of you than of a lot of others."

"You accused me personally, saying that because of my idolatry I had
neglected my duty; but really you made such a jumble of it all, with
papa's visitors, and Sunday afternoons, that I cannot follow what was
in your mind."

Then Mr. Kennedy stood for awhile, collecting his thoughts, so that
he might unravel the jumble, if that were possible to him; but
finding that it was not possible, he left the room, and closed the
door behind him.

Then Lady Laura was left alone to consider the nature of the
accusation which her husband had brought against her; or the nature
rather of the accusation which she had chosen to assert that her
husband had implied. For in her heart she knew that he had made no
such accusation, and had intended to make none such. The idolatry of
which he had spoken was the idolatry which a woman might show to her
cat, her dog, her picture, her china, her furniture, her carriage and
horses, or her pet maid-servant. Such was the idolatry of which Mr.
Kennedy had spoken;--but was there no other worship in her heart,
worse, more pernicious than that, in reference to this young man?

She had schooled herself about him very severely, and had come to
various resolutions. She had found out and confessed to herself that
she did not, and could not, love her husband. She had found out and
confessed to herself that she did love, and could not help loving,
Phineas Finn. Then she had resolved to banish him from her presence,
and had gone the length of telling him so. After that she had
perceived that she had been wrong, and had determined to meet him as
she met other men,--and to conquer her love. Then, when this could
not be done, when something almost like idolatry grew upon her, she
determined that it should be the idolatry of friendship, that she
would not sin even in thought, that there should be nothing in her
heart of which she need be ashamed;--but that the one great object
and purport of her life should be the promotion of this friend's
welfare. She had just begun to love after this fashion, had taught
herself to believe that she might combine something of the pleasure
of idolatry towards her friend with a full complement of duty towards
her husband, when Phineas came to her with his tale of love for
Violet Effingham. The lesson which she got then was a very rough
one,--so hard that at first she could not bear it. Her anger at his
love for her brother's wished-for bride was lost in her dismay that
Phineas should love any one after having once loved her. But by
sheer force of mind she had conquered that dismay, that feeling of
desolation at her heart, and had almost taught herself to hope that
Phineas might succeed with Violet. He wished it,--and why should he
not have what he wished,--he, whom she so fondly idolised? It was not
his fault that he and she were not man and wife. She had chosen to
arrange it otherwise, and was she not bound to assist him now in the
present object of his reasonable wishes? She had got over in her
heart that difficulty about her brother, but she could not quite
conquer the other difficulty. She could not bring herself to plead
his cause with Violet. She had not brought herself as yet to do it.

And now she was accused of idolatry for Phineas by her husband,--she
with "a lot of others," in which lot Violet was of course included.
Would it not be better that they two should be brought together?
Would not her friend's husband still be her friend? Would she not
then forget to love him? Would she not then be safer than she was
now?

As she sat alone struggling with her difficulties, she had not as yet
forgotten to love him,--nor was she as yet safe.




CHAPTER XLV

Miss Effingham's Four Lovers


One morning early in June Lady Laura called at Lady Baldock's house
and asked for Miss Effingham. The servant was showing her into
the large drawing-room, when she again asked specially for Miss
Effingham. "I think Miss Effingham is there," said the man, opening
the door. Miss Effingham was not there. Lady Baldock was sitting
all alone, and Lady Laura perceived that she had been caught in
the net which she specially wished to avoid. Now Lady Baldock had
not actually or openly quarrelled with Lady Laura Kennedy or with
Lord Brentford, but she had conceived a strong idea that her niece
Violet was countenanced in all improprieties by the Standish family
generally, and that therefore the Standish family was to be regarded
as a family of enemies. There was doubtless in her mind considerable
confusion on the subject, for she did not know whether Lord Chiltern
or Mr. Finn was the suitor whom she most feared,--and she was aware,
after a sort of muddled fashion, that the claims of these two wicked
young men were antagonistic to each other. But they were both
regarded by her as emanations from the same source of iniquity,
and, therefore, without going deeply into the machinations of Lady
Laura,--without resolving whether Lady Laura was injuring her by
pressing her brother as a suitor upon Miss Effingham, or by pressing
a rival of her brother,--still she became aware that it was her duty
to turn a cold shoulder on those two houses in Portman Square and
Grosvenor Place. But her difficulties in doing this were very great,
and it may be said that Lady Baldock was placed in an unjust and
cruel position. Before the end of May she had proposed to leave
London, and to take her daughter and Violet down to Baddingham,--or
to Brighton, if they preferred it, or to Switzerland. "Brighton in
June!" Violet had exclaimed. "Would not a month among the glaciers be
delightful!" Miss Boreham had said. "Don't let me keep you in town,
aunt," Violet replied; "but I do not think I shall go till other
people go. I can have a room at Laura Kennedy's house." Then Lady
Baldock, whose position was hard and cruel, resolved that she would
stay in town. Here she had in her hands a ward over whom she had no
positive power, and yet in respect to whom her duty was imperative!
Her duty was imperative, and Lady Baldock was not the woman to
neglect her duty;--and yet she knew that the doing of her duty would
all be in vain. Violet would marry a shoe-black out of the streets if
she were so minded. It was of no use that the poor lady had provided
herself with two strings, two most excellent strings, to her
bow,--two strings either one of which should have contented Miss
Effingham. There was Lord Fawn, a young peer, not very rich
indeed,--but still with means sufficient for a wife, a rising
man, and in every way respectable, although a Whig. And there
was Mr. Appledom, one of the richest commoners in England, a
fine Conservative too, with a seat in the House, and everything
appropriate. He was fifty, but looked hardly more than thirty-five,
and was,--so at least Lady Baldock frequently asserted,--violently in
love with Violet Effingham. Why had not the law, or the executors, or
the Lord Chancellor, or some power levied for the protection of the
proprieties, made Violet absolutely subject to her guardian till she
should be made subject to a husband?

"Yes, I think she is at home," said Lady Baldock, in answer to Lady
Laura's inquiry for Violet. "At least, I hardly know. She seldom
tells me what she means to do,--and sometimes she will walk out quite
alone!" A most imprudent old woman was Lady Baldock, always opening
her hand to her adversaries, unable to control herself in the
scolding of people, either before their faces or behind their backs,
even at moments in which such scolding was most injurious to her own
cause. "However, we will see," she continued. Then the bell was rung,
and in a few minutes Violet was in the room. In a few minutes more
they were up-stairs together in Violet's own room, in spite of the
openly-displayed wrath of Lady Baldock. "I almost wish she had never
been born," said Lady Baldock to her daughter. "Oh, mamma, don't
say that." "I certainly do wish that I had never seen her." "Indeed
she has been a grievous trouble to you, mamma," said Miss Boreham,
sympathetically.

"Brighton! What nonsense!" said Lady Laura.

"Of course it's nonsense. Fancy going to Brighton! And then they
have proposed Switzerland. If you could only hear Augusta talking in
rapture of a month among the glaciers! And I feel so ungrateful. I
believe they would spend three months with me at any horrible place
that I could suggest,--at Hong Kong if I were to ask it,--so intent
are they on taking me away from metropolitan danger."

"But you will not go?"

"No!--I won't go. I know I am very naughty; but I can't help feeling
that I cannot be good without being a fool at the same time. I must
either fight my aunt, or give way to her. If I were to yield, what a
life I should have;--and I should despise myself after all."

"And what is the special danger to be feared now?"

"I don't know;--you, I fancy. I told her that if she went, I should
go to you. I knew that would make her stay."

"I wish you would come to me," said Lady Laura.

"I shouldn't think of it really,--not for any length of time."

"Why not?"

"Because I should be in Mr. Kennedy's way."

"You wouldn't be in his way in the least. If you would only be down
punctually for morning prayers, and go to church with him on Sunday
afternoon, he would be delighted to have you."

"What did he say about Madame Max coming?"

"Not a word. I don't think he quite knew who she was then. I fancy he
has inquired since, by something he said yesterday."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing that matters;--only a word. I haven't come here to talk
about Madame Max Goesler,--nor yet about Mr. Kennedy."

"Whom have you come to talk about?" asked Violet, laughing a little,
with something of increased colour in her cheeks, though she could
not be said to blush.

"A lover of course," said Lady Laura.

"I wish you would leave me alone with my lovers. You are as bad or
worse than my aunt. She, at any rate, varies her prescription. She
has become sick of poor Lord Fawn because he's a Whig."

"And who is her favourite now?"

"Old Mr. Appledom,--who is really a most unexceptionable old party,
and whom I like of all things. I really think I could consent to be
Mrs. Appledom, to get rid of my troubles,--if he did not dye his
whiskers and have his coats padded."

"He'd give up those little things if you asked him."

"I shouldn't have the heart to do it. Besides, this isn't his time of
the year for making proposals. His love fever, which is of a very low
kind, and intermits annually, never comes on till the autumn. It is a
rural malady, against which he is proof while among his clubs!"

"Well, Violet,--I am like your aunt."

"Like Lady Baldock?"

"In one respect. I, too, will vary my prescription."

"What do you mean, Laura?"

"Just this,--that if you like to marry Phineas Finn, I will say that
you are right."

"Heaven and earth! And why am I to marry Phineas Finn?"

"Only for two reasons; because he loves you, and because--"

"No,--I deny it. I do not."

"I had come to fancy that you did."

"Keep your fancy more under control then. But upon my word I can't
understand this. He was your great friend."

"What has that to do with it?" demanded Lady Laura.

"And you have thrown over your brother, Laura?"

"You have thrown him over. Is he to go on for ever asking and being
refused?"

"I do not know why he should not," said Violet, "seeing how very
little trouble it gives him. Half an hour once in six months does it
all for him, allowing him time for coming and going in a cab."

"Violet, I do not understand you. Have you refused Oswald so often
because he does not pass hours on his knees before you?"

"No, indeed! His nature would be altered very much for the worse
before he could do that."

"Why do you throw it in his teeth then that he does not give you more
of his time?"

"Why have you come to tell me to marry Mr. Phineas Finn? That is what
I want to know. Mr. Phineas Finn, as far as I am aware, has not a
shilling in the world,--except a month's salary now due to him from
the Government. Mr. Phineas Finn I believe to be the son of a country
doctor in Ireland,--with about seven sisters. Mr. Phineas Finn is a
Roman Catholic. Mr. Phineas Finn is,--or was a short time ago,--in
love with another lady; and Mr. Phineas Finn is not so much in
love at this moment but what he is able to intrust his cause to an
ambassador. None short of a royal suitor should ever do that with
success."

"Has he never pleaded his cause to you himself?"

"My dear, I never tell gentlemen's secrets. It seems that if he has,
his success was so trifling that he has thought he had better trust
some one else for the future."

"He has not trusted me. He has not given me any commission."

"Then why have you come?"

"Because,--I hardly know how to tell his story. There have been
things about Oswald which made it almost necessary that Mr. Finn
should explain himself to me."

"I know it all;--about their fighting. Foolish young men! I am not
a bit obliged to either of them,--not a bit. Only fancy, if my aunt
knew it, what a life she would lead me! Gustavus knows all about it,
and I feel that I am living at his mercy. Why were they so
wrong-headed?"

"I cannot answer that,--though I know them well enough to be sure
that Chiltern was the one in fault."

"It is so odd that you should have thrown your brother over."

"I have not thrown my brother over. Will you accept Oswald if he asks
you again?"

"No," almost shouted Violet.

"Then I hope that Mr. Finn may succeed. I want him to succeed in
everything. There;--you may know it all. He is my Phoebus Apollo."

"That is flattering to me,--looking at the position in which you
desire to place your Phoebus at the present moment."

"Come, Violet, I am true to you, and let me have a little truth from
you. This man loves you, and I think is worthy of you. He does not
love me, but he is my friend. As his friend, and believing in his
worth, I wish for his success beyond almost anything else in the
world. Listen to me, Violet. I don't believe in those reasons which
you gave me just now for not becoming this man's wife."

"Nor do I."

"I know you do not. Look at me. I, who have less of real heart than
you, I who thought that I could trust myself to satisfy my mind and
my ambition without caring for my heart, I have married for what you
call position. My husband is very rich, and a Cabinet Minister, and
will probably be a peer. And he was willing to marry me at a time
when I had not a shilling of my own."

"He was very generous."

"He has asked for it since," said Lady Laura. "But never mind. I have
not come to talk about myself;--otherwise than to bid you not do what
I have done. All that you have said about this man's want of money
and of family is nothing."

"Nothing at all," said Violet. "Mere words,--fit only for such people
as my aunt."

"Well then?"

"Well?"

"If you love him--!"

"Ah! but if I do not? You are very close in inquiring into my
secrets. Tell me, Laura;--was not this young Crichton once a lover of
your own?"

"Psha! And do you think I cannot keep a gentleman's secret as well as
you?"

"What is the good of any secret, Laura, when we have been already so
open? He tried his 'prentice hand on you; and then he came to me. Let
us watch him, and see who'll be the third. I too like him well enough
to hope that he'll land himself safely at last."




CHAPTER XLVI

The Mousetrap


Phineas had certainly no desire to make love by an ambassador,--at
second-hand. He had given no commission to Lady Laura, and was, as
the reader is aware, quite ignorant of what was being done and said
on his behalf. He had asked no more from Lady Laura than an
opportunity of speaking for himself, and that he had asked almost
with a conviction that by so asking he would turn his friend into an
enemy. He had read but little of the workings of Lady Laura's heart
towards himself, and had no idea of the assistance she was anxious to
give him. She had never told him that she was willing to sacrifice
her brother on his behalf, and, of course, had not told him that she
was willing also to sacrifice herself. Nor, when she wrote to him one
June morning and told him that Violet would be found in Portman
Square, alone, that afternoon,--naming an hour, and explaining that
Miss Effingham would be there to meet herself and her father, but
that at such an hour she would be certainly alone,--did he even then
know how much she was prepared to do for him. The short note was
signed "L.," and then there came a long postscript. "Ask for me," she
said in a postscript. "I shall be there later, and I have told them
to bid you wait. I can give you no hope of success, but if you choose
to try,--you can do so. If you do not come, I shall know that you
have changed your mind. I shall not think the worse of you, and your
secret will be safe with me. I do that which you have asked me to
do,--simply because you have asked it. Burn this at once,--because I
ask it." Phineas destroyed the note, tearing it into atoms, the
moment that he had read it and re-read it. Of course he would go to
Portman Square at the hour named. Of course he would take his chance.
He was not buoyed up by much of hope;--but even though there were no
hope, he would take his chance.

When Lord Brentford had first told Phineas of his promotion, he had
also asked the new Lord of the Treasury to make a certain
communication on his behalf to his son. This Phineas had found
himself obliged to promise to do;--and he had done it. The letter had
been difficult enough to write,--but he had written it. After having
made the promise, he had found himself bound to keep it.

"Dear Lord Chiltern," he had commenced, "I will not think that there
was anything in our late encounter to prevent my so addressing you. I
now write at the instance of your father, who has heard nothing of
our little affair." Then he explained at length Lord Brentford's
wishes as he understood them. "Pray come home," he said, finishing
his letter. "Touching V. E., I feel that I am bound to tell you that
I still mean to try my fortune, but that I have no ground for hoping
that my fortune will be good. Since the day on the sands, I have
never met her but in society. I know you will be glad to hear that my
wound was nothing; and I think you will be glad to hear that I have
got my foot on to the ladder of promotion.--Yours always,

"PHINEAS FINN."

Now he had to try his fortune,--that fortune of which he had told
Lord Chiltern that he had no reason for hoping that it would be good.
He went direct from his office at the Treasury to Portman Square,
resolving that he would take no trouble as to his dress, simply
washing his hands and brushing his hair as though he were going down
to the House, and he knocked at the Earl's door exactly at the hour
named by Lady Laura.

"Miss Effingham," he said, "I am so glad to find you alone."

"Yes," she said, laughing. "I am alone,--a poor unprotected female.
But I fear nothing. I have strong reason for believing that Lord
Brentford is somewhere about. And Pomfret the butler, who has known
me since I was a baby, is a host in himself."

"With such allies you can have nothing to fear," he replied,
attempting to carry on her little jest.

"Nor even without them, Mr. Finn. We unprotected females in these
days are so self-reliant that our natural protectors fall off from
us, finding themselves to be no longer wanted. Now with you,--what
can I fear?"

"Nothing,--as I hope."

"There used to be a time, and that not so long ago either, when young
gentlemen and ladies were thought to be very dangerous to each other
if they were left alone. But propriety is less rampant now, and upon
the whole virtue and morals, with discretion and all that kind of
thing, have been the gainers. Don't you think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"All the same, but I don't like to be caught in a trap, Mr. Finn."

"In a trap?"

"Yes;--in a trap. Is there no trap here? If you will say so, I will
acknowledge myself to be a dolt, and will beg your pardon."

"I hardly know what you call a trap."

"You were told that I was here?"

He paused a moment before he replied. "Yes, I was told."

"I call that a trap."

"Am I to blame?"

"I don't say that you set it,--but you use it."

"Miss Effingham, of course I have used it. You must know,--I think
you must know that I have that to say to you which has made me long
for such an opportunity as this."

"And therefore you have called in the assistance of your friend."

"It is true."

"In such matters you should never talk to any one, Mr. Finn. If you
cannot fight your own battle, no one can fight it for you."

"Miss Effingham, do you remember our ride at Saulsby?"

"Very well;--as if it were yesterday."

"And do you remember that I asked you a question which you have never
answered?"

"I did answer it,--as well as I knew how, so that I might tell you a
truth without hurting you."

"It was necessary,--is necessary that I should be hurt sorely, or
made perfectly happy. Violet Effingham, I have come to you to ask you
to be my wife;--to tell you that I love you, and to ask for your love
in return. Whatever may be my fate, the question must be asked, and
an answer must be given. I have not hoped that you should tell me
that you loved me--"

"For what then have you hoped?"

"For not much, indeed;--but if for anything, then for some chance
that you might tell me so hereafter."

"If I loved you, I would tell you so now,--instantly. I give you my
word of that."

"Can you never love me?"

"What is a woman to answer to such a question? No;--I believe never.
I do not think I shall ever wish you to be my husband. You ask me to
be plain, and I must be plain."

"Is it because--?" He paused, hardly knowing what the question was
which he proposed to himself to ask.

"It is for no because,--for no cause except that simple one which
should make any girl refuse any man whom she did not love. Mr.
Finn, I could say pleasant things to you on any other subject than
this,--because I like you."

"I know that I have nothing to justify my suit."

"You have everything to justify it;--at least I am bound to presume
that you have. If you love me,--you are justified."

"You know that I love you."

"I am sorry that it should ever have been so,--very sorry. I can only
hope that I have not been in fault."

"Will you try to love me?"

"No;--why should I try? If any trying were necessary, I would try
rather not to love you. Why should I try to do that which would
displease everybody belonging to me? For yourself, I admit your right
to address me,--and tell you frankly that it would not be in vain, if
I loved you. But I tell you as frankly that such a marriage would not
please those whom I am bound to try to please."

He paused a moment before he spoke further. "I shall wait," he said,
"and come again."

"What am I to say to that? Do not tease me, so that I be driven to
treat you with lack of courtesy. Lady Laura is so much attached to
you, and Mr. Kennedy, and Lord Brentford,--and indeed I may say,
I myself also, that I trust there may be nothing to mar our good
fellowship. Come, Mr. Finn,--say that you will take an answer, and
I will give you my hand."

"Give it me," said he. She gave him her hand, and he put it up to his
lips and pressed it. "I will wait and come again," he said. "I will
assuredly come again." Then he turned from her and went out of the
house. At the corner of the square he saw Lady Laura's carriage, but
did not stop to speak to her. And she also saw him.

"So you have had a visitor here," said Lady Laura to Violet.

"Yes;--I have been caught in the trap."

"Poor mouse! And has the cat made a meal of you?"

"I fancy he has, after his fashion. There be cats that eat their mice
without playing,--and cats that play with their mice, and then eat
them; and cats again which only play with their mice, and don't care
to eat them. Mr. Finn is a cat of the latter kind, and has had his
afternoon's diversion."

"You wrong him there."

"I think not, Laura. I do not mean to say that he would not have
liked me to accept him. But, if I can see inside his bosom, such a
little job as that he has now done will be looked back upon as one of
the past pleasures of his life;--not as a pain."




CHAPTER XLVII

Mr. Mildmay's Bill


It will be necessary that we should go back in our story for a very
short period in order that the reader may be told that Phineas Finn
was duly re-elected at Loughton after his appointment at the Treasury
Board. There was some little trouble at Loughton, and something
more of expense than he had before encountered. Mr. Quintus Slide
absolutely came down, and was proposed by Mr. Vellum for the borough.
Mr. Vellum being a gentleman learned in the law, and hostile to the
interests of the noble owner of Saulsby, was able to raise a little
trouble against our hero. Mr. Slide was proposed by Mr. Vellum, and
seconded by Mr. Vellum's clerk,--though, as it afterwards appeared,
Mr. Vellum's clerk was not in truth an elector,--and went to the poll
like a man. He received three votes, and at twelve o'clock withdrew.
This in itself could hardly have afforded compensation for the
expense which Mr. Slide or his backers must have encountered;--but
he had an opportunity of making a speech, every word of which was
reported in the _People's Banner_; and if the speech was made in the
language given in the report, Mr. Slide was really possessed of some
oratorical power. Most of those who read the speech in the columns
of the _People's Banner_ were probably not aware how favourable an
opportunity of retouching his sentences in type had been given to Mr.
Slide by the fact of his connection with the newspaper. The speech
had been very severe upon our hero; and though the speaker had
been so hooted and pelted at Loughton as to have been altogether
inaudible,--so maltreated that in point of fact he had not been able
to speak above a tenth part of his speech at all,--nevertheless the
speech did give Phineas a certain amount of pain. Why Phineas should
have read it who can tell? But who is there that abstains from
reading that which is printed in abuse of himself?

In the speech as it was printed Mr. Slide declared that he had no
thought of being returned for the borough. He knew too well how
the borough was managed, what slaves the electors were;--how they
groaned under a tyranny from which hitherto they had been unable
to release themselves. Of course the Earl's nominee, his lacquey,
as the honourable gentleman might be called, would be returned.
The Earl could order them to return whichever of his lacqueys he
pleased.--There is something peculiarly pleasing to the democratic
ear in the word lacquey! Any one serving a big man, whatever
the service may be, is the big man's lacquey in the _People's
Banner_.--The speech throughout was very bitter. Mr. Phineas Finn,
who had previously served in Parliament as the lacquey of an Irish
earl, and had been turned off by him, had now fallen into the service
of the English earl, and was the lacquey chosen for the present
occasion. But he, Quintus Slide, who boasted himself to be a man
of the people,--he could tell them that the days of their thraldom
were coming to an end, and that their enfranchisement was near at
hand. That friend of the people, Mr. Turnbull, had a clause in his
breeches-pocket which he would either force down the unwilling throat
of Mr. Mildmay, or else drive the imbecile Premier from office by
carrying it in his teeth. Loughton, as Loughton, must be destroyed,
but it should be born again in a better birth as a part of a
real electoral district, sending a real member, chosen by a real
constituency, to a real Parliament. In those days,--and they would
come soon,--Mr. Quintus Slide rather thought that Mr. Phineas Finn
would be found "nowhere," and he rather thought also that when he
showed himself again, as he certainly should do, in the midst of that
democratic electoral district as the popular candidate for the honour
of representing it in Parliament, that democratic electoral district
would accord to him a reception very different from that which he
was now receiving from the Earl's lacqueys in the parliamentary
village of Loughton. A prettier bit of fiction than these sentences
as composing a part of any speech delivered, or proposed to be
delivered, at Loughton, Phineas thought he had never seen. And when
he read at the close of the speech that though the Earl's hired
bullies did their worst, the remarks of Mr. Slide were received by
the people with reiterated cheering, he threw himself back in his
chair at the Treasury and roared. The poor fellow had been three
minutes on his legs, had received three rotten eggs, and one dead
dog, and had retired. But not the half of the speech as printed in
the _People's Banner_ has been quoted. The sins of Phineas, who in
spite of his inability to open his mouth in public had been made
a Treasury hack by the aristocratic influence,--"by aristocratic
influence not confined to the male sex,"--were described at great
length, and in such language that Phineas for a while was fool enough
to think that it would be his duty to belabour Mr. Slide with a
horsewhip. This notion, however, did not endure long with him, and
when Mr. Monk told him that things of that kind came as a matter of
course, he was comforted.

But he found it much more difficult to obtain comfort when he weighed
the arguments brought forward against the abominations of such a
borough as that for which he sat, and reflected that if Mr. Turnbull
brought forward his clause, he, Phineas Finn, would be bound to vote
against the clause, knowing the clause to be right, because he was a
servant of the Government. The arguments, even though they appeared
in the _People's Banner_, were true arguments; and he had on one
occasion admitted their truth to his friend Lady Laura,--in the
presence of that great Cabinet Minister, her husband. "What business
has such a man as that down there? Is there a single creature who
wants him?" Lady Laura had said. "I don't suppose anybody does want
Mr. Quintus Slide," Phineas had replied; "but I am disposed to think
the electors should choose the man they do want, and that at present
they have no choice left to them." "They are quite satisfied," said
Lady Laura, angrily. "Then, Lady Laura," continued Phineas, "that
alone should be sufficient to prove that their privilege of returning
a member to Parliament is too much for them. We can't defend it."
"It is defended by tradition," said Mr. Kennedy. "And by its great
utility," said Lady Laura, bowing to the young member who was
present, and forgetting that very useless old gentleman, her cousin,
who had sat for the borough for many years. "In this country it
doesn't do to go too fast," said Mr. Kennedy. "And then the mixture
of vulgarity, falsehood, and pretence!" said Lady Laura, shuddering
as her mind recurred to the fact that Mr. Quintus Slide had
contaminated Loughton by his presence. "I am told that they hardly
let him leave the place alive."

Whatever Mr. Kennedy and Lady Laura might think about Loughton
and the general question of small boroughs, it was found by the
Government, to their great cost, that Mr. Turnbull's clause was a
reality. After two months of hard work, all questions of franchise
had been settled, rating and renting, new and newfangled, fancy
franchises and those which no one fancied, franchises for boroughs
and franchises for counties, franchises single, dual, three-cornered,
and four-sided,--by various clauses to which the Committee of the
whole House had agreed after some score of divisions,--the matter
of the franchise had been settled. No doubt there was the House
of Lords, and there might yet be shipwreck. But it was generally
believed that the Lords would hardly look at the bill,--that they
would not even venture on an amendment. The Lords would only be too
happy to let the matter be settled by the Commons themselves. But
then, after the franchise, came redistribution. How sick of the
subject were all members of the Government, no one could tell who
did not see their weary faces. The whole House was sick, having been
whipped into various lobbies, night after night, during the heat of
the summer, for weeks past. Redistribution! Why should there be any
redistribution? They had got, or would get, a beautiful franchise.
Could they not see what that would do for them? Why redistribute
anything? But, alas, it was too late to go back to so blessed an idea
as that! Redistribution they must have. But there should be as little
redistribution as possible. Men were sick of it all, and would not be
exigeant. Something should be done for overgrown counties;--something
for new towns which had prospered in brick and mortar. It would
be easy to crush up a peccant borough or two,--a borough that had
been discovered in its sin. And a few boroughs now blessed with
two members might consent to be blessed only with one. Fifteen
small clauses might settle the redistribution, in spite of Mr.
Turnbull,--if only Mr. Daubeny would be good-natured.

Neither the weather, which was very hot, nor the tedium of the
session, which had been very great, nor the anxiety of Ministers,
which was very pressing, had any effect in impairing the energy
of Mr. Turnbull. He was as instant, as oratorical, as hostile, as
indignant about redistribution as he had been about the franchise. He
had been sure then, and he was sure now, that Ministers desired to
burke the question, to deceive the people, to produce a bill that
should be no bill. He brought out his clause,--and made Loughton
his instance. "Would the honourable gentleman who sat lowest on
the Treasury bench,--who at this moment was in sweet confidential
intercourse with the right honourable gentleman now President of the
Board of Trade, who had once been a friend of the people,--would the
young Lord of the Treasury get up in his place and tell them that
no peer of Parliament had at present a voice in sending a member to
their House of Commons,--that no peer would have a voice if this
bill, as proposed by the Government, were passed in its present
useless, ineffectual, conservative, and most dishonest form?"

Phineas, who replied to this, and who told Mr. Turnbull that he
himself could not answer for any peers,--but that he thought it
probable that most peers would, by their opinions, somewhat influence
the opinions of some electors,--was thought to have got out of his
difficulty very well. But there was the clause of Mr. Turnbull to be
dealt with,--a clause directly disfranchising seven single-winged
boroughs, of which Loughton was of course one,--a clause to which the
Government must either submit or object. Submission would be certain
defeat in one way, and objection would be as certain defeat in
another,--if the gentlemen on the other side were not disposed to
assist the ministers. It was said that the Cabinet was divided.
Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk were for letting the seven boroughs go.
Mr. Mildmay could not bring himself to obey Mr. Turnbull, and Mr.
Palliser supported him. When Mr. Mildmay was told that Mr. Daubeny
would certainly go into the same lobby with Mr. Turnbull respecting
the seven boroughs, he was reported to have said that in that case
Mr. Daubeny must be prepared with a Government. Mr. Daubeny made a
beautiful speech about the seven boroughs;--the seven sins, and seven
stars, and seven churches, and seven lamps. He would make no party
question of this. Gentlemen who usually acted with him would vote
as their own sense of right or wrong directed them;--from which
expression of a special sanction it was considered that these
gentlemen were not accustomed to exercise the privilege now accorded
to them. But in regarding the question as one of right and wrong, and
in looking at what he believed to be both the wish of the country and
its interests, he, Mr. Daubeny,--he, himself, being simply a humble
member of that House,--must support the clause of the honourable
gentleman. Almost all those to whom had been surrendered the
privilege of using their own judgment for that occasion only, used it
discreetly,--as their chief had used it himself,--and Mr. Turnbull
carried his clause by a majority of fifteen. It was then 3 a.m.,
and Mr. Gresham, rising after the division, said that his right
honourable friend the First Lord of the Treasury was too tired
to return to the House, and had requested him to state that the
Government would declare their purpose at 6 p.m. on the following
evening.

Phineas, though he had made his little speech in answer to Mr.
Turnbull with good-humoured flippancy, had recorded his vote in
favour of the seven boroughs with a sore heart. Much as he disliked
Mr. Turnbull, he knew that Mr. Turnbull was right in this. He had
spoken to Mr. Monk on the subject, as it were asking Mr. Monk's
permission to throw up his office, and vote against Mr. Mildmay. But
Mr. Monk was angry with him, telling him that his conscience was of
that restless, uneasy sort which is neither useful nor manly. "We
all know," said Mr. Monk, "and none better than Mr. Mildmay, that
we cannot justify such a borough as Loughton by the theory of our
parliamentary representation,--any more than we can justify the
fact that Huntingdonshire should return as many members as the East
Riding. There must be compromises, and you should trust to others who
have studied the matter more thoroughly than you, to say how far the
compromise should go at the present moment."

"It is the influence of the peer, not the paucity of the electors,"
said Phineas.

"And has no peer any influence in a county? Would you disfranchise
Westmoreland? Believe me, Finn, if you want to be useful, you must
submit yourself in such matters to those with whom you act."

Phineas had no answer to make, but he was not happy in his mind. And
he was the less happy, perhaps, because he was very sure that Mr.
Mildmay would be beaten. Mr. Low in these days harassed him sorely.
Mr. Low was very keen against such boroughs as Loughton, declaring
that Mr. Daubeny was quite right to join his standard to that of Mr.
Turnbull on such an issue. Mr. Low was the reformer now, and Phineas
found himself obliged to fight a losing battle on behalf of an
acknowledged abuse. He never went near Bunce; but, unfortunately for
him, Bunce caught him once in the street and showed him no mercy.
"Slide was a little 'eavy on you in the _Banner_ the other day,--eh,
Mr. Finn?--too 'eavy, as I told him."

"Mr. Slide can be just as heavy as he pleases, Bunce."

"That's in course. The press is free, thank God,--as yet. But it
wasn't any good rattling away at the Earl's little borough when it's
sure to go. Of course it'll go, Mr. Finn."

"I think it will."

"The whole seven on 'em. The 'ouse couldn't but do it. They tell me
it's all Mr. Mildmay's own work, sticking out for keeping on 'em.
He's very old, and so we'll forgive him. But he must go, Mr. Finn."

"We shall know all about that soon, Bunce."

"If you don't get another seat, Mr. Finn, I suppose we shall see you
back at the Inn. I hope we may. It's better than being member for
Loughton, Mr. Finn;--you may be sure of that." And then Mr. Bunce
passed on.

Mr. Turnbull carried his clause, and Loughton was doomed. Loughton
and the other six deadly sins were anathematized, exorcised, and
finally got rid of out of the world by the voices of the gentlemen
who had been proclaiming the beauty of such pleasant vices all their
lives, and who in their hearts hated all changes that tended towards
popular representation. But not the less was Mr. Mildmay beaten;
and, in accordance with the promise made by his first lieutenant
immediately after the vote was taken, the Prime Minister came forward
on the next evening and made his statement. He had already put his
resignation into the hands of Her Majesty, and Her Majesty had
graciously accepted it. He was very old, and felt that the time had
come in which it behoved him to retire into that leisure which he
thought he had, perhaps, earned. He had hoped to carry this bill as
the last act of his political life; but he was too old, too stiff, as
he said, in his prejudices, to bend further than he had bent already,
and he must leave the completion of the matter in other hands. Her
Majesty had sent for Mr. Gresham, and Mr. Gresham had already seen
Her Majesty. Mr. Gresham and his other colleagues, though they
dissented from the clause which had been carried by the united
efforts of gentlemen opposite to him, and of gentlemen below him on
his own side of the House, were younger men than he, and would, for
the country's sake,--and for the sake of Her Majesty,--endeavour
to carry the bill through. There would then, of course, be a
dissolution, and the future Government would, no doubt, depend on
the choice of the country. From all which it was understood that Mr.
Gresham was to go on with the bill to a conclusion, whatever might be
the divisions carried against him, and that a new Secretary of State
for Foreign Affairs must be chosen. Phineas understood, also, that
he had lost his seat at Loughton. For the borough of Loughton there
would never again be an election. "If I had been Mr. Mildmay, I would
have thrown the bill up altogether," Lord Brentford said afterwards;
"but of course it was not for me to interfere."

The session was protracted for two months after that,--beyond the
time at which grouse should have been shot,--and by the 23rd of
August became the law of the land. "I shall never get over it," said
Mr. Ratler to Mr. Finn, seated one terribly hot evening on a bench
behind the Cabinet Ministers,--"never. I don't suppose such a session
for work was ever known before. Think what it is to have to keep
men together in August, with the thermometer at 81°, and the river
stinking like,--like the very mischief." Mr. Ratler, however, did not
die.

On the last day of the session Laurence Fitzgibbon resigned. Rumours
reached the ears of Phineas as to the cause of this, but no certain
cause was told him. It was said that Lord Cantrip had insisted upon
it, Laurence having by mischance been called upon for some official
statement during an unfortunate period of absence. There was,
however, a mystery about it;--but the mystery was not half so
wonderful as the triumph to Phineas, when Mr. Gresham offered him the
place.

"But I shall have no seat," said Phineas.

"We shall none of us have seats to-morrow," said Mr. Gresham.

"But I shall be at a loss to find a place to stand for."

"The election will not come on till November, and you must look about
you. Both Mr. Monk and Lord Brentford seem to think you will be in
the House."

And so the bill was carried, and the session was ended.




CHAPTER XLVIII

"The Duke"


By the middle of September there was assembled a large party at
Matching Priory, a country mansion belonging to Mr. Plantagenet
Palliser. The men had certainly been chosen in reference to their
political feelings and position,--for there was not a guest in
the house who had voted for Mr. Turnbull's clause, or the wife
or daughter, or sister of any one who had so voted. Indeed, in
these days politics ran so high that among politicians all social
gatherings were brought together with some reference to the state
of parties. Phineas was invited, and when he arrived at Matching he
found that half the Cabinet was there. Mr. Kennedy was not there, nor
was Lady Laura. Mr. Monk was there, and the Duke,--with the Duchess,
and Mr. Gresham, and Lord Thrift; Mrs. Max Goesler was there also,
and Mrs. Bonteen,--Mr. Bonteen being detained somewhere out of
the way; and Violet Effingham was expected in two days, and Lord
Chiltern at the end of the week. Lady Glencora took an opportunity
of imparting this latter information to Phineas very soon after his
arrival; and Phineas, as he watched her eye and her mouth while she
spoke, was quite sure that Lady Glencora knew the story of the duel.
"I shall be delighted to see him again," said Phineas. "That is
all right," said Lady Glencora. There were also there Mr. and Mrs.
Grey, who were great friends of the Pallisers,--and on the very day
on which Phineas reached Matching, at half an hour before the time
for dressing, the Duke of Omnium arrived. Now, Mr. Palliser was the
Duke's nephew and heir,--and the Duke of Omnium was a very great
person indeed. I hardly know why it should have been so, but the Duke
of Omnium was certainly a greater man in public estimation than the
other duke then present,--the Duke of St. Bungay. The Duke of St.
Bungay was a useful man, and had been so all his life, sitting in
Cabinets and serving his country, constant as any peer in the House
of Lords, always ready to take on his own shoulders any troublesome
work required of him, than whom Mr. Mildmay, and Mr. Mildmay's
predecessor at the head of the liberal party, had had no more devoted
adherent. But the Duke of Omnium had never yet done a day's work on
behalf of his country. They both wore the Garter, the Duke of St.
Bungay having earned it by service, the Duke of Omnium having been
decorated with the blue ribbon,--because he was Duke of Omnium. The
one was a moral, good man, a good husband, a good father, and a good
friend. The other,--did not bear quite so high a reputation. But men
and women thought but little of the Duke of St. Bungay, while the
other duke was regarded with an almost reverential awe. I think the
secret lay in the simple fact that the Duke of Omnium had not been
common in the eyes of the people. He had contrived to envelope
himself in something of the ancient mystery of wealth and rank.
Within three minutes of the Duke's arrival Mrs. Bonteen, with an air
of great importance, whispered a word to Phineas. "He has come. He
arrived exactly at seven!"

"Who has come?" Phineas asked.

"The Duke of Omnium!" she said, almost reprimanding him by her tone
of voice for his indifference. "There has been a great doubt whether
or no he would show himself at last. Lady Glencora told me that he
never will pledge himself. I am so glad he has come."

"I don't think I ever saw him," said Phineas.

"Oh, I have seen him,--a magnificent-looking man! I think it is so
very nice of Lady Glencora getting him to meet us. It is very rarely
that he will join in a great party, but they say Lady Glencora can do
anything with him since the heir was born. I suppose you have heard
all about that."

"No," said Phineas; "I have heard nothing of the heir, but I know
that there are three or four babies."

"There was no heir, you know, for a year and a half, and they were
all au désespoir; and the Duke was very nearly quarrelling with his
nephew; and Mr. Palliser--; you know it had very nearly come to a
separation."

"I don't know anything at all about it," said Phineas, who was not
very fond of the lady who was giving him the information.

"It is so, I can assure you; but since the boy was born Lady Glencora
can do anything with the Duke. She made him go to Ascot last spring,
and he presented her with the favourite for one of the races on the
very morning the horse ran. They say he gave three thousand pounds
for him."

"And did Lady Glencora win?"

"No;--the horse lost; and Mr. Palliser has never known what to do
with him since. But it was very pretty of the Duke;--was it not?"

Phineas, though he had intended to show to Mrs. Bonteen how little he
thought about the Duke of Omnium,--how small was his respect for a
great peer who took no part in politics,--could not protect himself
from a certain feeling of anxiety as to the aspect and gait and words
of the man of whom people thought so much, of whom he had heard so
often, and of whom he had seen so little. He told himself that the
Duke of Omnium should be no more to him than any other man, but yet
the Duke of Omnium was more to him than other men. When he came
down into the drawing-room he was angry with himself, and stood
apart;--and was then angry with himself again because he stood apart.
Why should he make a difference in his own bearing because there was
such a man in the company? And yet he could not avoid it. When he
entered the room the Duke was standing in a large bow-window, and two
or three ladies and two or three men were standing round him. Phineas
would not go near the group, telling himself that he would not
approach a man so grand as was the Duke of Omnium. He saw Madame Max
Goesler among the party, and after a while he saw her retreat. As she
retreated, Phineas knew that some words from Madame Max Goesler had
not been received with the graciousness which she had expected. There
was the prettiest smile in the world on the lady's face, and she
took a corner on a sofa with an air of perfect satisfaction. But yet
Phineas knew that she had received a wound.

"I called twice on you in London," said Phineas, coming up close to
her, "but was not fortunate enough to find you!"

"Yes;--but you came so late in the season as to make it impossible
that there should be any arrangements for our meeting. What can any
woman do when a gentleman calls on her in August?"

"I came in July."

"Yes, you did; on the 31st. I keep the most accurate record of all
such things, Mr. Finn. But let us hope that we may have better luck
next year. In the meantime, we can only enjoy the good things that
are going."

"Socially, or politically, Madame Goesler?"

"Oh, socially. How can I mean anything else when the Duke of Omnium
is here? I feel so much taller at being in the same house with him.
Do not you? But you are a spoilt child of fortune, and perhaps you
have met him before."

"I think I once saw the back of a hat in the park, and somebody told
me that the Duke's head was inside it."

"And you have never seen him but that once?"

"Never but that once,--till now."

"And do not you feel elated?"

"Of course I do. For what do you take me, Madame Goesler?"

"I do,--immensely. I believe him to be a fool, and I never heard of
his doing a kind act to anybody in my life."

"Not when he gave the racehorse to Lady Glencora?"

"I wonder whether that was true. Did you ever hear of such an
absurdity? As I was saying, I don't think he ever did anything
for anybody;--but then, you know, to be Duke of Omnium! It isn't
necessary,--is it,--that a Duke of Omnium should do anything except
be Duke of Omnium?"

At this moment Lady Glencora came up to Phineas, and took him across
to the Duke. The Duke had expressed a desire to be introduced to him.
Phineas, half-pleased and half-disgusted, had no alternative, and
followed Lady Glencora. The Duke shook hands with him, and made a
little bow, and said something about the garrotters, which Phineas,
in his confusion, did not quite understand. He tried to reply as he
would have replied to anybody else, but the weight of the Duke's
majesty was too much for him, and he bungled. The Duke made another
little bow, and in a moment was speaking a word of condescension
to some other favoured individual. Phineas retreated altogether
disgusted,--hating the Duke, but hating himself worse; but he would
not retreat in the direction of Madame Max Goesler. It might suit
that lady to take an instant little revenge for her discomfiture, but
it did not suit him to do so. The question with him would be, whether
in some future part of his career it might not be his duty to assist
in putting down Dukes of Omnium.

At dinner Phineas sat between Mrs. Bonteen and the Duchess of St.
Bungay, and did not find himself very happy. At the other end of the
table the Duke,--the great Duke, was seated at Lady Glencora's right
hand, and on his other side Fortune had placed Madame Max Goesler.
The greatest interest which Phineas had during the dinner was in
watching the operations,--the triumphantly successful operations of
that lady. Before dinner she had been wounded by the Duke. The Duke
had not condescended to accord the honour of his little bow of
graciousness to some little flattering morsel of wit which the lady
had uttered on his behoof. She had said a sharp word or two in her
momentary anger to Phineas; but when Fortune was so good to her in
that matter of her place at dinner, she was not fool enough to throw
away her chance. Throughout the soup and fish she was very quiet.
She said a word or two after her first glass of champagne. The Duke
refused two dishes, one after another, and then she glided into
conversation. By the time that he had his roast mutton before him she
was in full play, and as she eat her peach, the Duke was bending over
her with his most gracious smile.

"Didn't you think the session was very long, Mr. Finn?" said the
Duchess to Phineas.

"Very long indeed, Duchess," said Phineas, with his attention still
fixed on Madame Max Goesler.

"The Duke found it very troublesome."

"I daresay he did," said Phineas. That duke and that duchess were no
more than any other man and any other man's wife. The session had
not been longer to the Duke of St. Bungay than to all the public
servants. Phineas had the greatest possible respect for the Duke of
St. Bungay, but he could not take much interest in the wailings of
the Duchess on her husband's behalf.

"And things do seem to be so very uncomfortable now," said the
Duchess,--thinking partly of the resignation of Mr. Mildmay, and
partly of the fact that her own old peculiar maid who had lived with
her for thirty years had retired into private life.

"Not so very bad, Duchess, I hope," said Phineas, observing that at
this moment Madame Max Goesler's eyes were brilliant with triumph.
Then there came upon him a sudden ambition,--that he would like to
"cut out" the Duke of Omnium in the estimation of Madame Max Goesler.
The brightness of Madame Max Goesler's eyes had not been thrown away
upon our hero.

Violet Effingham came at the appointed time, and, to the surprise of
Phineas, was brought to Matching by Lord Brentford. Phineas at first
thought that it was intended that the Earl and his son should meet
and make up their quarrel at Mr. Palliser's house. But Lord Brentford
stayed only one night, and Phineas on the next morning heard the
whole history of his coming and going from Violet. "I have almost
been on my knees to him to stay," she said. "Indeed, I did go on my
knees,--actually on my knees."

"And what did he say?"

"He put his arm round me and kissed me, and,--and,--I cannot tell you
all that he said. But it ended in this,--that if Chiltern can be made
to go to Saulsby, fatted calves without stint will be killed. I shall
do all I can to make him go; and so must you, Mr. Finn. Of course
that silly affair in foreign parts is not to make any difference
between you two."

Phineas smiled, and said he would do his best, and looked up into her
face, and was just able to talk to her as though things were going
comfortably with him. But his heart was very cold. As Violet had
spoken to him about Lord Chiltern there had come upon him, for the
first time,--for the first time since he had known that Lord Chiltern
had been refused,--an idea, a doubt, whether even yet Violet might
not become Lord Chiltern's wife. His heart was very sad, but he
struggled on,--declaring that it was incumbent on them both to bring
together the father and son.

"I am so glad to hear you say so, Mr. Finn," said Violet. "I really
do believe that you can do more towards it than any one else. Lord
Chiltern would think nothing of my advice,--would hardly speak to me
on such a subject. But he respects you as well as likes you, and not
the less because of what has occurred."

How was it that Violet should know aught of the respect or liking
felt by this rejected suitor for that other suitor,--who had also
been rejected? And how was it that she was thus able to talk of one
of them to the other, as though neither of them had ever come forward
with such a suit? Phineas felt his position to be so strange as to be
almost burdensome. He had told Violet, when she had refused him, very
plainly, that he should come again to her, and ask once more for the
great gift which he coveted. But he could not ask again now. In the
first place, there was that in her manner which made him sure that
were he to do so, he would ask in vain; and then he felt that she was
placing a special confidence in him, against which he would commit a
sin were he to use her present intimacy with him for the purposes of
making love. They two were to put their shoulders together to help
Lord Chiltern, and while doing so he could not continue a suit which
would be felt by both of them to be hostile to Lord Chiltern. There
might be opportunity for a chance word, and if so the chance word
should be spoken; but he could not make a deliberate attack, such as
he had made in Portman Square. Violet also probably understood that
she had not now been caught in a mousetrap.

The Duke was to spend four days at Matching, and on the third
day,--the day before Lord Chiltern was expected,--he was to be seen
riding with Madame Max Goesler by his side. Madame Max Goesler was
known as a perfect horsewoman,--one indeed who was rather fond of
going a little fast on horseback, and who rode well to hounds. But
the Duke seldom moved out of a walk, and on this occasion Madame Max
was as steady in her seat and almost as slow as the mounted ghost
in _Don Juan_. But it was said by some there, especially by Mrs.
Bonteen, that the conversation between them was not slow. And on the
next morning the Duke and Madame Max Goesler were together again
before luncheon, standing on a terrace at the back of the house,
looking down on a party who were playing croquet on the lawn.

"Do you never play?" said the Duke.

"Oh yes;--one does everything a little."

"I am sure you would play well. Why do you not play now?"

"No;--I shall not play now."

"I should like to see you with your mallet."

"I am sorry your Grace cannot be gratified. I have played croquet
till I am tired of it, and have come to think it is only fit for
boys and girls. The great thing is to give them opportunities for
flirting, and it does that."

"And do you never flirt, Madame Goesler?"

"Never at croquet, Duke."

"And what with you is the choicest time?"

"That depends on so many things,--and so much on the chosen person.
What do you recommend?"

"Ah,--I am so ignorant. I can recommend nothing."

"What do you say to a mountain-top at dawn on a summer day?" asked
Madame Max Goesler.

"You make me shiver," said the Duke.

"Or a boat on a lake on a summer evening, or a good lead after hounds
with nobody else within three fields, or the bottom of a salt-mine,
or the deck of an ocean steamer, or a military hospital in time of
war, or a railway journey from Paris to Marseilles?"

"Madame Max Goesler, you have the most uncomfortable ideas."

"I have no doubt your Grace has tried each of them,--successfully.
But perhaps, after all, a comfortable chair over a good fire, in a
pretty room, beats everything."

"I think it does,--certainly," said the Duke. Then he whispered
something at which Madame Max Goesler blushed and smiled, and
immediately after that she followed those who had already gone in
to lunch.

Mrs. Bonteen had been hovering round the spot on the terrace on which
the Duke and Madame Max Goesler had been standing, looking on with
envious eyes, meditating some attack, some interruption, some excuse
for an interpolation, but her courage had failed her and she had
not dared to approach. The Duke had known nothing of the hovering
propinquity of Mrs. Bonteen, but Madame Goesler had seen and had
understood it all.

"Dear Mrs. Bonteen," she said afterwards, "why did you not come and
join us? The Duke was so pleasant."

"Two is company, and three is none," said Mrs. Bonteen, who in her
anger was hardly able to choose her words quite as well as she might
have done had she been more cool.

"Our friend Madame Max has made quite a new conquest," said Mrs.
Bonteen to Lady Glencora.

"I am so pleased," said Lady Glencora, with apparently unaffected
delight. "It is such a great thing to get anybody to amuse my uncle.
You see everybody cannot talk to him, and he will not talk to
everybody."

"He talked enough to her in all conscience," said Mrs. Bonteen, who
was now more angry than ever.




CHAPTER XLIX

The Duellists Meet


Lord Chiltern arrived, and Phineas was a little nervous as to their
meeting. He came back from shooting on the day in question, and was
told by the servant that Lord Chiltern was in the house. Phineas went
into the billiard-room in his knickerbockers, thinking probably that
he might be there, and then into the drawing-room, and at last into
the library,--but Lord Chiltern was not to be found. At last he came
across Violet.

"Have you seen him?" he asked.

"Yes;--he was with me half an hour since, walking round the gardens."

"And how is he? Come;--tell me something about him."

"I never knew him to be more pleasant. He would give no promise about
Saulsby, but he did not say that he would not go."

"Does he know that I am here?"

"Yes;--I told him so. I told him how much pleasure I should have in
seeing you two together,--as friends."

"And what did he say?"

"He laughed, and said you were the best fellow in the world. You see
I am obliged to be explicit."

"But why did he laugh?" Phineas asked.

"He did not tell me, but I suppose it was because he was thinking of
a little trip he once took to Belgium, and he perceived that I knew
all about it."

"I wonder who told you. But never mind. I do not mean to ask any
questions. As I do not like that our first meeting should be before
all the people in the drawing-room, I will go to him in his own
room."

"Do, do;--that will be so nice of you."

Phineas sent his card up by a servant, and in a few minutes was
standing with his hand on the lock of Lord Chiltern's door. The last
time he had seen this man, they had met with pistols in their hands
to shoot at each other, and Lord Chiltern had in truth done his very
best to shoot his opponent. The cause of quarrel was the same between
them as ever. Phineas had not given up Violet, and had no intention
of giving her up. And he had received no intimation whatever from his
rival that there was to be a truce between them. Phineas had indeed
written in friendship to Lord Chiltern, but he had received no
answer;--and nothing of certainty was to be gathered from the report
which Violet had just made. It might well be that Lord Chiltern
would turn upon him now in his wrath, and that there would be some
scene which in a strange house would be obviously objectionable.
Nevertheless he had resolved that even that would be better than a
chance encounter among strangers in a drawing-room. So the door was
opened and the two men met.

"Well, old fellow," said Lord Chiltern, laughing. Then all doubt was
over, and in a moment Phineas was shaking his former,--and present
friend, warmly by the hand. "So we've come to be an Under-Secretary
have we?--and all that kind of thing."

"I had to get into harness,--when the harness offered itself," said
Phineas.

"I suppose so. It's a deuce of a bore, isn't it?"

"I always liked work, you know."

"I thought you liked hunting better. You used to ride as if you did.
There's Bonebreaker back again in the stable for you. That poor fool
who bought him could do nothing with him, and I let him have his
money back."

"I don't see why you should have done that."

"Because I was the biggest fool of the two. Do you remember when that
brute got me down under the bank in the river? That was about the
nearest touch I ever had. Lord bless me;--how he did squeeze me! So
here you are;--staying with the Pallisers,--one of a Government party
I suppose. But what are you going to do for a seat, my friend?"

"Don't talk about that yet, Chiltern."

"A sore subject,--isn't it? I think they have been quite right, you
know, to put Loughton into the melting-pot,--though I'm sorry enough
for your sake."

"Quite right," said Phineas.

"And yet you voted against it, old chap? But, come; I'm not going to
be down upon you. So my father has been here?"

"Yes;--he was here for a day or two."

"Violet has just been telling me. You and he are as good friends as
ever?"

"I trust we are."

"He never heard of that little affair?" And Lord Chiltern nodded his
head, intending to indicate the direction of Blankenberg.

"I do not think he has yet."

"So Violet tells me. Of course you know that she has heard all about
it."

"I have reason to suppose as much."

"And so does Laura."

"I told her myself," said Phineas.

"The deuce you did! But I daresay it was for the best. It's a pity
you had not proclaimed it at Charing Cross, and then nobody would
have believed a word about it. Of course my father will hear it some
day."

"You are going to Saulsby, I hope, Chiltern?"

"That question is easier asked than answered. It is quite true that
the great difficulty has been got over. Laura has had her money. And
if my father will only acknowledge that he has wronged me throughout,
from beginning to end, I will go to Saulsby to-morrow;--and would cut
you out at Loughton the next day, only that Loughton is not Loughton
any longer."

"You cannot expect your father to do that."

"No;--and therefore there is a difficulty. So you've had that awfully
ponderous Duke here. How did you get on with him?"

"Admirably. He condescended to do something which he called shaking
hands with me."

"He is the greatest old dust out," said Lord Chiltern,
disrespectfully. "Did he take any notice of Violet?"

"Not that I observed."

"He ought not to be allowed into the same room with her." After that
there was a short pause, and Phineas felt some hesitation in speaking
of Miss Effingham to Lord Chiltern. "And how do you get on with her?"
asked Lord Chiltern. Here was a question for a man to answer. The
question was so hard to be answered, that Phineas did not at first
make any attempt to answer it. "You know exactly the ground that I
stand on," continued Lord Chiltern. "She has refused me three times.
Have you been more fortunate?"

Lord Chiltern, as he asked his question, looked full into Finn's face
in a manner that was irresistible. His look was not one of anger nor
even of pride. It was not, indeed, without a strong dash of fun. But
such as it was it showed Phineas that Lord Chiltern intended to have
an answer. "No," said he at last, "I have not been more fortunate."

"Perhaps you have changed your mind," said his host.

"No;--I have not changed my mind," said Phineas, quickly.

"How stands it then? Come;--let us be honest to each other. I told
you down at Willingford that I would quarrel with any man who
attempted to cut me out with Violet Effingham. You made up your mind
that you would do so, and therefore I quarrelled with you. But we
can't always be fighting duels."

"I hope we may not have to fight another."

"No;--it would be absurd," said Lord Chiltern. "I rather think that
what we did was absurd. But upon my life I did not see any other way
out of it. However, that is over. How is it to be now?"

"What am I to say in answer to that?" asked Phineas.

"Just the truth. You have asked her, I suppose?"

"Yes;--I have asked her."

"And she has refused you?"

"Yes;--she has refused me."

"And you mean to ask her again?"

"I shall;--if I ever think that there is a chance. Indeed, Chiltern,
I believe I shall whether I think that I have any chance or not."

"Then we start fairly, Finn. I certainly shall do so. I believe
I once told you that I never would;--but that was long before I
suspected that you would enter for the same plate. What a man says on
such a matter when he is down in the mouth goes for nothing. Now we
understand each other, and you had better go and dress. The bell rang
nearly half an hour ago, and my fellow is hanging about outside the
door."

The interview had in one respect been very pleasant to Phineas, and
in another it had been very bitter. It was pleasant to him to know
that he and Lord Chiltern were again friends. It was a delight to
him to feel that this half-savage but high-spirited young nobleman,
who had been so anxious to fight with him and to shoot him, was
nevertheless ready to own that he had behaved well. Lord Chiltern
had in fact acknowledged that though he had been anxious to blow
out our hero's brains, he was aware all the time that our hero was
a good sort of fellow. Phineas understood this, and felt that it
was pleasant. But with this understanding, and accompanying this
pleasure, there was a conviction in his heart that the distance
between Lord Chiltern and Violet would daily grow to be less and
still less,--and that Lord Chiltern could afford to be generous. If
Miss Effingham could teach herself to be fond of Lord Chiltern, what
had he, Phineas Finn, to offer in opposition to the claims of such a
suitor?

That evening Lord Chiltern took Miss Effingham out to dinner. Phineas
told himself that this was of course so arranged by Lady Glencora,
with the express view of serving the Saulsby interest. It was almost
nothing to him at the moment that Madame Max Goesler was intrusted
to him. He had his ambition respecting Madame Max Goesler; but that
for the time was in abeyance. He could hardly keep his eyes off Miss
Effingham. And yet, as he well knew, his observation of her must be
quite useless. He knew beforehand, with absolute accuracy, the manner
in which she would treat her lover. She would be kind, genial,
friendly, confidential, nay, affectionate; and yet her manner would
mean nothing, would give no clue to her future decision either for or
against Lord Chiltern. It was, as Phineas thought, a peculiarity with
Violet Effingham that she could treat her rejected lovers as dear
familiar friends immediately after her rejection of them.

"Mr. Finn," said Madame Max Goesler, "your eyes and ears are
tell-tales of your passion."

"I hope not," said Phineas, "as I certainly do not wish that any one
should guess how strong is my regard for you."

"That is prettily turned,--very prettily turned; and shows more
readiness of wit than I gave you credit for under your present
suffering. But of course we all know where your heart is. Men do not
undertake perilous journeys to Belgium for nothing."

"That unfortunate journey to Belgium! But, dear Madame Max, really
nobody knows why I went."

"You met Lord Chiltern there?"

"Oh yes;--I met Lord Chiltern there."

"And there was a duel?"

"Madame Max,--you must not ask me to criminate myself!"

"Of course there was, and of course it was about Miss Effingham, and
of course the lady thinks herself bound to refuse both the gentlemen
who were so very wicked, and of course--"

"Well,--what follows?"

"Ah! if you have not wit enough to see, I do not think it can be my
duty to tell you. But I wished to caution you as a friend that your
eyes and ears should be more under your command."

"You will go to Saulsby?" Violet said to Lord Chiltern.

"I cannot possibly tell as yet," said he, frowning.

"Then I can tell you that you ought to go. I do not care a bit for
your frowns. What does the fifth commandment say?"

"If you have no better arguments than the commandments, Violet--"

"There can be none better. Do you mean to say that the commandments
are nothing to you?"

"I mean to say that I shan't go to Saulsby because I am told in the
twentieth chapter of Exodus to honour my father and mother,--and that
I shouldn't believe anybody who told me that he did anything because
of the commandments."

"Oh, Lord Chiltern!"

"People are so prejudiced and so used to humbug that for the most
part they do not in the least know their own motives for what they
do. I will go to Saulsby to-morrow,--for a reward."

"For what reward?" said Violet, blushing.

"For the only one in the world that could tempt me to do anything."

"You should go for the sake of duty. I should not even care to see
you go, much as I long for it, if that feeling did not take you
there."

It was arranged that Phineas and Lord Chiltern were to leave Matching
together. Phineas was to remain at his office all October, and in
November the general election was to take place. What he had hitherto
heard about a future seat was most vague, but he was to meet Ratler
and Barrington Erle in London, and it had been understood that
Barrington Erle, who was now at Saulsby, was to make some inquiry as
to that group of boroughs of which Loughton at this moment formed
one. But as Loughton was the smallest of four boroughs, and as one of
the four had for many years had a representative of its own, Phineas
feared that no success would be found there. In his present agony
he began to think that there might be a strong plea made for a
few private seats in the House of Commons, and that the propriety
of throwing Loughton into the melting-pot was, after all, open to
question. He and Lord Chiltern were to return to London together,
and Lord Chiltern, according to his present scheme, was to proceed
at once to Willingford to look after the cub-hunting. Nothing that
either Violet or Phineas could say to him would induce him to
promise to go to Saulsby. When Phineas pressed it, he was told by
Lord Chiltern that he was a fool for his pains,--by which Phineas
understood perfectly well that when Lord Chiltern did go to Saulsby,
he, Phineas, was to take that as strong evidence that everything was
over for him as regarded Violet Effingham. When Violet expressed her
eagerness that the visit should be made, she was stopped with an
assurance that she could have it done at once if she pleased. Let him
only be enabled to carry with him the tidings of his betrothal, and
he would start for his father's house without an hour's delay. But
this authority Violet would not give him. When he answered her after
this fashion she could only tell him that he was ungenerous. "At any
rate I am not false," he replied on one occasion. "What I say is the
truth."

There was a very tender parting between Phineas and Madame Max
Goesler. She had learned from him pretty nearly all his history, and
certainly knew more of the reality of his affairs than any of those
in London who had been his most staunch friends. "Of course you'll
get a seat," she said as he took his leave of her. "If I understand
it at all, they never throw over an ally so useful as you are."

"But the intention is that in this matter nobody shall any longer
have the power of throwing over, or of not throwing over, anybody."

"That is all very well, my friend; but cakes will still be hot in the
mouth, even though Mr. Daubeny turn purist, with Mr. Turnbull to help
him. If you want any assistance in finding a seat you will not go to
the _People's Banner_,--even yet."

"Certainly not to the _People's Banner_."

"I don't quite understand what the franchise is," continued Madame
Max Goesler.

"Household in boroughs," said Phineas with some energy.

"Very well;--household in boroughs. I daresay that is very fine and
very liberal, though I don't comprehend it in the least. And you want
a borough. Very well. You won't go to the households. I don't think
you will;--not at first, that is."

"Where shall I go then?"

"Oh,--to some great patron of a borough;--or to a club;--or perhaps
to some great firm. The households will know nothing about it till
they are told. Is not that it?"

"The truth is, Madame Max, I do not know where I shall go. I am like
a child lost in a wood. And you may understand this;--if you do not
see me in Park Lane before the end of January, I shall have perished
in the wood."

"Then I will come and find you,--with a troop of householders. You
will come. You will be there. I do not believe in death coming
without signs. You are full of life." As she spoke, she had hold
of his hand, and there was nobody near them. They were in a little
book-room inside the library at Matching, and the door, though not
latched, was nearly closed. Phineas had flattered himself that Madame
Goesler had retreated there in order that this farewell might be
spoken without interruption. "And, Mr. Finn;--I wonder whether I may
say one thing," she continued.

"You may say anything to me," he replied.

"No,--not in this country, in this England. There are things one
may not say here,--that are tabooed by a sort of consent,--and that
without any reason." She paused again, and Phineas was at a loss to
think what was the subject on which she was about to speak. Could she
mean--? No; she could not mean to give him any outward plain-spoken
sign that she was attached to him. It was the peculiar merit of this
man that he was not vain, though much was done to him to fill him
with vanity; and as the idea crossed his brain, he hated himself
because it had been there.

"To me you may say anything, Madame Goesler," he said,--"here in
England, as plainly as though we were in Vienna."

"But I cannot say it in English," she said. Then in French, blushing
and laughing as she spoke,--almost stammering in spite of her usual
self-confidence,--she told him that accident had made her rich, full
of money. Money was a drug with her. Money she knew was wanted, even
for householders. Would he not understand her, and come to her, and
learn from her how faithful a woman could be?

He still was holding her by the hand, and he now raised it to
his lips and kissed it. "The offer from you," he said, "is as
high-minded, as generous, and as honourable as its acceptance by me
would be mean-spirited, vile, and ignoble. But whether I fail or
whether I succeed, you shall see me before the winter is over."




CHAPTER L

Again Successful


Phineas also said a word of farewell to Violet before he left
Matching, but there was nothing peculiar in her little speech to him,
or in his to her. "Of course we shall see each other in London. Don't
talk of not being in the House. Of course you will be in the House."
Then Phineas had shaken his head and smiled. Where was he to find
a requisite number of householders prepared to return him? But as
he went up to London he told himself that the air of the House of
Commons was now the very breath of his nostrils. Life to him without
it would be no life. To have come within the reach of the good things
of political life, to have made his mark so as to have almost insured
future success, to have been the petted young official aspirant of
the day,--and then to sink down into the miserable platitudes of
private life, to undergo daily attendance in law-courts without
a brief, to listen to men who had come to be much below him in
estimation and social intercourse, to sit in a wretched chamber up
three pairs of stairs at Lincoln's Inn, whereas he was now at this
moment provided with a gorgeous apartment looking out into the Park
from the Colonial Office in Downing Street, to be attended by a
mongrel between a clerk and an errand boy at 17s. 6d. a week instead
of by a private secretary who was the son of an earl's sister, and
was petted by countesses' daughters innumerable,--all this would
surely break his heart. He could have done it, so he told himself,
and could have taken glory in doing it, had not these other things
come in his way. But the other things had come. He had run the risk,
and had thrown the dice. And now when the game was so nearly won,
must it be that everything should be lost at last?

He knew that nothing was to be gained by melancholy looks at his
club, or by show of wretchedness at his office. London was very
empty; but the approaching elections still kept some there who
otherwise would have been looking after the first flush of pheasants.
Barrington Erle was there, and was not long in asking Phineas what
were his views.

"Ah;--that is so hard to say. Ratler told me that he would be looking
about."

"Ratler is very well in the House," said Barrington, "but he is of no
use for anything beyond it. I suppose you were not brought up at the
London University?"

"Oh no," said Phineas, remembering the glories of Trinity.

"Because there would have been an opening. What do you say to
Stratford,--the new Essex borough?"

"Broadbury the brewer is there already!"

"Yes;--and ready to spend any money you like to name. Let me see.
Loughton is grouped with Smotherem, and Walker is a deal too strong
at Smotherem to hear of any other claim. I don't think we could dare
to propose it. There are the Chelsea hamlets, but it will take a wack
of money."

"I have not got a wack of money," said Phineas, laughing.

"That's the devil of it. I think, if I were you, I should hark back
upon some place in Ireland. Couldn't you get Laurence to give you up
his seat?"

"What! Fitzgibbon?"

"Yes. He has not a ghost of a chance of getting into office again.
Nothing on earth would induce him to look at a paper during all those
weeks he was at the Colonial Office; and when Cantrip spoke to him,
all he said was, 'Ah, bother!' Cantrip did not like it, I can tell
you."

"But that wouldn't make him give up his seat."

"Of course you'd have to arrange it." By which Phineas understood
Barrington Erle to mean that he, Phineas, was in some way to give to
Laurence Fitzgibbon some adequate compensation for the surrender of
his position as a county member.

"I'm afraid that's out of the question," said Phineas. "If he were to
go, I should not get it."

"Would you have a chance at Loughshane?"

"I was thinking of trying it," said Phineas.

"Of course you know that Morris is very ill." This Mr. Morris was
the brother of Lord Tulla, and was the sitting member of Loughshane.
"Upon my word I think I should try that. I don't see where we're to
put our hands on a seat in England. I don't indeed." Phineas, as
he listened to this, could not help thinking that Barrington Erle,
though he had certainly expressed a great deal of solicitude, was not
as true a friend as he used to be. Perhaps he, Phineas, had risen too
fast, and Barrington Erle was beginning to think that he might as
well be out of the way.

He wrote to his father, asking after the borough, and asking after
the health of Mr. Morris. And in his letter he told his own story
very plainly,--almost pathetically. He perhaps had been wrong to
make the attempt which he had made. He began to believe that he had
been wrong. But at any rate he had made it so far successfully, and
failure now would be doubly bitter. He thought that the party to
which he belonged must now remain in office. It would hardly be
possible that a new election would produce a House of Commons
favourable to a conservative ministry. And with a liberal ministry
he, Phineas, would be sure of his place, and sure of an official
income,--if only he could find a seat. It was all very true, and was
almost pathetic. The old doctor, who was inclined to be proud of his
son, was not unwilling to make a sacrifice. Mrs. Finn declared before
her daughters that if there was a seat in all Ireland, Phineas ought
to have it. And Mary Flood Jones stood by listening, and wondering
what Phineas would do if he lost his seat. Would he come back and
live in County Clare, and be like any other girl's lover? Poor Mary
had come to lose her ambition, and to think that girls whose lovers
stayed at home were the happiest. Nevertheless, she would have walked
all the way to Lord Tulla's house and back again, might that have
availed to get the seat for Phineas. Then there came an express over
from Castlemorris. The doctor was wanted at once to see Mr. Morris.
Mr. Morris was very bad with gout in his stomach. According to the
messenger it was supposed that Mr. Morris was dying. Before Dr. Finn
had had an opportunity of answering his son's letter, Mr. Morris, the
late member for Loughshane, had been gathered to his fathers.

Dr. Finn understood enough of elections for Parliament, and of the
nature of boroughs, to be aware that a candidate's chance of success
is very much improved by being early in the field; and he was aware,
also, that the death of Mr. Morris would probably create various
aspirants for the honour of representing Loughshane. But he could
hardly address the Earl on the subject while the dead body of the
late member was lying in the house at Castlemorris. The bill which
had passed in the late session for reforming the constitution of the
House of Commons had not touched Ireland, a future measure having
been promised to the Irish for their comfort; and Loughshane
therefore was, as to Lord Tulla's influence, the same as it had ever
been. He had not there the plenary power which the other lord had
held in his hands in regard to Loughton;--but still the Castlemorris
interest would go a long way. It might be possible to stand against
it, but it would be much more desirable that the candidate should
have it at his back. Dr. Finn was fully alive to this as he sat
opposite to the old lord, saying now a word about the old lord's gout
in his legs and arms, and then about the gout in the stomach, which
had carried away to another world the lamented late member for the
borough.

"Poor Jack!" said Lord Tulla, piteously. "If I'd known it, I needn't
have paid over two thousand pounds for him last year;--need I,
doctor?"

"No, indeed," said Dr. Finn, feeling that his patient might perhaps
approach the subject of the borough himself.

"He never would live by any rule, you know," said the desolate
brother.

"Very hard to guide;--was he not, my lord?"

"The very devil. Now, you see, I do do what I'm told pretty
well,--don't I, doctor?"

"Sometimes."

"By George, I do nearly always. I don't know what you mean by
sometimes. I've been drinking brandy-and-water till I'm sick of it,
to oblige you, and you tell me about--sometimes. You doctors expect
a man to be a slave. Haven't I kept it out of my stomach?"

"Thank God, yes."

"It's all very well thanking God, but I should have gone as poor Jack
has gone, if I hadn't been the most careful man in the world. He was
drinking champagne ten days ago;--would do it, you know." Lord Tulla
could talk about himself and his own ailments by the hour together,
and Dr. Finn, who had thought that his noble patient was approaching
the subject of the borough, was beginning again to feel that the
double interest of the gout that was present, and the gout that had
passed away, would be too absorbing. He, however, could say but
little to direct the conversation.

"Mr. Morris, you see, lived more in London than you do, and was
subject to temptation."

"I don't know what you call temptation. Haven't I the temptation of a
bottle of wine under my nose every day of my life?"

"No doubt you have."

"And I don't drink it. I hardly ever take above a glass or two of
brown sherry. By George! when I think of it, I wonder at my own
courage. I do, indeed."

"But a man in London, my lord--"

"Why the deuce would he go to London? By-the-bye, what am I to do
about the borough now?"

"Let my son stand for it, if you will, my lord."

"They've clean swept away Brentford's seat at Loughton, haven't they?
Ha, ha, ha! What a nice game for him,--to have been forced to help to
do it himself! There's nobody on earth I pity so much as a radical
peer who is obliged to work like a nigger with a spade to shovel away
the ground from under his own feet. As for me, I don't care who sits
for Loughshane. I did care for poor Jack while he was alive. I don't
think I shall interfere any longer. I am glad it lasted Jack's time."
Lord Tulla had probably already forgotten that he himself had thrown
Jack over for the last session but one.

"Phineas, my lord," began the father, "is now Under-Secretary of
State."

"Oh, I've no doubt he's a very fine fellow;--but you see, he's an
out-and-out Radical."

"No, my lord."

"Then how can he serve with such men as Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk?
They've turned out poor old Mildmay among them, because he's not fast
enough for them. Don't tell me."

"My anxiety, of course, is for my boy's prospects. He seems to have
done so well in Parliament."

"Why don't he stand for Marylebone or Finsbury?"

"The money, you know, my lord!"

"I shan't interfere here, doctor. If he comes, and the people then
choose to return him, I shall say nothing. They may do just as they
please. They tell me Lambert St. George, of Mockrath, is going to
stand. If he does, it's the d---- piece of impudence I ever heard
of. He's a tenant of my own, though he has a lease for ever; and
his father never owned an acre of land in the county till his uncle
died." Then the doctor knew that, with a little management, the
lord's interest might be secured for his son.

Phineas came over and stood for the borough against Mr. Lambert
St. George, and the contest was sharp enough. The gentry of the
neighbourhood could not understand why such a man as Lord Tulla
should admit a liberal candidate to succeed his brother. No one
canvassed for the young Under-Secretary with more persistent zeal
than did his father, who, when Phineas first spoke of going into
Parliament, had produced so many good arguments against that perilous
step. Lord Tulla's agent stood aloof,--desolate with grief at the
death of the late member. At such a moment of family affliction, Lord
Tulla, he declared, could not think of such a matter as the borough.
But it was known that Lord Tulla was dreadfully jealous of Mr.
Lambert St. George, whose property in that part of the county was now
nearly equal to his own, and who saw much more company at Mockrath
than was ever entertained at Castlemorris. A word from Lord
Tulla,--so said the Conservatives of the county,--would have put
Mr. St. George into the seat; but that word was not spoken, and
the Conservatives of the neighbourhood swore that Lord Tulla was a
renegade. The contest was very sharp, but our hero was returned by a
majority of seventeen votes.

Again successful! As he thought of it he remembered stories of great
generals who were said to have chained Fortune to the wheels of their
chariots, but it seemed to him that the goddess had never served
any general with such staunch obedience as she had displayed in his
cause. Had not everything gone well with him;--so well, as almost to
justify him in expecting that even yet Violet Effingham would become
his wife? Dear, dearest Violet! If he could only achieve that, no
general, who ever led an army across the Alps, would be his equal
either in success or in the reward of success. Then he questioned
himself as to what he would say to Miss Flood Jones on that very
night. He was to meet dear little Mary Flood Jones that evening at a
neighbour's house. His sister Barbara had so told him in a tone of
voice which he quite understood to imply a caution. "I shall be so
glad to see her," Phineas had replied.

"If there ever was an angel on earth, it is Mary," said Barbara Finn.

"I know that she is as good as gold," said Phineas.

"Gold!" replied Barbara,--"gold indeed! She is more precious than
refined gold. But, Phineas, perhaps you had better not single her out
for any special attention. She has thought it wisest to meet you."

"Of course," said Phineas. "Why not?"

"That is all, Phineas. I have nothing more to say. Men of course are
different from girls."

"That's true, Barbara, at any rate."

"Don't laugh at me, Phineas, when I am thinking of nothing but of you
and your interests, and when I am making all manner of excuses for
you because I know what must be the distractions of the world in
which you live." Barbara made more than one attempt to renew the
conversation before the evening came, but Phineas thought that he had
had enough of it. He did not like being told that excuses were made
for him. After all, what had he done? He had once kissed Mary Flood
Jones behind the door.

"I am so glad to see you, Mary," he said, coming and taking a chair
by her side. He had been specially warned not to single Mary out for
his attention, and yet there was the chair left vacant as though it
were expected that he would fall into it.

"Thank you. We did not happen to meet last year, did we,--Mr. Finn?"

"Do not call me Mr. Finn, Mary."

"You are such a great man now!"

"Not at all a great man. If you only knew what little men we
understrappers are in London you would hardly speak to me."

"But you are something--of State now;--are you not?"

"Well;--yes. That's the name they give me. It simply means that if
any member wants to badger some one in the House about the Colonies,
I am the man to be badgered. But if there is any credit to be had, I
am not the man who is to have it."

"But it is a great thing to be in Parliament and in the Government
too."

"It is a great thing for me, Mary, to have a salary, though it may
only be for a year or two. However, I will not deny that it is
pleasant to have been successful."

"It has been very pleasant to us, Phineas. Mamma has been so much
rejoiced."

"I am so sorry not to see her. She is at Floodborough, I suppose."

"Oh, yes;--she is at home. She does not like coming out at night in
winter. I have been staying here you know for two days, but I go home
to-morrow."

"I will ride over and call on your mother." Then there was a pause in
the conversation for a moment. "Does it not seem odd, Mary, that we
should see so little of each other?"

"You are so much away, of course."

"Yes;--that is the reason. But still it seems almost unnatural. I
often wonder when the time will come that I shall be quietly at home
again. I have to be back in my office in London this day week, and
yet I have not had a single hour to myself since I have been at
Killaloe. But I will certainly ride over and see your mother. You
will be at home on Wednesday I suppose."

"Yes,--I shall be at home."

Upon that he got up and went away, but again in the evening he found
himself near her. Perhaps there is no position more perilous to a
man's honesty than that in which Phineas now found himself;--that,
namely, of knowing himself to be quite loved by a girl whom he almost
loves himself. Of course he loved Violet Effingham; and they who talk
best of love protest that no man or woman can be in love with two
persons at once. Phineas was not in love with Mary Flood Jones; but
he would have liked to take her in his arms and kiss her;--he would
have liked to gratify her by swearing that she was dearer to him than
all the world; he would have liked to have an episode,--and did,
at the moment, think that it might be possible to have one life in
London and another life altogether different at Killaloe. "Dear
Mary," he said as he pressed her hand that night, "things will get
themselves settled at last, I suppose." He was behaving very ill to
her, but he did not mean to behave ill.

He rode over to Floodborough, and saw Mrs. Flood Jones. Mrs. Flood
Jones, however, received him very coldly; and Mary did not appear.
Mary had communicated to her mother her resolutions as to her future
life. "The fact is, mamma, I love him. I cannot help it. If he ever
chooses to come for me, here I am. If he does not, I will bear it as
well as I can. It may be very mean of me, but it's true."




CHAPTER LI

Troubles at Loughlinter


There was a dull house at Loughlinter during the greater part of
this autumn. A few men went down for the grouse shooting late in the
season; but they stayed but a short time, and when they went Lady
Laura was left alone with her husband. Mr. Kennedy had explained to
his wife, more than once, that though he understood the duties of
hospitality and enjoyed the performance of them, he had not married
with the intention of living in a whirlwind. He was disposed to think
that the whirlwind had hitherto been too predominant, and had said so
very plainly with a good deal of marital authority. This autumn and
winter were to be devoted to the cultivation of proper relations
between him and his wife. "Does that mean Darby and Joan?" his wife
had asked him, when the proposition was made to her. "It means mutual
regard and esteem," replied Mr. Kennedy in his most solemn tone,
"and I trust that such mutual regard and esteem between us may yet
be possible." When Lady Laura showed him a letter from her brother,
received some weeks after this conversation, in which Lord Chiltern
expressed his intention of coming to Loughlinter for Christmas, he
returned the note to his wife without a word. He suspected that she
had made the arrangement without asking him, and was angry; but he
would not tell her that her brother would not be welcome at his
house. "It is not my doing," she said, when she saw the frown on his
brow.

"I said nothing about anybody's doing," he replied.

"I will write to Oswald and bid him not come, if you wish it. Of
course you can understand why he is coming."

"Not to see me, I am sure," said Mr. Kennedy.

"Nor me," replied Lady Laura. "He is coming because my friend Violet
Effingham will be here."

"Miss Effingham! Why was I not told of this? I knew nothing of Miss
Effingham's coming."

"Robert, it was settled in your own presence last July."

"I deny it."

Then Lady Laura rose up, very haughty in her gait and with something
of fire in her eye, and silently left the room. Mr. Kennedy, when he
found himself alone, was very unhappy. Looking back in his mind to
the summer weeks in London, he remembered that his wife had told
Violet that she was to spend her Christmas at Loughlinter, that he
himself had given a muttered assent and that Violet,--as far as he
could remember,--had made no reply. It had been one of those things
which are so often mentioned, but not settled. He felt that he had
been strictly right in denying that it had been "settled" in his
presence;--but yet he felt that he had been wrong in contradicting
his wife so peremptorily. He was a just man, and he would apologise
for his fault; but he was an austere man, and would take back the
value of his apology in additional austerity. He did not see his wife
for some hours after the conversation which has been narrated, but
when he did meet her his mind was still full of the subject. "Laura",
he said, "I am sorry that I contradicted you."

"I am quite used to it, Robert."

"No;--you are not used to it." She smiled and bowed her head. "You
wrong me by saying that you are used to it." Then he paused a moment,
but she said not a word,--only smiled and bowed her head again. "I
remember," he continued, "that something was said in my presence to
Miss Effingham about her coming here at Christmas. It was so slight,
however, that it had passed out of my memory till recalled by an
effort. I beg your pardon."

"That is unnecessary, Robert."

"It is, dear."

"And do you wish that I should put her off,--or put Oswald off,--or
both? My brother never yet has seen me in your house."

"And whose fault has that been?"

"I have said nothing about anybody's fault, Robert. I merely
mentioned a fact. Will you let me know whether I shall bid him stay
away?"

"He is welcome to come,--only I do not like assignations for
love-making."

"Assignations!"

"Clandestine meetings. Lady Baldock would not wish it."

"Lady Baldock! Do you think that Violet would exercise any secrecy in
the matter,--or that she will not tell Lady Baldock that Oswald will
be here,--as soon as she knows it herself?"

"That has nothing to do with it."

"Surely, Robert, it must have much to do with it. And why should not
these two young people meet? The acknowledged wish of all the family
is that they should marry each other. And in this matter, at any
rate, my brother has behaved extremely well." Mr. Kennedy said
nothing further at the time, and it became an understanding that
Violet Effingham was to be a month at Loughlinter, staying from the
20th of December to the 20th of January, and that Lord Chiltern was
to come there for Christmas,--which with him would probably mean
three days.

Before Christmas came, however, there were various other sources of
uneasiness at Loughlinter. There had been, as a matter of course,
great anxiety as to the elections. With Lady Laura this anxiety had
been very strong, and even Mr. Kennedy had been warmed with some
amount of fire as the announcements reached him of the successes
and of the failures. The English returns came first,--and then
the Scotch, which were quite as interesting to Mr. Kennedy as the
English. His own seat was quite safe,--was not contested; but some
neighbouring seats were sources of great solicitude. Then, when this
was over, there were the tidings from Ireland to be received; and
respecting one special borough in Ireland, Lady Laura evinced more
solicitude than her husband approved. There was much danger for the
domestic bliss of the house of Loughlinter, when things came to such
a pass, and such words were spoken, as the election at Loughshane
produced.

"He is in," said Lady Laura, opening a telegram.

"Who is in?" said Mr. Kennedy, with that frown on his brow to which
his wife was now well accustomed. Though he asked the question, he
knew very well who was the hero to whom the telegram referred.

"Our friend Phineas Finn," said Lady Laura, speaking still with an
excited voice,--with a voice that was intended to display excitement.
If there was to be a battle on this matter, there should be a battle.
She would display all her anxiety for her young friend, and fling
it in her husband's face if he chose to take it as an injury.
What,--should she endure reproach from her husband because she
regarded the interests of the man who had saved his life, of the man
respecting whom she had suffered so many heart-struggles, and as to
whom she had at last come to the conclusion that he should ever be
regarded as a second brother, loved equally with the elder brother?
She had done her duty by her husband,--so at least she had assured
herself;--and should he dare to reproach her on this subject, she
would be ready for the battle. And now the battle came. "I am glad
of this," she said, with all the eagerness she could throw into her
voice. "I am, indeed,--and so ought you to be." The husband's brow
grew blacker and blacker, but still he said nothing. He had long
been too proud to be jealous, and was now too proud to express his
jealousy,--if only he could keep the expression back. But his wife
would not leave the subject. "I am so thankful for this," she said,
pressing the telegram between her hands. "I was so afraid he would
fail!"

"You over-do your anxiety on such a subject," at last he said,
speaking very slowly.

"What do you mean, Robert? How can I be over-anxious? If it concerned
any other dear friend that I have in the world, it would not be an
affair of life and death. To him it is almost so. I would have walked
from here to London to get him his election." And as she spoke she
held up the clenched fist of her left hand, and shook it, while she
still held the telegram in her right hand.

"Laura, I must tell you that it is improper that you should speak
of any man in those terms;--of any man that is a stranger to your
blood."

"A stranger to my blood! What has that to do with it? This man is my
friend, is your friend;--saved your life, has been my brother's best
friend, is loved by my father,--and is loved by me, very dearly. Tell
me what you mean by improper!"

"I will not have you love any man,--very dearly."

"Robert!"

"I tell you that I will have no such expressions from you. They are
unseemly, and are used only to provoke me."

"Am I to understand that I am insulted by an accusation? If so, let
me beg at once that I may be allowed to go to Saulsby. I would rather
accept your apology and retractation there than here."

"You will not go to Saulsby, and there has been no accusation, and
there will be no apology. If you please there will be no more mention
of Mr. Finn's name between us, for the present. If you will take my
advice you will cease to think of him extravagantly;--and I must
desire you to hold no further direct communication with him."

"I have held no communication with him," said Lady Laura, advancing a
step towards him. But Mr. Kennedy simply pointed to the telegram in
her hand, and left the room. Now in respect to this telegram there
had been an unfortunate mistake. I am not prepared to say that there
was any reason why Phineas himself should not have sent the news of
his success to Lady Laura; but he had not done so. The piece of paper
which she still held crushed in her hand was in itself very innocent.
"Hurrah for the Loughshanes. Finny has done the trick." Such were
the words written on the slip, and they had been sent to Lady Laura
by her young cousin, the clerk in the office who acted as private
secretary to the Under-Secretary of State. Lady Laura resolved that
her husband should never see those innocent but rather undignified
words. The occasion had become one of importance, and such words were
unworthy of it. Besides, she would not condescend to defend herself
by bringing forward a telegram as evidence in her favour. So she
burned the morsel of paper.

Lady Laura and Mr. Kennedy did not meet again till late that evening.
She was ill, she said, and would not come down to dinner. After
dinner she wrote him a note. "Dear Robert, I think you must regret
what you said to me. If so, pray let me have a line from you to that
effect. Yours affectionately, L." When the servant handed it to him,
and he had read it, he smiled and thanked the girl who had brought
it, and said he would see her mistress just now. Anything would be
better than that the servants should know that there was a quarrel.
But every servant in the house had known all about it for the last
three hours. When the door was closed and he was alone, he sat
fingering the note, thinking deeply how he should answer it, or
whether he would answer it at all. No; he would not answer it;--not
in writing. He would give his wife no written record of his
humiliation. He had not acted wrongly. He had said nothing more than
now, upon mature consideration, he thought that the circumstances
demanded. But yet he felt that he must in some sort withdraw the
accusation which he had made. If he did not withdraw it, there was no
knowing what his wife might do. About ten in the evening he went up
to her and made his little speech. "My dear, I have come to answer
your note."

"I thought you would have written to me a line."

"I have come instead, Laura. Now, if you will listen to me for one
moment, I think everything will be made smooth."

"Of course I will listen," said Lady Laura, knowing very well that
her husband's moment would be rather tedious, and resolving that she
also would have her moment afterwards.

"I think you will acknowledge that if there be a difference of
opinion between you and me as to any question of social intercourse,
it will be better that you should consent to adopt my opinion."

"You have the law on your side."

"I am not speaking of the law."

"Well;--go on, Robert. I will not interrupt you if I can help it."

"I am not speaking of the law. I am speaking simply of convenience,
and of that which you must feel to be right. If I wish that your
intercourse with any person should be of such or such a nature it
must be best that you should comply with my wishes." He paused for
her assent, but she neither assented nor dissented. "As far as I can
understand the position of a man and wife in this country, there is
no other way in which life can be made harmonious."

"Life will not run in harmonies."

"I expect that ours shall be made to do so, Laura. I need hardly say
to you that I intend to accuse you of no impropriety of feeling in
reference to this young man."

"No, Robert; you need hardly say that. Indeed, to speak my own mind,
I think that you need hardly have alluded to it. I might go further,
and say that such an allusion is in itself an insult,--an insult now
repeated after hours of deliberation,--an insult which I will not
endure to have repeated again. If you say another word in any way
suggesting the possibility of improper relations between me and Mr.
Finn, either as to deeds or thoughts, as God is above me, I will
write to both my father and my brother, and desire them to take me
from your house. If you wish me to remain here, you had better be
careful!" As she was making this speech, her temper seemed to rise,
and to become hot, and then hotter, till it glowed with a red heat.
She had been cool till the word insult, used by herself, had conveyed
back to her a strong impression of her own wrong,--or perhaps I
should rather say a strong feeling of the necessity of becoming
indignant. She was standing as she spoke, and the fire flashed from
her eyes, and he quailed before her. The threat which she had held
out to him was very dreadful to him. He was a man terribly in fear
of the world's good opinion, who lacked the courage to go through a
great and harassing trial in order that something better might come
afterwards. His married life had been unhappy. His wife had not
submitted either to his will or to his ways. He had that great desire
to enjoy his full rights, so strong in the minds of weak, ambitious
men, and he had told himself that a wife's obedience was one of those
rights which he could not abandon without injury to his self-esteem.
He had thought about the matter, slowly, as was his wont, and had
resolved that he would assert himself. He had asserted himself, and
his wife told him to his face that she would go away and leave him.
He could detain her legally, but he could not do even that without
the fact of such forcible detention being known to all the world.
How was he to answer her now at this moment, so that she might not
write to her father, and so that his self-assertion might still be
maintained?

"Passion, Laura, can never be right."

"Would you have a woman submit to insult without passion? I at any
rate am not such a woman." Then there was a pause for a moment. "If
you have nothing else to say to me, you had better leave me. I am far
from well, and my head is throbbing."

He came up and took her hand, but she snatched it away from him.
"Laura," he said, "do not let us quarrel."

"I certainly shall quarrel if such insinuations are repeated."

"I made no insinuation."

"Do not repeat them. That is all."

He was cowed and left her, having first attempted to get out of the
difficulty of his position by making much of her alleged illness, and
by offering to send for Dr. Macnuthrie. She positively refused to see
Dr. Macnuthrie, and at last succeeded in inducing him to quit the
room.

This had occurred about the end of November, and on the 20th of
December Violet Effingham reached Loughlinter. Life in Mr. Kennedy's
house had gone quietly during the intervening three weeks, but not
very pleasantly. The name of Phineas Finn had not been mentioned.
Lady Laura had triumphed; but she had no desire to acerbate her
husband by any unpalatable allusion to her victory. And he was quite
willing to let the subject die away, if only it would die. On some
other matters he continued to assert himself, taking his wife to
church twice every Sunday, using longer family prayers than she
approved, reading an additional sermon himself every Sunday evening,
calling upon her for weekly attention to elaborate household
accounts, asking for her personal assistance in much local visiting,
initiating her into his favourite methods of family life in the
country, till sometimes she almost longed to talk again about Phineas
Finn, so that there might be a rupture, and she might escape. But her
husband asserted himself within bounds, and she submitted, longing
for the coming of Violet Effingham. She could not write to her father
and beg to be taken away, because her husband would read a sermon to
her on Sunday evening.

To Violet, very shortly after her arrival, she told her whole story.
"This is terrible," said Violet. "This makes me feel that I never
will be married."

"And yet what can a woman become if she remain single? The curse is
to be a woman at all."

"I have always felt so proud of the privileges of my sex," said
Violet.

"I never have found them," said the other; "never. I have tried to
make the best of its weaknesses, and this is what I have come to! I
suppose I ought to have loved some man."

"And did you never love any man?"

"No;--I think I never did,--not as people mean when they speak of
love. I have felt that I would consent to be cut in little pieces for
my brother,--because of my regard for him."

"Ah, that is nothing."

"And I have felt something of the same thing for another,--a longing
for his welfare, a delight to hear him praised, a charm in his
presence,--so strong a feeling for his interest, that were he to go
to wrack and ruin, I too, should, after a fashion, be wracked and
ruined. But it has not been love either."

"Do I know whom you mean? May I name him? It is Phineas Finn."

"Of course it is Phineas Finn."

"Did he ever ask you,--to love him?"

"I feared he would do so, and therefore accepted Mr. Kennedy's offer
almost at the first word."

"I do not quite understand your reasoning, Laura."

"I understand it. I could have refused him nothing in my power to
give him, but I did not wish to be his wife."

"And he never asked you?"

Lady Laura paused a moment, thinking what reply she should make;--and
then she told a fib. "No; he never asked me." But Violet did not
believe the fib. Violet was quite sure that Phineas had asked Lady
Laura Standish to be his wife. "As far as I can see," said Violet,
"Madame Max Goesler is his present passion."

"I do not believe it in the least," said Lady Laura, firing up.

"It does not much matter," said Violet.

"It would matter very much. You know, you,--you; you know whom he
loves. And I do believe that sooner or later you will be his wife."

"Never."

"Yes, you will. Had you not loved him you would never have
condescended to accuse him about that woman."

"I have not accused him. Why should he not marry Madame Max Goesler?
It would be just the thing for him. She is very rich."

"Never. You will be his wife."

"Laura, you are the most capricious of women. You have two dear
friends, and you insist that I shall marry them both. Which shall I
take first?"

"Oswald will be here in a day or two, and you can take him if you
like it. No doubt he will ask you. But I do not think you will."

"No; I do not think I shall. I shall knock under to Mr. Mill, and
go in for women's rights, and look forward to stand for some female
borough. Matrimony never seemed to me to be very charming, and
upon my word it does not become more alluring by what I find at
Loughlinter."

It was thus that Violet and Lady Laura discussed these matters
together, but Violet had never showed to her friend the cards in her
hand, as Lady Laura had shown those which she held. Lady Laura had
in fact told almost everything that there was to tell,--had spoken
either plainly with true words, or equally plainly with words that
were not true. Violet Effingham had almost come to love Phineas
Finn;--but she never told her friend that it was so. At one time
she had almost made up her mind to give herself and all her wealth
to this adventurer. He was a better man, she thought, than Lord
Chiltern; and she had come to persuade herself that it was almost
imperative on her to take the one or the other. Though she could
talk about remaining unmarried, she knew that that was practically
impossible. All those around her,--those of the Baldock as well as
those of the Brentford faction,--would make such a life impossible
to her. Besides, in such a case what could she do? It was all very
well to talk of disregarding the world and of setting up a house for
herself;--but she was quite aware that that project could not be used
further than for the purpose of scaring her amiable aunt. And if not
that,--then could she content herself to look forward to a joint life
with Lady Baldock and Augusta Boreham? She might, of course, oblige
her aunt by taking Lord Fawn, or oblige her aunt equally by taking
Mr. Appledom; but she was strongly of opinion that either Lord
Chiltern or Phineas would be preferable to these. Thinking over it
always she had come to feel that it must be either Lord Chiltern or
Phineas; but she had never whispered her thought to man or woman. On
her journey to Loughlinter, where she then knew that she was to meet
Lord Chiltern, she endeavoured to persuade herself that it should be
Phineas. But Lady Laura had marred it all by that ill-told fib. There
had been a moment before in which Violet had felt that Phineas had
sacrificed something of that truth of love for which she gave him
credit to the glances of Madame Goesler's eyes; but she had rebuked
herself for the idea, accusing herself not only of a little jealousy,
but of foolish vanity. Was he, whom she had rejected, not to speak to
another woman? Then came the blow from Lady Laura, and Violet knew
that it was a blow. This gallant lover, this young Crichton, this
unassuming but ardent lover, had simply taken up with her as soon as
he had failed with her friend. Lady Laura had been most enthusiastic
in her expressions of friendship. Such platonic regards might be all
very well. It was for Mr. Kennedy to look to that. But, for herself,
she felt that such expressions were hardly compatible with her ideas
of having her lover all to herself. And then she again remembered
Madame Goesler's bright blue eyes.

Lord Chiltern came on Christmas eve, and was received with open arms
by his sister, and with that painful, irritating affection which
such a girl as Violet can show to such a man as Lord Chiltern, when
she will not give him that other affection for which his heart is
panting. The two men were civil to each other,--but very cold. They
called each other Kennedy and Chiltern, but even that was not done
without an effort. On the Christmas morning Mr. Kennedy asked his
brother-in-law to go to church. "It's a kind of thing I never do,"
said Lord Chiltern. Mr. Kennedy gave a little start, and looked a
look of horror. Lady Laura showed that she was unhappy. Violet
Effingham turned away her face, and smiled.

As they walked across the park Violet took Lord Chiltern's part. "He
only means that he does not go to church on Christmas day."

"I don't know what he means," said Mr. Kennedy.

"We need not speak of it," said Lady Laura.

"Certainly not," said Mr. Kennedy.

"I have been to church with him on Sundays myself," said Violet,
perhaps not reflecting that the practices of early years had little
to do with the young man's life at present.

Christmas day and the next day passed without any sign from Lord
Chiltern, and on the day after that he was to go away. But he was not
to leave till one or two in the afternoon. Not a word had been said
between the two women, since he had been in the house, on the subject
of which both of them were thinking. Very much had been said of
the expediency of his going to Saulsby, but on this matter he had
declined to make any promise. Sitting in Lady Laura's room, in the
presence of both of them, he had refused to do so. "I am bad to
drive," he said, turning to Violet, "and you had better not try to
drive me."

"Why should not you be driven as well as another?" she answered,
laughing.




CHAPTER LII

The First Blow


Lord Chiltern, though he had passed two entire days in the house with
Violet without renewing his suit, had come to Loughlinter for the
express purpose of doing so, and had his plans perfectly fixed in his
own mind. After breakfast on that last morning he was up-stairs with
his sister in her own room, and immediately made his request to her.
"Laura," he said, "go down like a good girl, and make Violet come up
here." She stood a moment looking at him and smiled. "And, mind," he
continued, "you are not to come back yourself. I must have Violet
alone."

"But suppose Violet will not come? Young ladies do not generally wait
upon young men on such occasions."

"No;--but I rank her so high among young women, that I think she will
have common sense enough to teach her that, after what has passed
between us, I have a right to ask for an interview, and that it may
be more conveniently had here than in the wilderness of the house
below."

Whatever may have been the arguments used by her friend, Violet did
come. She reached the door all alone, and opened it bravely. She had
promised herself, as she came along the passages, that she would not
pause with her hand on the lock for a moment. She had first gone to
her own room, and as she left it she had looked into the glass with
a hurried glance, and had then rested for a moment,--thinking that
something should be done, that her hair might be smoothed, or a
ribbon set straight, or the chain arranged under her brooch. A girl
would wish to look well before her lover, even when she means to
refuse him. But her pause was but for an instant, and then she went
on, having touched nothing. She shook her head and pressed her hands
together, and went on quick and opened the door,--almost with a
little start. "Violet, this is very good of you," said Lord Chiltern,
standing with his back to the fire, and not moving from the spot.

"Laura has told me that you thought I would do as much as this for
you, and therefore I have done it."

"Thanks, dearest. It is the old story, Violet, and I am so bad at
words!"

"I must have been bad at words too, as I have not been able to make
you understand."

"I think I have understood. You are always clear-spoken, and I,
though I cannot talk, am not muddle-pated. I have understood. But
while you are single there must be yet hope;--unless, indeed, you
will tell me that you have already given yourself to another man."

"I have not done that."

"Then how can I not hope? Violet, I would if I could tell you all my
feelings plainly. Once, twice, thrice, I have said to myself that I
would think of you no more. I have tried to persuade myself that I am
better single than married."

"But I am not the only woman."

"To me you are,--absolutely, as though there were none other on the
face of God's earth. I live much alone; but you are always with me.
Should you marry any other man, it will be the same with me still. If
you refuse me now I shall go away,--and live wildly."

"Oswald, what do you mean?"

"I mean that I will go to some distant part of the world, where I
may be killed or live a life of adventure. But I shall do so simply
in despair. It will not be that I do not know how much better and
greater should be the life at home of a man in my position."

"Then do not talk of going."

"I cannot stay. You will acknowledge, Violet, that I have never lied
to you. I am thinking of you day and night. The more indifferent you
show yourself to me, the more I love you. Violet, try to love me." He
came up to her, and took her by both her hands, and tears were in his
eyes. "Say you will try to love me."

"It is not that," said Violet, looking away, but still leaving her
hands with him.

"It is not what, dear?"

"What you call,--trying."

"It is that you do not wish to try?"

"Oswald, you are so violent, so headstrong. I am afraid of you,--as
is everybody. Why have you not written to your father, as we have
asked you?"

"I will write to him instantly, now, before I leave the room, and
you shall dictate the letter to him. By heavens, you shall!" He had
dropped her hands when she called him violent; but now he took them
again, and still she permitted it. "I have postponed it only till I
had spoken to you once again."

"No, Lord Chiltern, I will not dictate to you."

"But will you love me?" She paused and looked down, having even now
not withdrawn her hands from him. But I do not think he knew how much
he had gained. "You used to love me,--a little," he said.

"Indeed,--indeed, I did."

"And now? Is it all changed now?"

"No," she said, retreating from him.

"How is it, then? Violet, speak to me honestly. Will you be my wife?"
She did not answer him, and he stood for a moment looking at her.
Then he rushed at her, and, seizing her in his arms, kissed her all
over,--her forehead, her lips, her cheeks, then both her hands, and
then her lips again. "By G----, she is my own!" he said. Then he went
back to the rug before the fire, and stood there with his back turned
to her. Violet, when she found herself thus deserted, retreated to
a sofa, and sat herself down. She had no negative to produce now in
answer to the violent assertion which he had pronounced as to his
own success. It was true. She had doubted, and doubted,--and still
doubted. But now she must doubt no longer. Of one thing she was quite
sure. She could love him. As things had now gone, she would make
him quite happy with assurances on that subject. As to that other
question,--that fearful question, whether or not she could trust
him,--on that matter she had better at present say nothing, and
think as little, perhaps, as might be. She had taken the jump, and
therefore why should she not be gracious to him? But how was she to
be gracious to a lover who stood there with his back turned to her?

After the interval of a minute or two he remembered himself, and
turned round. Seeing her seated, he approached her, and went down on
both knees close at her feet. Then he took her hands again, for the
third time, and looked up into her eyes.

"Oswald, you on your knees!" she said.

"I would not bend to a princess," he said, "to ask for half her
throne; but I will kneel here all day, if you will let me, in thanks
for the gift of your love. I never kneeled to beg for it."

"This is the man who cannot make speeches."

"I think I could talk now by the hour, with you for a listener."

"Oh, but I must talk too."

"What will you say to me?"

"Nothing while you are kneeling. It is not natural that you should
kneel. You are like Samson with his locks shorn, or Hercules with a
distaff."

"Is that better?" he said, as he got up and put his arm round her
waist.

"You are in earnest?" she asked.

"In earnest. I hardly thought that that would be doubted. Do you not
believe me?"

"I do believe you. And you will be good?"

"Ah,--I do not know that."

"Try, and I will love you so dearly. Nay, I do love you dearly. I do.
I do."

"Say it again."

"I will say it fifty times,--till your ears are weary with it";--and
she did say it to him, after her own fashion, fifty times.

"This is a great change," he said, getting up after a while and
walking about the room.

"But a change for the better;--is it not, Oswald?"

"So much for the better that I hardly know myself in my new joy. But,
Violet, we'll have no delay,--will we? No shilly-shallying. What is
the use of waiting now that it's settled?"

"None in the least, Lord Chiltern. Let us say,--this day
twelvemonth."

"You are laughing at me, Violet."

"Remember, sir, that the first thing you have to do is to write to
your father."

He instantly went to the writing-table and took up paper and pen.
"Come along," he said. "You are to dictate it." But this she refused
to do, telling him that he must write his letter to his father out of
his own head, and out of his own heart. "I cannot write it," he said,
throwing down the pen. "My blood is in such a tumult that I cannot
steady my hand."

"You must not be so tumultuous, Oswald, or I shall have to live in a
whirlwind."

"Oh, I shall shake down. I shall become as steady as an old stager.
I'll go as quiet in harness by-and-by as though I had been broken
to it a four-year-old. I wonder whether Laura could not write this
letter."

"I think you should write it yourself, Oswald."

"If you bid me I will."

"Bid you indeed! As if it was for me to bid you. Do you not know that
in these new troubles you are undertaking you will have to bid me in
everything, and that I shall be bound to do your bidding? Does it not
seem to be dreadful? My wonder is that any girl can ever accept any
man."

"But you have accepted me now."

"Yes, indeed."

"And you repent?"

"No, indeed, and I will try to do your biddings;--but you must not be
rough to me, and outrageous, and fierce,--will you, Oswald?"

"I will not at any rate be like Kennedy is with poor Laura."

"No;--that is not your nature."

"I will do my best, dearest. And you may at any rate be sure of this,
that I will love you always. So much good of myself, if it be good, I
can say."

"It is very good," she answered; "the best of all good words. And now
I must go. And as you are leaving Loughlinter I will say good-bye.
When am I to have the honour and felicity of beholding your lordship
again?"

"Say a nice word to me before I am off, Violet."

"I,--love,--you,--better,--than all the world beside; and I mean,--to
be your wife,--some day. Are not those twenty nice words?"

He would not prolong his stay at Loughlinter, though he was asked
to do so both by Violet and his sister, and though, as he confessed
himself, he had no special business elsewhere. "It is no use mincing
the matter. I don't like Kennedy, and I don't like being in his
house," he said to Violet. And then he promised that there should be
a party got up at Saulsby before the winter was over. His plan was
to stop that night at Carlisle, and write to his father from thence.
"Your blood, perhaps, won't be so tumultuous at Carlisle," said
Violet. He shook his head and went on with his plans. He would then
go on to London and down to Willingford, and there wait for his
father's answer. "There is no reason why I should lose more of
the hunting than necessary." "Pray don't lose a day for me," said
Violet. As soon as he heard from his father, he would do his father's
bidding. "You will go to Saulsby," said Violet; "you can hunt at
Saulsby, you know."

"I will go to Jericho if he asks me, only you will have to go with
me." "I thought we were to go to,--Belgium," said Violet.

"And so that is settled at last," said Violet to Laura that night.

"I hope you do not regret it."

"On the contrary, I am as happy as the moments are long."

"My fine girl!"

"I am happy because I love him. I have always loved him. You have
known that."

"Indeed, no."

"But I have, after my fashion. I am not tumultuous, as he calls
himself. Since he began to make eyes at me when he was nineteen--"

"Fancy Oswald making eyes!"

"Oh, he did, and mouths too. But from the beginning, when I was a
child, I have known that he was dangerous, and I have thought that
he would pass on and forget me after a while. And I could have lived
without him. Nay, there have been moments when I thought I could
learn to love some one else."

"Poor Phineas, for instance."

"We will mention no names. Mr. Appledom, perhaps, more likely. He
has been my most constant lover, and then he would be so safe! Your
brother, Laura, is dangerous. He is like the bad ice in the parks
where they stick up the poles. He has had a pole stuck upon him ever
since he was a boy."

"Yes;--give a dog a bad name and hang him."

"Remember that I do not love him a bit the less on that
account;--perhaps the better. A sense of danger does not make me
unhappy, though the threatened evil may be fatal. I have entered
myself for my forlorn hope, and I mean to stick to it. Now I must go
and write to his worship. Only think,--I never wrote a love-letter
yet!"

Nothing more shall be said about Miss Effingham's first love-letter,
which was, no doubt, creditable to her head and heart; but there were
two other letters sent by the same post from Loughlinter which shall
be submitted to the reader, as they will assist the telling of the
story. One was from Lady Laura Kennedy to her friend Phineas Finn,
and the other from Violet to her aunt, Lady Baldock. No letter was
written to Lord Brentford, as it was thought desirable that he should
receive the first intimation of what had been done from his son.

Respecting the letter to Phineas, which shall be first given, Lady
Laura thought it right to say a word to her husband. He had been of
course told of the engagement, and had replied that he could have
wished that the arrangement could have been made elsewhere than at
his house, knowing as he did that Lady Baldock would not approve
of it. To this Lady Laura had made no reply, and Mr. Kennedy had
condescended to congratulate the bride-elect. When Lady Laura's
letter to Phineas was completed she took care to put it into the
letter-box in the presence of her husband. "I have written to Mr.
Finn," she said, "to tell him of this marriage."

"Why was it necessary that he should be told?"

"I think it was due to him,--from certain circumstances."

"I wonder whether there was any truth in what everybody was saying
about their fighting a duel?" asked Mr. Kennedy. His wife made no
answer, and then he continued--"You told me of your own knowledge
that it was untrue."

"Not of my own knowledge, Robert."

"Yes;--of your own knowledge." Then Mr. Kennedy walked away, and was
certain that his wife had deceived him about the duel. There had
been a duel, and she had known it; and yet she had told him that the
report was a ridiculous fabrication. He never forgot anything. He
remembered at this moment the words of the falsehood, and the look
of her face as she told it. He had believed her implicitly, but he
would never believe her again. He was one of those men who, in spite
of their experience of the world, of their experience of their own
lives, imagine that lips that have once lied can never tell the
truth.

Lady Laura's letter to Phineas was as follows:


   Loughlinter, December 28th, 186--.

   MY DEAR FRIEND,

   Violet Effingham is here, and Oswald has just left us.
   It is possible that you may see him as he passes through
   London. But, at any rate, I think it best to let you know
   immediately that she has accepted him,--at last. If there
   be any pang in this to you, be sure that I will grieve
   for you. You will not wish me to say that I regret that
   which was the dearest wish of my heart before I knew you.
   Lately, indeed, I have been torn in two ways. You will
   understand what I mean, and I believe I need say nothing
   more;--except this, that it shall be among my prayers that
   you may obtain all things that may tend to make you happy,
   honourable, and of high esteem.

   Your most sincere friend

   LAURA KENNEDY.


Even though her husband should read the letter, there was nothing in
that of which she need be ashamed. But he did not read the letter.
He simply speculated as to its contents, and inquired within himself
whether it would not be for the welfare of the world in general, and
for the welfare of himself in particular, that husbands should demand
to read their wives' letters.

And this was Violet's letter to her aunt:--


   MY DEAR AUNT,

   The thing has come at last, and all your troubles will be
   soon over;--for I do believe that all your troubles have
   come from your unfortunate niece. At last I am going to
   be married, and thus take myself off your hands. Lord
   Chiltern has just been here, and I have accepted him. I am
   afraid you hardly think so well of Lord Chiltern as I do;
   but then, perhaps, you have not known him so long. You do
   know, however, that there has been some difference between
   him and his father. I think I may take upon myself to say
   that now, upon his engagement, this will be settled. I
   have the inexpressible pleasure of feeling sure that Lord
   Brentford will welcome me as his daughter-in-law. Tell the
   news to Augusta with my best love. I will write to her in
   a day or two. I hope my cousin Gustavus will condescend
   to give me away. Of course there is nothing fixed about
   time;--but I should say, perhaps, in nine years.

   Your affectionate niece,

   VIOLET EFFINGHAM.

   Loughlinter, Friday.


"What does she mean about nine years?" said Lady Baldock in her
wrath.

"She is joking," said the mild Augusta.

"I believe she would--joke, if I were going to be buried," said Lady
Baldock.




CHAPTER LIII

Showing How Phineas Bore the Blow


When Phineas received Lady Laura Kennedy's letter, he was sitting in
his gorgeous apartment in the Colonial Office. It was gorgeous in
comparison with the very dingy room at Mr. Low's to which he had been
accustomed in his early days,--and somewhat gorgeous also as compared
with the lodgings he had so long inhabited in Mr. Bunce's house. The
room was large and square, and looked out from three windows on to
St. James's Park. There were in it two very comfortable arm-chairs
and a comfortable sofa. And the office table at which he sat was of
old mahogany, shining brightly, and seemed to be fitted up with every
possible appliance for official comfort. This stood near one of the
windows, so that he could sit and look down upon the park. And there
was a large round table covered with books and newspapers. And the
walls of the room were bright with maps of all the colonies. And
there was one very interesting map,--but not very bright,--showing
the American colonies, as they used to be. And there was a little
inner closet in which he could brush his hair and wash his hands; and
in the room adjoining there sat,--or ought to have sat, for he was
often absent, vexing the mind of Phineas,--the Earl's nephew, his
private secretary. And it was all very gorgeous. Often as he looked
round upon it, thinking of his old bedroom at Killaloe, of his little
garrets at Trinity, of the dingy chambers in Lincoln's Inn, he would
tell himself that it was very gorgeous. He would wonder that anything
so grand had fallen to his lot.

The letter from Scotland was brought to him in the afternoon, having
reached London by some day-mail from Glasgow. He was sitting at his
desk with a heap of papers before him referring to a contemplated
railway from Halifax, in Nova Scotia, to the foot of the Rocky
Mountains. It had become his business to get up the subject, and then
discuss with his principal, Lord Cantrip, the expediency of advising
the Government to lend a company five million of money, in order
that this railway might be made. It was a big subject, and the
contemplation of it gratified him. It required that he should look
forward to great events, and exercise the wisdom of a statesman. What
was the chance of these colonies being swallowed up by those other
regions,--once colonies,--of which the map that hung in the corner
told so eloquent a tale? And if so, would the five million ever be
repaid? And if not swallowed up, were the colonies worth so great an
adventure of national money? Could they repay it? Would they do so?
Should they be made to do so? Mr. Low, who was now a Q.C. and in
Parliament, would not have greater subjects than this before him,
even if he should come to be Solicitor General. Lord Cantrip had
specially asked him to get up this matter,--and he was getting it up
sedulously. Once in nine years the harbour of Halifax was blocked up
by ice. He had just jotted down the fact, which was material, when
Lady Laura's letter was brought to him. He read it, and putting
it down by his side very gently, went back to his maps as though
the thing would not so trouble his mind as to disturb his work. He
absolutely wrote, automatically, certain words of a note about the
harbour, after he had received the information. A horse will gallop
for some scores of yards, after his back has been broken, before
he knows of his great ruin;--and so it was with Phineas Finn. His
back was broken, but, nevertheless, he galloped, for a yard or two.
"Closed in 1860-61 for thirteen days." Then he began to be aware that
his back was broken, and that the writing of any more notes about the
ice in Halifax harbour was for the present out of the question. "I
think it best to let you know immediately that she has accepted him."
These were the words which he read the oftenest. Then it was all
over! The game was played out, and all his victories were as nothing
to him. He sat for an hour in his gorgeous room thinking of it, and
various were the answers which he gave during the time to various
messages;--but he would see nobody. As for the colonies, he did not
care if they revolted to-morrow. He would have parted with every
colony belonging to Great Britain to have gotten the hand of Violet
Effingham for himself. Now,--now at this moment, he told himself with
oaths that he had never loved any one but Violet Effingham.

There had been so much to make such a marriage desirable! I should
wrong my hero deeply were I to say that the weight of his sorrow was
occasioned by the fact that he had lost an heiress. He would never
have thought of looking for Violet Effingham had he not first learned
to love her. But as the idea opened itself out to him, everything
had seemed to be so suitable. Had Miss Effingham become his wife,
the mouths of the Lows and of the Bunces would have been stopped
altogether. Mr. Monk would have come to his house as his familiar
guest, and he would have been connected with half a score of peers.
A seat in Parliament would be simply his proper place, and even
Under-Secretaryships of State might soon come to be below him. He
was playing a great game, but hitherto he had played it with so much
success,--with such wonderful luck! that it had seemed to him that
all things were within his reach. Nothing more had been wanting to
him than Violet's hand for his own comfort, and Violet's fortune to
support his position; and these, too, had almost seemed to be within
his grasp. His goddess had indeed refused him,--but not with disdain.
Even Lady Laura had talked of his marriage as not improbable. All the
world, almost, had heard of the duel; and all the world had smiled,
and seemed to think that in the real fight Phineas Finn would be
the victor,--that the lucky pistol was in his hands. It had never
occurred to any one to suppose,--as far as he could see,--that he was
presuming at all, or pushing himself out of his own sphere, in asking
Violet Effingham to be his wife. No;--he would trust his luck, would
persevere, and would succeed. Such had been his resolution on that
very morning,--and now there had come this letter to dash him to the
ground.

There were moments in which he declared to himself that he would not
believe the letter,--not that there was any moment in which there
was in his mind the slightest spark of real hope. But he would tell
himself that he would still persevere. Violet might have been driven
to accept that violent man by violent influence,--or it might be
that she had not in truth accepted him, that Chiltern had simply so
asserted. Or, even if it were so, did women never change their minds?
The manly thing would be to persevere to the end. Had he not before
been successful, when success seemed to be as far from him? But he
could buoy himself up with no real hope. Even when these ideas were
present to his mind, he knew,--he knew well,--at those very moments,
that his back was broken.

Some one had come in and lighted the candles and drawn down the
blinds while he was sitting there, and now, as he looked at his
watch, he found that it was past five o'clock. He was engaged to dine
with Madame Max Goesler at eight, and in his agony he half-resolved
that he would send an excuse. Madame Max would be full of wrath, as
she was very particular about her little dinner-parties;--but, what
did he care now about the wrath of Madame Max Goesler? And yet only
this morning he had been congratulating himself, among his other
successes, upon her favour, and had laughed inwardly at his own
falseness,--his falseness to Violet Effingham,--as he did so. He
had said something to himself jocosely about lovers' perjuries, the
remembrance of which was now very bitter to him. He took up a sheet
of note-paper and scrawled an excuse to Madame Goesler. News from the
country, he said, made it impossible that he should go out to-night.
But he did not send the note. At about half-past five he opened the
door of his private secretary's room and found the young man fast
asleep, with a cigar in his mouth. "Halloa, Charles," he said.

"All right!" Charles Standish was a first cousin of Lady Laura's,
and, having been in the office before Phineas had joined it, and
being a great favourite with his cousin, had of course become the
Under-Secretary's private secretary. "I'm all here," said Charles
Standish, getting up and shaking himself.

"I am going. Just tie up those papers,--exactly as they are. I shall
be here early to-morrow, but I shan't want you before twelve. Good
night, Charles."

"Ta, ta," said his private secretary, who was very fond of his
master, but not very respectful,--unless upon express occasions.

Then Phineas went out and walked across the park; but as he went he
became quite aware that his back was broken. It was not the less
broken because he sang to himself little songs to prove to himself
that it was whole and sound. It was broken, and it seemed to him now
that he never could become an Atlas again, to bear the weight of the
world upon his shoulders. What did anything signify? All that he had
done had been part of a game which he had been playing throughout,
and now he had been beaten in his game. He absolutely ignored his
old passion for Lady Laura as though it had never been, and regarded
himself as a model of constancy,--as a man who had loved, not wisely
perhaps, but much too well,--and who must now therefore suffer a
living death. He hated Parliament. He hated the Colonial Office.
He hated his friend Mr. Monk; and he especially hated Madame Max
Goesler. As to Lord Chiltern,--he believed that Lord Chiltern had
obtained his object by violence. He would see to that! Yes;--let the
consequences be what they might, he would see to that!

He went up by the Duke of York's column, and as he passed the
Athenæum he saw his chief, Lord Cantrip, standing under the portico
talking to a bishop. He would have gone on unnoticed, had it been
possible; but Lord Cantrip came down to him at once. "I have put your
name down here," said his lordship.

"What's the use?" said Phineas, who was profoundly indifferent at
this moment to all the clubs in London.

"It can't do any harm, you know. You'll come up in time. And if you
should get into the ministry, they'll let you in at once."

"Ministry!" ejaculated Phineas. But Lord Cantrip took the tone of
voice as simply suggestive of humility, and suspected nothing of that
profound indifference to all ministers and ministerial honours which
Phineas had intended to express. "By-the-bye," said Lord Cantrip,
putting his arm through that of the Under-Secretary, "I wanted to
speak to you about the guarantees. We shall be in the devil's own
mess, you know--" And so the Secretary of State went on about the
Rocky Mountain Railroad, and Phineas strove hard to bear his burden
with his broken back. He was obliged to say something about the
guarantees, and the railway, and the frozen harbour,--and something
especially about the difficulties which would be found, not in the
measures themselves, but in the natural pugnacity of the Opposition.
In the fabrication of garments for the national wear, the great
thing is to produce garments that shall, as far as possible, defy
hole-picking. It may be, and sometimes is, the case, that garments
so fabricated will be good also for wear. Lord Cantrip, at the
present moment, was very anxious and very ingenious in the stopping
of holes; and he thought that perhaps his Under-Secretary was too
much prone to the indulgence of large philanthropical views without
sufficient thought of the hole-pickers. But on this occasion, by
the time that he reached Brooks's, he had been enabled to convince
his Under-Secretary, and though he had always thought well of his
Under-Secretary, he thought better of him now than ever he had done.
Phineas during the whole time had been meditating what he could do
to Lord Chiltern when they two should meet. Could he take him by the
throat and smite him? "I happen to know that Broderick is working as
hard at the matter as we are," said Lord Cantrip, stopping opposite
to the club. "He moved for papers, you know, at the end of last
session." Now Mr. Broderick was a gentleman in the House looking for
promotion in a Conservative Government, and of course would oppose
any measure that could be brought forward by the Cantrip-Finn
Colonial Administration. Then Lord Cantrip slipped into the club, and
Phineas went on alone.

A spark of his old ambition with reference to Brooks's was the first
thing to make him forget his misery for a moment. He had asked Lord
Brentford to put his name down, and was not sure whether it had been
done. The threat of Mr. Broderick's opposition had been of no use
towards the strengthening of his broken back, but the sight of Lord
Cantrip hurrying in at the coveted door did do something. "A man
can't cut his throat or blow his brains out," he said to himself;
"after all, he must go on and do his work. For hearts will break, yet
brokenly live on." Thereupon he went home, and after sitting for an
hour over his own fire, and looking wistfully at a little treasure
which he had,--a treasure obtained by some slight fraud at Saulsby,
and which he now chucked into the fire, and then instantly again
pulled out of it, soiled but unscorched,--he dressed himself for
dinner, and went out to Madame Max Goesler's. Upon the whole, he was
glad that he had not sent the note of excuse. A man must live, even
though his heart be broken, and living he must dine.

Madame Max Goesler was fond of giving little dinners at this period
of the year, before London was crowded, and when her guests might
probably not be called away by subsequent social arrangements. Her
number seldom exceeded six or eight, and she always spoke of these
entertainments as being of the humblest kind. She sent out no big
cards. She preferred to catch her people as though by chance, when
that was possible. "Dear Mr. Jones. Mr. Smith is coming to tell
me about some sherry on Tuesday. Will you come and tell me too? I
daresay you know as much about it." And then there was a studious
absence of parade. The dishes were not very numerous. The bill of
fare was simply written out once, for the mistress, and so circulated
round the table. Not a word about the things to be eaten or the
things to be drunk was ever spoken at the table,--or at least no such
word was ever spoken by Madame Goesler. But, nevertheless, they who
knew anything about dinners were aware that Madame Goesler gave very
good dinners indeed. Phineas Finn was beginning to flatter himself
that he knew something about dinners, and had been heard to assert
that the soups at the cottage in Park Lane were not to be beaten in
London. But he cared for no soup to-day, as he slowly made his way up
Madame Goesler's staircase.

There had been one difficulty in the way of Madame Goesler's
dinner-parties which had required some patience and great ingenuity
in its management. She must either have ladies, or she must not have
them. There was a great allurement in the latter alternative; but she
knew well that if she gave way to it, all prospect of general society
would for her be closed,--and for ever. This had been in the early
days of her widowhood in Park Lane. She cared but little for women's
society; but she knew well that the society of gentlemen without
women would not be that which she desired. She knew also that she
might as effectually crush herself and all her aspirations by
bringing to her house indifferent women,--women lacking something
either in character, or in position, or in talent,--as by having none
at all. Thus there had been a great difficulty, and sometimes she had
thought that the thing could not be done at all. "These English are
so stiff, so hard, so heavy!" And yet she would not have cared to
succeed elsewhere than among the English. By degrees, however, the
thing was done. Her prudence equalled her wit, and even suspicious
people had come to acknowledge that they could not put their fingers
on anything wrong. When Lady Glencora Palliser had once dined at
the cottage in Park Lane, Madame Max Goesler had told herself that
henceforth she did not care what the suspicious people said. Since
that the Duke of Omnium had almost promised that he would come. If
she could only entertain the Duke of Omnium she would have done
everything.

But there was no Duke of Omnium there to-night. At this time the Duke
of Omnium was, of course, not in London. But Lord Fawn was there; and
our old friend Laurence Fitzgibbon, who had--resigned his place at
the Colonial Office; and there were Mr. and Mrs. Bonteen. They, with
our hero, made up the party. No one doubted for a moment to what
source Mr. Bonteen owed his dinner. Mrs. Bonteen was good-looking,
could talk, was sufficiently proper, and all that kind of thing,--and
did as well as any other woman at this time of year to keep Madame
Max Goesler in countenance. There was never any sitting after dinner
at the cottage; or, I should rather say, there was never any sitting
after Madame Goesler went; so that the two ladies could not weary
each other by being alone together. Mrs. Bonteen understood quite
well that she was not required there to talk to her hostess, and was
as willing as any woman to make herself agreeable to the gentlemen
she might meet at Madame Goesler's table. And thus Mr. and Mrs.
Bonteen not unfrequently dined in Park Lane.

"Now we have only to wait for that horrible man, Mr. Fitzgibbon,"
said Madame Max Goesler, as she welcomed Phineas. "He is always
late."

"What a blow for me!" said Phineas.

"No,--you are always in good time. But there is a limit beyond which
good time ends, and being shamefully late at once begins. But here he
is." And then, as Laurence Fitzgibbon entered the room, Madame
Goesler rang the bell for dinner.

Phineas found himself placed between his hostess and Mr. Bonteen, and
Lord Fawn was on the other side of Madame Goesler. They were hardly
seated at the table before some one stated it as a fact that Lord
Brentford and his son were reconciled. Now Phineas knew, or thought
that he knew, that this could not as yet be the case; and indeed such
was not the case, though the father had already received the son's
letter. But Phineas did not choose to say anything at present about
Lord Chiltern.

"How odd it is," said Madame Goesler; "how often you English fathers
quarrel with your sons!"

"How often we English sons quarrel with our fathers rather," said
Lord Fawn, who was known for the respect he had always paid to the
fifth commandment.

"It all comes from entail and primogeniture, and old-fashioned
English prejudices of that kind," said Madame Goesler. "Lord Chiltern
is a friend of yours, Mr. Finn, I think."

"They are both friends of mine," said Phineas.

"Ah, yes; but you,--you,--you and Lord Chiltern once did something
odd together. There was a little mystery, was there not?"

"It is very little of a mystery now," said Fitzgibbon.

"It was about a lady;--was it not?" said Mrs. Bonteen, affecting to
whisper to her neighbour.

"I am not at liberty to say anything on the subject," said
Fitzgibbon; "but I have no doubt Phineas will tell you."

"I don't believe this about Lord Brentford," said Mr. Bonteen. "I
happen to know that Chiltern was down at Loughlinter three days ago,
and that he passed through London yesterday on his way to the place
where he hunts. The Earl is at Saulsby. He would have gone to Saulsby
if it were true."

"It all depends upon whether Miss Effingham will accept him," said
Mrs. Bonteen, looking over at Phineas as she spoke.

As there were two of Violet Effingham's suitors at table, the subject
was becoming disagreeably personal; and the more so, as every one of
the party knew or surmised something of the facts of the case. The
cause of the duel at Blankenberg had become almost as public as the
duel, and Lord Fawn's courtship had not been altogether hidden from
the public eye. He on the present occasion might probably be able to
carry himself better than Phineas, even presuming him to be equally
eager in his love,--for he knew nothing of the fatal truth. But he
was unable to hear Mrs. Bonteen's statement with indifference, and
showed his concern in the matter by his reply. "Any lady will be much
to be pitied," he said, "who does that. Chiltern is the last man in
the world to whom I would wish to trust the happiness of a woman for
whom I cared."

"Chiltern is a very good fellow," said Laurence Fitzgibbon.

"Just a little wild," said Mrs. Bonteen.

"And never had a shilling in his pocket in his life," said her
husband.

"I regard him as simply a madman," said Lord Fawn.

"I do so wish I knew him," said Madame Max Goesler. "I am fond of
madmen, and men who haven't shillings, and who are a little wild,
Could you not bring him here, Mr. Finn?"

Phineas did not know what to say, or how to open his mouth without
showing his deep concern. "I shall be happy to ask him if you wish
it," he replied, as though the question had been put to him in
earnest; "but I do not see so much of Lord Chiltern as I used to do."

"You do not believe that Violet Effingham will accept him?" asked
Mrs. Bonteen.

He paused a moment before he spoke, and then made his answer in a
deep solemn voice,--with a seriousness which he was unable to
repress. "She has accepted him," he said.

"Do you mean that you know it?" said Madame Goesler.

"Yes;--I mean that I know it."

Had anybody told him beforehand that he would openly make this
declaration at Madame Goesler's table, he would have said that of
all things it was the most impossible. He would have declared that
nothing would have induced him to speak of Violet Effingham in his
existing frame of mind, and that he would have had his tongue cut
out before he spoke of her as the promised bride of his rival. And
now he had declared the whole truth of his own wretchedness and
discomfiture. He was well aware that all of them there knew why he
had fought the duel at Blankenberg;--all, that is, except perhaps
Lord Fawn. And he felt as he made the statement as to Lord Chiltern
that he blushed up to his forehead, and that his voice was strange,
and that he was telling the tale of his own disgrace. But when the
direct question had been asked him he had been unable to refrain from
answering it directly. He had thought of turning it off with some
jest or affectation of drollery, but had failed. At the moment he had
been unable not to speak the truth.

"I don't believe a word of it," said Lord Fawn,--who also forgot
himself.

"I do believe it, if Mr. Finn says so," said Mrs. Bonteen, who rather
liked the confusion she had caused.

"But who could have told you, Finn?" asked Mr. Bonteen.

"His sister, Lady Laura, told me so," said Phineas.

"Then it must be true," said Madame Goesler.

"It is quite impossible," said Lord Fawn. "I think I may say that
I know that it is impossible. If it were so, it would be a most
shameful arrangement. Every shilling she has in the world would
be swallowed up." Now, Lord Fawn in making his proposals had been
magnanimous in his offers as to settlements and pecuniary provisions
generally.

For some minutes after that Phineas did not speak another word, and
the conversation generally was not so brisk and bright as it was
expected to be at Madame Goesler's. Madame Max Goesler herself
thoroughly understood our hero's position, and felt for him. She
would have encouraged no questionings about Violet Effingham had
she thought that they would have led to such a result, and now she
exerted herself to turn the minds of her guests to other subjects.
At last she succeeded; and after a while, too, Phineas himself was
able to talk. He drank two or three glasses of wine, and dashed
away into politics, taking the earliest opportunity in his power of
contradicting Lord Fawn very plainly on one or two matters. Laurence
Fitzgibbon was of course of opinion that the ministry could not stay
in long. Since he had left the Government the ministers had made
wonderful mistakes, and he spoke of them quite as an enemy might
speak. "And yet, Fitz," said Mr. Bonteen, "you used to be so staunch
a supporter."

"I have seen the error of my way, I can assure you," said Laurence.

"I always observe," said Madame Max Goesler, "that when any of
you gentlemen resign,--which you usually do on some very trivial
matter,--the resigning gentleman becomes of all foes the bitterest.
Somebody goes on very well with his friends, agreeing most cordially
about everything, till he finds that his public virtue cannot swallow
some little detail, and then he resigns. Or some one, perhaps, on the
other side has attacked him, and in the mêlée he is hurt, and so he
resigns. But when he has resigned, and made his parting speech full
of love and gratitude, I know well after that where to look for the
bitterest hostility to his late friends. Yes, I am beginning to
understand the way in which politics are done in England."

All this was rather severe upon Laurence Fitzgibbon; but he was a man
of the world, and bore it better than Phineas had borne his defeat.

The dinner, taken altogether, was not a success, and so Madame
Goesler understood. Lord Fawn, after he had been contradicted by
Phineas, hardly opened his mouth. Phineas himself talked rather too
much and rather too loudly; and Mrs. Bonteen, who was well enough
inclined to flatter Lord Fawn, contradicted him. "I made a mistake,"
said Madame Goesler afterwards, "in having four members of Parliament
who all of them were or had been in office. I never will have two men
in office together again." This she said to Mrs. Bonteen. "My dear
Madame Max," said Mrs. Bonteen, "your resolution ought to be that you
will never again have two claimants for the same young lady."

In the drawing-room up-stairs Madame Goesler managed to be alone for
three minutes with Phineas Finn. "And it is as you say, my friend?"
she asked. Her voice was plaintive and soft, and there was a look of
real sympathy in her eyes. Phineas almost felt that if they two had
been quite alone he could have told her everything, and have wept at
her feet.

"Yes," he said, "it is so."

"I never doubted it when you had declared it. May I venture to say
that I wish it had been otherwise?"

"It is too late now, Madame Goesler. A man of course is a fool to
show that he has any feelings in such a matter. The fact is, I heard
it just before I came here, and had made up my mind to send you an
excuse. I wish I had now."

"Do not say that, Mr. Finn."

"I have made such an ass of myself."

"In my estimation you have done yourself honour. But if I may venture
to give you counsel, do not speak of this affair again as though you
had been personally concerned in it. In the world now-a-days the only
thing disgraceful is to admit a failure."

"And I have failed."

"But you need not admit it, Mr. Finn. I know I ought not to say as
much to you."

"I, rather, am deeply indebted to you. I will go now, Madame Goesler,
as I do not wish to leave the house with Lord Fawn."

"But you will come and see me soon." Then Phineas promised that he
would come soon; and felt as he made the promise that he would have
an opportunity of talking over his love with his new friend at any
rate without fresh shame as to his failure.

Laurence Fitzgibbon went away with Phineas, and Mr. Bonteen, having
sent his wife away by herself, walked off towards the clubs with Lord
Fawn. He was very anxious to have a few words with Lord Fawn. Lord
Fawn had evidently been annoyed by Phineas, and Mr. Bonteen did not
at all love the young Under-Secretary. "That fellow has become the
most consummate puppy I ever met," said he, as he linked himself on
to the lord, "Monk, and one or two others among them, have contrived
to spoil him altogether."

"I don't believe a word of what he said about Lord Chiltern," said
Lord Fawn.

"About his marriage with Miss Effingham?"

"It would be such an abominable shame to sacrifice the girl," said
Lord Fawn. "Only think of it. Everything is gone. The man is a
drunkard, and I don't believe he is any more reconciled to his father
than you are. Lady Laura Kennedy must have had some object in saying
so."

"Perhaps an invention of Finn's altogether," said Mr. Bonteen. "Those
Irish fellows are just the men for that kind of thing."

"A man, you know, so violent that nobody can hold him," said Lord
Fawn, thinking of Chiltern.

"And so absurdly conceited," said Mr. Bonteen, thinking of Phineas.

"A man who has never done anything, with all his advantages in the
world,--and never will."

"He won't hold his place long," said Mr. Bonteen.

"Whom do you mean?"

"Phineas Finn."

"Oh, Mr. Finn. I was talking of Lord Chiltern. I believe Finn to be
a very good sort of a fellow, and he is undoubtedly clever. They say
Cantrip likes him amazingly. He'll do very well. But I don't believe
a word of this about Lord Chiltern." Then Mr. Bonteen felt himself to
be snubbed, and soon afterwards left Lord Fawn alone.




CHAPTER LIV

Consolation


On the day following Madame Goesler's dinner party, Phineas, though
he was early at his office, was not able to do much work, still
feeling that as regarded the realities of the world, his back
was broken. He might no doubt go on learning, and, after a time,
might be able to exert himself in a perhaps useful, but altogether
uninteresting kind of way, doing his work simply because it was
there to be done,--as the carter or the tailor does his;--and from
the same cause, knowing that a man must have bread to live. But as
for ambition, and the idea of doing good, and the love of work for
work's sake,--as for the elastic springs of delicious and beneficent
labour,--all that was over for him. He would have worked from day
till night, and from night till day, and from month till month
throughout the year to have secured for Violet Effingham the
assurance that her husband's position was worthy of her own. But now
he had no motive for such work as this. As long as he took the public
pay, he would earn it; and that was all.

On the next day things were a little better with him. He received a
note in the morning from Lord Cantrip saying that they two were to
see the Prime Minister that evening, in order that the whole question
of the railway to the Rocky Mountains might be understood, and
Phineas was driven to his work. Before the time of the meeting came
he had once more lost his own identity in great ideas of colonial
welfare, and had planned and peopled a mighty region on the Red
River, which should have no sympathy with American democracy. When
he waited upon Mr. Gresham in the afternoon he said nothing about
the mighty region; indeed, he left it to Lord Cantrip to explain
most of the proposed arrangements,--speaking only a word or two here
and there as occasion required. But he was aware that he had so far
recovered as to be able to save himself from losing ground during the
interview.

"He's about the first Irishman we've had that has been worth his
salt," said Mr. Gresham to his colleague afterwards.

"That other Irishman was a terrible fellow," said Lord Cantrip,
shaking his head.

On the fourth day after his sorrow had befallen him, Phineas went
again to the cottage in Park Lane. And in order that he might not be
balked in his search for sympathy he wrote a line to Madame Goesler
to ask if she would be at home. "I will be at home from five to
six,--and alone.--M. M. G." That was the answer from Marie Max
Goesler, and Phineas was of course at the cottage a few minutes
after five. It is not, I think, surprising that a man when he wants
sympathy in such a calamity as that which had now befallen Phineas
Finn, should seek it from a woman. Women sympathise most effectually
with men, as men do with women. But it is, perhaps, a little odd that
a man when he wants consolation because his heart has been broken,
always likes to receive it from a pretty woman. One would be disposed
to think that at such a moment he would be profoundly indifferent
to such a matter, that no delight could come to him from female
beauty, and that all he would want would be the softness of a simply
sympathetic soul. But he generally wants a soft hand as well, and an
eye that can be bright behind the mutual tear, and lips that shall
be young and fresh as they express their concern for his sorrow. All
these things were added to Phineas when he went to Madame Goesler in
his grief.


"I am so glad to see you," said Madame Max.

"You are very good-natured to let me come."

"No;--but it is so good of you to trust me. But I was sure you would
come after what took place the other night. I saw that you were
pained, and I was so sorry for it."

"I made such a fool of myself."

"Not at all. And I thought that you were right to tell them when the
question had been asked. If the thing was not to be kept a secret, it
was better to speak it out. You will get over it quicker in that way
than in any other. I have never seen the young lord, myself."

"Oh, there is nothing amiss about him. As to what Lord Fawn said, the
half of it is simply exaggeration, and the other half is
misunderstood."

"In this country it is so much to be a lord," said Madame Goesler.

Phineas thought a moment of that matter before he replied. All the
Standish family had been very good to him, and Violet Effingham had
been very good. It was not the fault of any of them that he was now
wretched and back-broken. He had meditated much on this, and had
resolved that he would not even think evil of them. "I do not in my
heart believe that that has had anything to do with it," he said.

"But it has, my friend,--always. I do not know your Violet
Effingham."

"She is not mine."

"Well;--I do not know this Violet that is not yours. I have met her,
and did not specially admire her. But then the tastes of men and
women about beauty are never the same. But I know she is one that
always lives with lords and countesses. A girl who always lived with
countesses feels it to be hard to settle down as a plain Mistress."

"She has had plenty of choice among all sorts of men. It was not the
title. She would not have accepted Chiltern unless she had--. But
what is the use of talking of it?"

"They had known each other long?"

"Oh, yes,--as children. And the Earl desired it of all things."

"Ah;--then he arranged it."

"Not exactly. Nobody could arrange anything for Chiltern,--nor, as
far as that goes, for Miss Effingham. They arranged it themselves, I
fancy."

"You had asked her?"

"Yes;--twice. And she had refused him more than twice. I have nothing
for which to blame her; but yet I had thought,--I had thought--"

"She is a jilt then?"

"No;--I will not let you say that of her. She is no jilt. But I think
she has been strangely ignorant of her own mind. What is the use of
talking of it, Madame Goesler?"

"None;--only sometimes it is better to speak a word, than to keep
one's sorrow to oneself."

"So it is;--and there is not one in the world to whom I can speak
such a word, except yourself. Is not that odd? I have sisters, but
they have never heard of Miss Effingham, and would be quite
indifferent."

"Perhaps they have some other favourites."

"Ah;--well. That does not matter, And my best friend here in London
is Lord Chiltern's own sister."

"She knew of your attachment?"

"Oh, yes."

"And she told you of Miss Effingham's engagement. Was she glad of
it?"

"She has always desired the marriage. And yet I think she would have
been satisfied had it been otherwise. But of course her heart must
be with her brother. I need not have troubled myself to go to
Blankenberg after all."

"It was for the best, perhaps. Everybody says you behaved so well."

"I could not but go, as things were then."

"What if you had--shot him?"

"There would have been an end of everything. She would never have
seen me after that. Indeed I should have shot myself next, feeling
that there was nothing else left for me to do."

"Ah;--you English are so peculiar. But I suppose it is best not to
shoot a man. And, Mr. Finn, there are other ladies in the world
prettier than Miss Violet Effingham. No;--of course you will not
admit that now. Just at this moment, and for a month or two, she
is peerless, and you will feel yourself to be of all men the most
unfortunate. But you have the ball at your feet. I know no one so
young who has got the ball at his feet so well. I call it nothing to
have the ball at your feet if you are born with it there. It is so
easy to be a lord if your father is one before you,--and so easy
to marry a pretty girl if you can make her a countess. But to make
yourself a lord, or to be as good as a lord, when nothing has been
born to you,--that I call very much. And there are women, and pretty
women too, Mr. Finn, who have spirit enough to understand this, and
to think that the man, after all, is more important than the lord."
Then she sang the old well-worn verse of the Scotch song with
wonderful spirit, and with a clearness of voice and knowledge of
music for which he had hitherto never given her credit.


   "A prince can mak' a belted knight,
      A marquis, duke, and a' that;
    But an honest man's aboon his might,
      Guid faith he mauna fa' that."


"I did not know that you sung, Madame Goesler."

"Only now and then when something specially requires it. And I am
very fond of Scotch songs. I will sing to you now if you like it."
Then she sang the whole song,--"A man's a man for a' that," she
said as she finished. "Even though he cannot get the special bit of
painted Eve's flesh for which his heart has had a craving." Then she
sang again:--


   "There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
    Who would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."


"But young Lochinvar got his bride," said Phineas.

"Take the spirit of the lines, Mr. Finn, which is true; and not the
tale as it is told, which is probably false. I often think that Jock
of Hazledean, and young Lochinvar too, probably lived to repent their
bargains. We will hope that Lord Chiltern may not do so."

"I am sure he never will."

"That is all right. And as for you, do you for a while think of your
politics, and your speeches, and your colonies, rather than of your
love. You are at home there, and no Lord Chiltern can rob you of
your success. And if you are down in the mouth, come to me, and I
will sing you a Scotch song. And, look you, the next time I ask you
to dinner I will promise you that Mrs. Bonteen shall not be here.
Good-bye." She gave him her hand, which was very soft, and left it
for a moment in his, and he was consoled.

Madame Goesler, when she was alone, threw herself on to her chair
and began to think of things. In these days she would often ask
herself what in truth was the object of her ambition, and the aim of
her life. Now at this moment she had in her hand a note from the Duke
of Omnium. The Duke had allowed himself to say something about a
photograph, which had justified her in writing to him,--or which she
had taken for such justification. And the Duke had replied. "He would
not," he said, "lose the opportunity of waiting upon her in person
which the presentation of the little gift might afford him." It would
be a great success to have the Duke of Omnium at her house,--but to
what would the success reach? What was her definite object,--or had
she any? In what way could she make herself happy? She could not say
that she was happy yet. The hours with her were too long and the days
too many.

The Duke of Omnium should come,--if he would. And she was quite
resolved as to this,--that if the Duke did come she would not be
afraid of him. Heavens and earth! What would be the feelings of such
a woman as her, were the world to greet her some fine morning as
Duchess of Omnium! Then she made up her mind very resolutely on one
subject. Should the Duke give her any opportunity she would take
a very short time in letting him know what was the extent of her
ambition.




CHAPTER LV

Lord Chiltern at Saulsby


Lord Chiltern did exactly as he said he would do. He wrote to his
father as he passed through Carlisle, and at once went on to his
hunting at Willingford. But his letter was very stiff and ungainly,
and it may be doubted whether Miss Effingham was not wrong in
refusing the offer which he had made to her as to the dictation of
it. He began his letter, "My Lord," and did not much improve the
style as he went on with it. The reader may as well see the whole
letter;--


   Railway Hotel, Carlisle,
   December 27, 186--.

   MY LORD,

   I am now on my way from Loughlinter to London, and write
   this letter to you in compliance with a promise made by
   me to my sister and to Miss Effingham. I have asked Violet
   to be my wife, and she has accepted me, and they think
   that you will be pleased to hear that this has been done.
   I shall be, of course, obliged, if you will instruct Mr.
   Edwards to let me know what you would propose to do in
   regard to settlements. Laura thinks that you will wish to
   see both Violet and myself at Saulsby. For myself, I can
   only say that, should you desire me to come, I will do
   so on receiving your assurance that I shall be treated
   neither with fatted calves nor with reproaches. I am not
   aware that I have deserved either.

   I am, my lord, yours affect.,

   CHILTERN.

   P.S.--My address will be "The Bull, Willingford."


That last word, in which he half-declared himself to be joined in
affectionate relations to his father, caused him a world of trouble.
But he could find no term for expressing, without a circumlocution
which was disagreeable to him, exactly that position of feeling
towards his father which really belonged to him. He would have
written "yours with affection," or "yours with deadly enmity," or
"yours with respect," or "yours with most profound indifference,"
exactly in accordance with the state of his father's mind, if he had
only known what was that state. He was afraid of going beyond his
father in any offer of reconciliation, and was firmly fixed in his
resolution that he would never be either repentant or submissive
in regard to the past. If his father had wishes for the future,
he would comply with them if he could do so without unreasonable
inconvenience, but he would not give way a single point as to things
done and gone. If his father should choose to make any reference to
them, his father must prepare for battle.

The Earl was of course disgusted by the pertinacious obstinacy of his
son's letter, and for an hour or two swore to himself that he would
not answer it. But it is natural that the father should yearn for the
son, while the son's feeling for the father is of a very much weaker
nature. Here, at any rate, was that engagement made which he had
ever desired. And his son had made a step, though it was so very
unsatisfactory a step, towards reconciliation. When the old man read
the letter a second time, he skipped that reference to fatted calves
which had been so peculiarly distasteful to him, and before the
evening had passed he had answered his son as follows;--


   Saulsby, December 29, 186--.

   MY DEAR CHILTERN,

   I have received your letter, and am truly delighted to hear that dear
   Violet has accepted you as her husband. Her fortune will be very
   material to you, but she herself is better than any fortune. You have
   long known my opinion of her. I shall be proud to welcome her as a
   daughter to my house.

   I shall of course write to her immediately, and will endeavour to
   settle some early day for her coming here. When I have done so, I
   will write to you again, and can only say that I will endeavour to
   make Saulsby comfortable to you.

   Your affectionate father,

   BRENTFORD.

   Richards, the groom, is still here. You had perhaps better write to
   him direct about your horses.


By the middle of February arrangements had all been made, and Violet
met her lover at his father's house. She in the meantime had been
with her aunt, and had undergone a good deal of mild unceasing
persecution. "My dear Violet," said her aunt to her on her arrival
at Baddingham, speaking with a solemnity that ought to have been
terrible to the young lady, "I do not know what to say to you."

"Say 'how d'you do?' aunt," said Violet.

"I mean about this engagement," said Lady Baldock, with an increase
of awe-inspiring severity in her voice.

"Say nothing about it at all, if you don't like it," said Violet.

"How can I say nothing about it? How can I be silent? Or how am I to
congratulate you?"

"The least said, perhaps, the soonest mended," and Violet smiled as
she spoke.

"That is very well, and if I had no duty to perform, I would be
silent. But, Violet, you have been left in my charge. If I see you
shipwrecked in life, I shall ever tell myself that the fault has been
partly mine."

"Nay, aunt, that will be quite unnecessary. I will always admit that
you did everything in your power to--to--to--make me run straight, as
the sporting men say."

"Sporting men! Oh, Violet."

"And you know, aunt, I still hope that I shall be found to have kept
on the right side of the posts. You will find that poor Lord Chiltern
is not so black as he is painted."

"But why take anybody that is black at all?"

"I like a little shade in the picture, aunt."

"Look at Lord Fawn."

"I have looked at him."

"A young nobleman beginning a career of useful official life, that
will end in--; there is no knowing what it may end in."

"I daresay not;--but it never could have begun or ended in my being
Lady Fawn."

"And Mr. Appledom!"

"Poor Mr. Appledom. I do like Mr. Appledom. But, you see, aunt, I
like Lord Chiltern so much better. A young woman will go by her
feelings."

"And yet you refused him a dozen times."

"I never counted the times, aunt; but not quite so many as that."

The same thing was repeated over and over again during the month that
Miss Effingham remained at Baddingham, but Lady Baldock had no power
of interfering, and Violet bore her persecution bravely. Her future
husband was generally spoken of as "that violent young man," and
hints were thrown out as to the personal injuries to which his wife
might be possibly subjected. But the threatened bride only laughed,
and spoke of these coming dangers as part of the general lot of
married women. "I daresay, if the truth were known, my uncle Baldock
did not always keep his temper," she once said. Now, the truth was,
as Violet well knew, that "my uncle Baldock" had been dumb as a sheep
before the shearers in the hands of his wife, and had never been
known to do anything improper by those who had been most intimate
with him even in his earlier days. "Your uncle Baldock, miss," said
the outraged aunt, "was a nobleman as different in his manner of
life from Lord Chiltern as chalk from cheese." "But then comes the
question, which is the cheese?" said Violet. Lady Baldock would not
argue the question any further, but stalked out of the room.

Lady Laura Kennedy met them at Saulsby, having had something of a
battle with her husband before she left her home to do so. When she
told him of her desire to assist at this reconciliation between her
father and brother, he replied by pointing out that her first duty
was at Loughlinter, and before the interview was ended had come to
express an opinion that that duty was very much neglected. She in the
meantime had declared that she would go to Saulsby, or that she would
explain to her father that she was forbidden by her husband to do
so. "And I also forbid any such communication," said Mr. Kennedy. In
answer to which, Lady Laura told him that there were some marital
commands which she should not consider it to be her duty to obey.
When matters had come to this pass, it may be conceived that both Mr.
Kennedy and his wife were very unhappy. She had almost resolved that
she would take steps to enable her to live apart from her husband;
and he had begun to consider what course he would pursue if such
steps were taken. The wife was subject to her husband by the laws
both of God and man; and Mr. Kennedy was one who thought much of
such laws. In the meantime, Lady Laura carried her point and went to
Saulsby, leaving her husband to go up to London and begin the session
by himself.

Lady Laura and Violet were both at Saulsby before Lord Chiltern
arrived, and many were the consultations which were held between them
as to the best mode in which things might be arranged. Violet was of
opinion that there had better be no arrangement, that Lord Chiltern
should be allowed to come in and take his father's hand, and sit down
to dinner,--and that so things should fall into their places. Lady
Laura was rather in favour of some scene. But the interview had taken
place before either of them were able to say a word. Lord Chiltern,
on his arrival, had gone immediately to his father, taking the Earl
very much by surprise, and had come off best in the encounter.

"My lord," said he, walking up to his father with his hand out, "I am
very glad to come back to Saulsby." He had written to his sister to
say that he would be at Saulsby on that day, but had named no hour.
He now appeared between ten and eleven in the morning, and his father
had as yet made no preparation for him,--had arranged no appropriate
words. He had walked in at the front door, and had asked for the
Earl. The Earl was in his own morning-room,--a gloomy room, full of
dark books and darker furniture, and thither Lord Chiltern had at
once gone. The two women still were sitting together over the fire in
the breakfast-room, and knew nothing of his arrival.

"Oswald!" said his father, "I hardly expected you so early."

"I have come early. I came across country, and slept at Birmingham. I
suppose Violet is here."

"Yes, she is here,--and Laura. They will be very glad to see you. So
am I." And the father took the son's hand for the second time.

"Thank you, sir," said Lord Chiltern, looking his father full in the
face.

"I have been very much pleased by this engagement," continued the
Earl.

"What do you think I must be, then?" said the son, laughing. "I
have been at it, you know, off and on, ever so many years; and have
sometimes thought I was quite a fool not to get it out of my head.
But I couldn't get it out of my head. And now she talks as though it
were she who had been in love with me all the time!"

"Perhaps she was," said the father.

"I don't believe it in the least. She may be a little so now."

"I hope you mean that she always shall be so."

"I shan't be the worst husband in the world, I hope; and I am quite
sure I shan't be the best. I will go and see her now. I suppose I
shall find her somewhere in the house. I thought it best to see you
first."

"Stop half a moment, Oswald," said the Earl. And then Lord Brentford
did make something of a shambling speech, in which he expressed a
hope that they two might for the future live together on friendly
terms, forgetting the past. He ought to have been prepared for the
occasion, and the speech was poor and shambling. But I think that it
was more useful than it might have been, had it been uttered roundly
and with that paternal and almost majestic effect which he would have
achieved had he been thoroughly prepared. But the roundness and the
majesty would have gone against the grain with his son, and there
would have been a danger of some outbreak. As it was, Lord Chiltern
smiled, and muttered some word about things being "all right," and
then made his way out of the room. "That's a great deal better than I
had hoped," he said to himself; "and it has all come from my going in
without being announced." But there was still a fear upon him that
his father even yet might prepare a speech, and speak it, to the
great peril of their mutual comfort.

His meeting with Violet was of course pleasant enough. Now that she
had succumbed, and had told herself and had told him that she loved
him, she did not scruple to be as generous as a maiden should be who
has acknowledged herself to be conquered, and has rendered herself to
the conqueror. She would walk with him and ride with him, and take a
lively interest in the performances of all his horses, and listen to
hunting stories as long as he chose to tell them. In all this, she
was so good and so loving that Lady Laura was more than once tempted
to throw in her teeth her old, often-repeated assertions, that she
was not prone to be in love,--that it was not her nature to feel any
ardent affection for a man, and that, therefore, she would probably
remain unmarried. "You begrudge me my little bits of pleasure,"
Violet said, in answer to one such attack. "No;--but it is so odd to
see you, of all women, become so love-lorn," "I am not love-lorn,"
said Violet, "but I like the freedom of telling him everything and
of hearing everything from him, and of having him for my own best
friend. He might go away for twelve months, and I should not be
unhappy, believing, as I do, that he would be true to me." All of
which set Lady Laura thinking whether her friend had not been wiser
than she had been. She had never known anything of that sort of
friendship with her husband which already seemed to be quite
established between these two.

In her misery one day Lady Laura told the whole story of her own
unhappiness to her brother, saying nothing of Phineas Finn,--thinking
nothing of him as she told her story, but speaking more strongly
perhaps than she should have done, of the terrible dreariness of her
life at Loughlinter, and of her inability to induce her husband to
alter it for her sake.

"Do you mean that he,--ill-treats you?" said the brother, with a
scowl on his face which seemed to indicate that he would like no task
better than that of resenting such ill-treatment.

"He does not beat me, if you mean that."

"Is he cruel to you? Does he use harsh language?"

"He never said a word in his life either to me or, as I believe, to
any other human being, that he would think himself bound to regret."

"What is it then?"

"He simply chooses to have his own way, and his way cannot be my way.
He is hard, and dry, and just, and dispassionate, and he wishes me to
be the same. That is all."

"I tell you fairly, Laura, as far as I am concerned, I never could
speak to him. He is antipathetic to me. But then I am not his wife."

"I am;--and I suppose I must bear it."

"Have you spoken to my father?"

"No."

"Or to Violet?"

"Yes."

"And what does she say?"

"What can she say? She has nothing to say. Nor have you. Nor, if I am
driven to leave him, can I make the world understand why I do so. To
be simply miserable, as I am, is nothing to the world."

"I could never understand why you married him."

"Do not be cruel to me, Oswald."

"Cruel! I will stick by you in any way that you wish. If you think
well of it, I will go off to Loughlinter to-morrow, and tell him that
you will never return to him. And if you are not safe from him here
at Saulsby, you shall go abroad with us. I am sure Violet would not
object. I will not be cruel to you."

But in truth neither of Lady Laura's councillors was able to give
her advice that could serve her. She felt that she could not leave
her husband without other cause than now existed, although she felt,
also, that to go back to him was to go back to utter wretchedness.
And when she saw Violet and her brother together there came to her
dreams of what might have been her own happiness had she kept herself
free from those terrible bonds in which she was now held a prisoner.
She could not get out of her heart the remembrance of that young man
who would have been her lover, if she would have let him,--of whose
love for herself she had been aware before she had handed herself
over as a bale of goods to her unloved, unloving husband. She had
married Mr. Kennedy because she was afraid that otherwise she might
find herself forced to own that she loved that other man who was
then a nobody;--almost nobody. It was not Mr. Kennedy's money that
had bought her. This woman in regard to money had shown herself
to be as generous as the sun. But in marrying Mr. Kennedy she had
maintained herself in her high position, among the first of her own
people,--among the first socially and among the first politically.
But had she married Phineas,--had she become Lady Laura Finn,--there
would have been a great descent. She could not have entertained the
leading men of her party. She would not have been on a level with the
wives and daughters of Cabinet Ministers. She might, indeed, have
remained unmarried! But she knew that had she done so,--had she so
resolved,--that which she called her fancy would have been too strong
for her. She would not have remained unmarried. At that time it was
her fate to be either Lady Laura Kennedy or Lady Laura Finn. And she
had chosen to be Lady Laura Kennedy. To neither Violet Effingham nor
to her brother could she tell one half of the sorrow which afflicted
her.

"I shall go back to Loughlinter," she said to her brother.

"Do not, unless you wish it," he answered.

"I do not wish it. But I shall do it. Mr. Kennedy is in London now,
and has been there since Parliament met, but he will be in Scotland
again in March, and I will go and meet him there. I told him that I
would do so when I left."

"But you will go up to London?"

"I suppose so. I must do as he tells me, of course. What I mean is, I
will try it for another year."

"If it does not succeed, come to us."

"I cannot say what I will do. I would die if I knew how. Never be a
tyrant, Oswald; or at any rate, not a cold tyrant. And remember this,
there is no tyranny to a woman like telling her of her duty. Talk of
beating a woman! Beating might often be a mercy."

Lord Chiltern remained ten days at Saulsby, and at last did not get
away without a few unpleasant words with his father,--or without a
few words that were almost unpleasant with his mistress. On his first
arrival he had told his sister that he should go on a certain day,
and some intimation to this effect had probably been conveyed to the
Earl. But when his son told him one evening that the post-chaise had
been ordered for seven o'clock the next morning, he felt that his son
was ungracious and abrupt. There were many things still to be said,
and indeed there had been no speech of any account made at all as
yet.

"That is very sudden," said the Earl.

"I thought Laura had told you."

"She has not told me a word lately. She may have said something
before you came here. What is there to hurry you?"

"I thought ten days would be as long as you would care to have me
here, and as I said that I would be back by the first, I would rather
not change my plans."

"You are going to hunt?"

"Yes;--I shall hunt till the end of March."

"You might have hunted here, Oswald." But the son made no sign of
changing his plans; and the father, seeing that he would not change
them, became solemn and severe. There were a few words which he must
say to his son,--something of a speech that he must make;--so he led
the way into the room with the dark books and the dark furniture, and
pointed to a great deep arm-chair for his son's accommodation. But as
he did not sit down himself, neither did Lord Chiltern. Lord Chiltern
understood very well how great is the advantage of a standing orator
over a sitting recipient of his oratory, and that advantage he would
not give to his father. "I had hoped to have an opportunity of saying
a few words to you about the future," said the Earl.

"I think we shall be married in July," said Lord Chiltern.

"So I have heard;--but after that. Now I do not want to interfere,
Oswald, and of course the less so, because Violet's money will to
a great degree restore the inroads which have been made upon the
property."

"It will more than restore them altogether."

"Not if her estate be settled on a second son, Oswald, and I hear
from Lady Baldock that that is the wish of her relations."

"She shall have her own way,--as she ought. What that way is I do not
know. I have not even asked about it. She asked me, and I told her to
speak to you."

"Of course I should wish it to go with the family property. Of course
that would be best."

"She shall have her own way,--as far as I am concerned."

"But it is not about that, Oswald, that I would speak. What are your
plans of life when you are married?"

"Plans of life?"

"Yes;--plans of life. I suppose you have some plans. I suppose you
mean to apply yourself to some useful occupation?"

"I don't know really, sir, that I am of much use for any purpose."
Lord Chiltern laughed as he said this, but did not laugh pleasantly.

"You would not be a drone in the hive always?"

"As far as I can see, sir, we who call ourselves lords generally are
drones."

"I deny it," said the Earl, becoming quite energetic as he defended
his order. "I deny it utterly. I know no class of men who do work
more useful or more honest. Am I a drone? Have I been so from my
youth upwards? I have always worked, either in the one House or
in the other, and those of my fellows with whom I have been most
intimate have worked also. The same career is open to you."

"You mean politics?"

"Of course I mean politics."

"I don't care for politics. I see no difference in parties."

"But you should care for politics, and you should see a difference in
parties. It is your duty to do so. My wish is that you should go into
Parliament."

"I can't do that, sir."

"And why not?"

"In the first place, sir, you have not got a seat to offer me.
You have managed matters among you in such a way that poor little
Loughton has been swallowed up. If I were to canvass the electors of
Smotherem, I don't think that many would look very sweet on me."

"There is the county, Oswald."

"And whom am I to turn out? I should spend four or five thousand
pounds, and have nothing but vexation in return for it. I had rather
not begin that game, and indeed I am too old for Parliament. I did
not take it up early enough to believe in it."

All this made the Earl very angry, and from these things they went
on to worse things. When questioned again as to the future, Lord
Chiltern scowled, and at last declared that it was his idea to live
abroad in the summer for his wife's recreation, and somewhere down
in the shires during the winter for his own. He would admit of no
purpose higher than recreation, and when his father again talked to
him of a nobleman's duty, he said that he knew of no other special
duty than that of not exceeding his income. Then his father made a
longer speech than before, and at the end of it Lord Chiltern simply
wished him good night. "It's getting late, and I've promised to see
Violet before I go to bed. Good-bye." Then he was off, and Lord
Brentford was left there, standing with his back to the fire.

After that Lord Chiltern had a discussion with Violet, which lasted
nearly half the night; and during the discussion she told him more
than once that he was wrong. "Such as I am you must take me, or leave
me," he said, in anger. "Nay; there is no choice now," she answered.
"I have taken you, and I will stick by you,--whether you are right or
wrong. But when I think you wrong, I shall say so." He swore to her
as he pressed her to his heart that she was the finest, grandest,
sweetest woman that ever the world had produced. But still there was
present on his palate, when he left her, the bitter taste of her
reprimand.




CHAPTER LVI

What the People in Marylebone Thought


Phineas Finn, when the session began, was still hard at work upon his
Canada bill, and in his work found some relief for his broken back.
He went into the matter with all his energy, and before the debate
came on, knew much more about the seven thousand inhabitants of some
hundreds of thousands of square miles at the back of Canada, than
he did of the people of London or of County Clare. And he found
some consolation also in the good-nature of Madame Goesler, whose
drawing-room was always open to him. He could talk freely now to
Madame Goesler about Violet, and had even ventured to tell her that
once, in old days, he had thought of loving Lady Laura Standish.
He spoke of those days as being very old; and then he perhaps said
some word to her about dear little Mary Flood Jones. I think that
there was not much in his career of which he did not say something
to Madame Goesler, and that he received from her a good deal of
excellent advice and encouragement in the direction of his political
ambition. "A man should work," she said,--"and you do work. A woman
can only look on, and admire and long. What is there that I can do?
I can learn to care for these Canadians, just because you care for
them. If it was the beavers that you told me of, I should have to
care for the beavers." Then Phineas of course told her that such
sympathy from her was all and all to him. But the reader must not
on this account suppose that he was untrue in his love to Violet
Effingham. His back was altogether broken by his fall, and he was
quite aware that such was the fact. Not as yet, at least, had come
to him any remotest idea that a cure was possible.

Early in March he heard that Lady Laura was up in town, and of course
he was bound to go to her. The information was given to him by Mr.
Kennedy himself, who told him that he had been to Scotland to fetch
her. In these days there was an acknowledged friendship between these
two, but there was no intimacy. Indeed, Mr. Kennedy was a man who
was hardly intimate with any other man. With Phineas he now and
then exchanged a few words in the lobby of the House, and when they
chanced to meet each other, they met as friends. Mr. Kennedy had no
strong wish to see again in his house the man respecting whom he had
ventured to caution his wife; but he was thoughtful; and thinking
over it all, he found it better to ask him there. No one must know
that there was any reason why Phineas should not come to his house;
especially as all the world knew that Phineas had protected him from
the garrotters. "Lady Laura is in town now," he said; "you must go
and see her before long." Phineas of course promised that he would
go.

In these days Phineas was beginning to be aware that he had
enemies,--though he could not understand why anybody should be his
enemy now that Violet Effingham had decided against him. There was
poor Laurence Fitzgibbon, indeed, whom he had superseded at the
Colonial Office, but Laurence Fitzgibbon, to give merit where merit
was due, felt no animosity against him at all. "You're welcome, me
boy; you're welcome,--as far as yourself goes. But as for the party,
bedad, it's rotten to the core, and won't stand another session.
Mind, it's I who tell you so." And the poor idle Irishman, in so
speaking, spoke the truth as well as he knew it. But the Ratlers and
the Bonteens were Finn's bitter foes, and did not scruple to let him
know that such was the case. Barrington Erle had scruples on the
subject, and in a certain mildly apologetic way still spoke well of
the young man, whom he had himself first introduced into political
life only four years since;--but there was no earnestness or
cordiality in Barrington Erle's manner, and Phineas knew that his
first staunch friend could no longer be regarded as a pillar of
support. But there was a set of men, quite as influential,--so
Phineas thought,--as the busy politicians of the club, who were very
friendly to him. These were men, generally of high position, of
steady character,--hard workers,--who thought quite as much of what
a man did in his office as what he said in the House. Lords Cantrip,
Thrift, and Fawn were of this class,--and they were all very
courteous to Phineas. Envious men began to say of him that he cared
little now for any one of the party who had not a handle to his name,
and that he preferred to live with lords and lordlings. This was hard
upon him, as the great political ambition of his life was to call Mr.
Monk his friend; and he would sooner have acted with Mr. Monk than
with any other man in the Cabinet. But though Mr. Monk had not
deserted him, there had come to be little of late in common between
the two. His life was becoming that of a parliamentary official
rather than that of a politician;--whereas, though Mr. Monk was in
office, his public life was purely political. Mr. Monk had great
ideas of his own which he intended to hold, whether by holding them
he might remain in office or be forced out of office; and he was
indifferent as to the direction which things in this respect might
take with him. But Phineas, who had achieved his declared object in
getting into place, felt that he was almost constrained to adopt
the views of others, let them be what they might. Men spoke to him,
as though his parliamentary career were wholly at the disposal of
the Government,--as though he were like a proxy in Mr. Gresham's
pocket,--with this difference, that when directed to get up and
speak on a subject he was bound to do so. This annoyed him, and he
complained to Mr. Monk; but Mr. Monk only shrugged his shoulders and
told him that he must make his choice. He soon discovered Mr. Monk's
meaning. "If you choose to make Parliament a profession,--as you have
chosen,--you can have no right even to think of independence. If the
country finds you out when you are in Parliament, and then invites
you to office, of course the thing is different. But the latter is a
slow career, and probably would not have suited you." That was the
meaning of what Mr. Monk said to him. After all, these official and
parliamentary honours were greater when seen at a distance than he
found them to be now that he possessed them. Mr. Low worked ten hours
a day, and could rarely call a day his own; but, after all, with all
this work, Mr. Low was less of a slave, and more independent, than
was he, Phineas Finn, Under-Secretary of State, the friend of Cabinet
Ministers, and Member of Parliament since his twenty-fifth year! He
began to dislike the House, and to think it a bore to sit on the
Treasury bench;--he, who a few years since had regarded Parliament
as the British heaven on earth, and who, since he had been in
Parliament, had looked at that bench with longing envious eyes.
Laurence Fitzgibbon, who seemed to have as much to eat and drink as
ever, and a bed also to lie on, could come and go in the House as he
pleased, since his--resignation.

And there was a new trouble coming. The Reform Bill for England had
passed; but now there was to be another Reform Bill for Ireland. Let
them pass what bill they might, this would not render necessary a
new Irish election till the entire House should be dissolved. But he
feared that he would be called upon to vote for the abolition of his
own borough,--and for other points almost equally distasteful to him.
He knew that he would not be consulted,--but would be called upon to
vote, and perhaps to speak; and was certain that if he did so, there
would be war between him and his constituents. Lord Tulla had already
communicated to him his ideas that, for certain excellent reasons,
Loughshane ought to be spared. But this evil was, he hoped, a distant
one. It was generally thought that, as the English Reform Bill had
been passed last year, and as the Irish bill, if carried, could not
be immediately operative, the doing of the thing might probably be
postponed to the next session.

When he first saw Lady Laura he was struck by the great change in her
look and manner. She seemed to him to be old and worn, and he judged
her to be wretched,--as she was. She had written to him to say that
she would be at her father's house on such and such a morning, and
he had gone to her there. "It is of no use your coming to Grosvenor
Place," she said. "I see nobody there, and the house is like a
prison." Later in the interview she told him not to come and dine
there, even though Mr. Kennedy should ask him.

"And why not?" he demanded.

"Because everything would be stiff, and cold, and uncomfortable. I
suppose you do not wish to make your way into a lady's house if she
asks you not." There was a sort of smile on her face as she said
this, but he could perceive that it was a very bitter smile. "You can
easily excuse yourself."

"Yes, I can excuse myself."

"Then do so. If you are particularly anxious to dine with Mr.
Kennedy, you can easily do so at your club." In the tone of her
voice, and the words she used, she hardly attempted to conceal her
dislike of her husband.

"And now tell me about Miss Effingham," he said.

"There is nothing for me to tell."

"Yes there is;--much to tell. You need not spare me. I do not pretend
to deny to you that I have been hit hard,--so hard, that I have been
nearly knocked down; but it will not hurt me now to hear of it all.
Did she always love him?"

"I cannot say. I think she did after her own fashion."

"I sometimes think women would be less cruel," he said, "if they knew
how great is the anguish they can cause."

"Has she been cruel to you?"

"I have nothing to complain of. But if she loved Chiltern, why did
she not tell him so at once? And why--"

"This is complaining, Mr. Finn."

"I will not complain. I would not even think of it, if I could help
it. Are they to be married soon?"

"In July;--so they now say."

"And where will they live?"

"Ah! no one can tell. I do not think that they agree as yet as to
that. But if she has a strong wish Oswald will yield to it. He was
always generous."

"I would not even have had a wish,--except to have her with me."

There was a pause for a moment, and then Lady Laura answered him with
a touch of scorn in her voice,--and with some scorn, too, in her
eye:--"That is all very well, Mr. Finn; but the season will not be
over before there is some one else."

"There you wrong me."

"They tell me that you are already at Madame Goesler's feet."

"Madame Goesler!"

"What matters who it is as long as she is young and pretty, and
has the interest attached to her of something more than ordinary
position? When men tell me of the cruelty of women, I think that no
woman can be really cruel because no man is capable of suffering. A
woman, if she is thrown aside, does suffer."

"Do you mean to tell me, then, that I am indifferent to Miss
Effingham?" When he thus spoke, I wonder whether he had forgotten
that he had ever declared to this very woman to whom he was speaking,
a passion for herself.

"Psha!"

"It suits you, Lady Laura, to be harsh to me, but you are not
speaking your thoughts."

Then she lost all control of herself, and poured out to him the real
truth that was in her. "And whose thoughts did you speak when you and
I were on the braes of Loughlinter? Am I wrong in saying that change
is easy to you, or have I grown to be so old that you can talk to me
as though those far-away follies ought to be forgotten? Was it so
long ago? Talk of love! I tell you, sir, that your heart is one in
which love can have no durable hold. Violet Effingham! There may be
a dozen Violets after her, and you will be none the worse." Then she
walked away from him to the window, and he stood still, dumb, on the
spot that he had occupied. "You had better go now," she said, "and
forget what has passed between us. I know that you are a gentleman,
and that you will forget it." The strong idea of his mind when he
heard all this was the injustice of her attack,--of the attack as
coming from her, who had all but openly acknowledged that she had
married a man whom she had not loved because it suited her to escape
from a man whom she did love. She was reproaching him now for his
fickleness in having ventured to set his heart upon another woman,
when she herself had been so much worse than fickle,--so profoundly
false! And yet he could not defend himself by accusing her. What
would she have had of him? What would she have proposed to him, had
he questioned her as to his future, when they were together on the
braes of Loughlinter? Would she not have bid him to find some one
else whom he could love? Would she then have suggested to him the
propriety of nursing his love for herself,--for her who was about
to become another man's wife,--for her after she should have become
another man's wife? And yet because he had not done so, and because
she had made herself wretched by marrying a man whom she did not
love, she reproached him!

He could not tell her of all this, so he fell back for his defence on
words which had passed between them since the day when they had met
on the braes. "Lady Laura," he said, "it is only a month or two since
you spoke to me as though you wished that Violet Effingham might be
my wife."

"I never wished it. I never said that I wished it. There are moments
in which we try to give a child any brick on the chimney top for
which it may whimper." Then there was another silence which she was
the first to break. "You had better go," she said. "I know that I
have committed myself, and of course I would rather be alone."

"And what would you wish that I should do?"

"Do?" she said. "What you do can be nothing to me."

"Must we be strangers, you and I, because there was a time in which
we were almost more than friends?"

"I have spoken nothing about myself, sir,--only as I have been drawn
to do so by your pretence of being love-sick. You can do nothing for
me,--nothing,--nothing. What is it possible that you should do for
me? You are not my father, or my brother." It is not to be supposed
that she wanted him to fall at her feet. It is to be supposed that
had he done so her reproaches would have been hot and heavy on
him; but yet it almost seemed to him as though he had no other
alternative. No!--He was not her father or her brother;--nor could he
be her husband. And at this very moment, as she knew, his heart was
sore with love for another woman. And yet he hardly knew how not to
throw himself at her feet, and swear, that he would return now and
for ever to his old passion, hopeless, sinful, degraded as it would
be.

"I wish it were possible for me to do something," he said, drawing
near to her.

"There is nothing to be done," she said, clasping her hands together.
"For me nothing. I have before me no escape, no hope, no prospect of
relief, no place of consolation. You have everything before you. You
complain of a wound! You have at least shown that such wounds with
you are capable of cure. You cannot but feel that when I hear your
wailings, I must be impatient. You had better leave me now, if you
please."

"And are we to be no longer friends?" he asked.

"As far as friendship can go without intercourse, I shall always be
your friend."

Then he went, and as he walked down to his office, so intent was he
on that which had just passed that he hardly saw the people as he
met them, or was aware of the streets through which his way led him.
There had been something in the later words which Lady Laura had
spoken that had made him feel almost unconsciously that the injustice
of her reproaches was not so great as he had at first felt it to be,
and that she had some cause for her scorn. If her case was such as
she had so plainly described it, what was his plight as compared with
hers? He had lost his Violet, and was in pain. There must be much
of suffering before him. But though Violet were lost, the world was
not all blank before his eyes. He had not told himself, even in his
dreariest moments, that there was before him "no escape, no hope, no
prospect of relief, no place of consolation." And then he began to
think whether this must in truth be the case with Lady Laura. What if
Mr. Kennedy were to die? What in such case as that would he do? In
ten or perhaps in five years time might it not be possible for him
to go through the ceremony of falling upon his knees, with stiffened
joints indeed, but still with something left of the ardour of his old
love, of his oldest love of all?

As he was thinking of this he was brought up short in his walk as he
was entering the Green Park beneath the Duke's figure, by Laurence
Fitzgibbon. "How dare you not be in your office at such an hour as
this, Finn, me boy,--or, at least, not in the House,--or serving your
masters after some fashion?" said the late Under-Secretary.

"So I am. I've been on a message to Marylebone, to find what the
people there think about the Canadas."

"And what do they think about the Canadas in Marylebone?"

"Not one man in a thousand cares whether the Canadians prosper or
fail to prosper. They care that Canada should not go to the States,
because,--though they don't love the Canadians, they do hate the
Americans. That's about the feeling in Marylebone,--and it's
astonishing how like the Maryleboners are to the rest of the world."

"Dear me, what a fellow you are for an Under-Secretary! You've heard
the news about little Violet."

"What news?"

"She has quarrelled with Chiltern, you know."

"Who says so?"

"Never mind who says so, but they tell me it's true. Take an old
friend's advice, and strike while the iron's hot."

Phineas did not believe what he had heard, but though he did not
believe it, still the tidings set his heart beating. He would have
believed it less perhaps had he known that Laurence had just received
the news from Mrs. Bonteen.




CHAPTER LVII

The Top Brick of the Chimney


Madame Max Goesler was a lady who knew that in fighting the battles
which fell to her lot, in arranging the social difficulties which she
found in her way, in doing the work of the world which came to her
share, very much more care was necessary,--and care too about things
apparently trifling,--than was demanded by the affairs of people in
general. And this was not the case so much on account of any special
disadvantage under which she laboured, as because she was ambitious
of doing the very uttermost with those advantages which she
possessed. Her own birth had not been high, and that of her husband,
we may perhaps say, had been very low. He had been old when she had
married him, and she had had little power of making any progress till
he had left her a widow. Then she found herself possessed of money,
certainly; of wit,--as she believed; and of a something in her
personal appearance which, as she plainly told herself, she might
perhaps palm off upon the world as beauty. She was a woman who did
not flatter herself, who did not strongly believe in herself, who
could even bring herself to wonder that men and women in high
position should condescend to notice such a one as her. With all her
ambition, there was a something of genuine humility about her; and
with all the hardness she had learned there was a touch of womanly
softness which would sometimes obtrude itself upon her heart. When
she found a woman really kind to her, she would be very kind in
return. And though she prized wealth, and knew that her money was her
only rock of strength, she could be lavish with it, as though it were
dirt.

But she was highly ambitious, and she played her game with
great skill and great caution. Her doors were not open to all
callers;--were shut even to some who find but few doors closed
against them;--were shut occasionally to those whom she most
specially wished to see within them. She knew how to allure by
denying, and to make the gift rich by delaying it. We are told by the
Latin proverb that he who gives quickly gives twice; but I say that
she who gives quickly seldom gives more than half. When in the early
spring the Duke of Omnium first knocked at Madame Max Goesler's door,
he was informed that she was not at home. The Duke felt very cross as
he handed his card out from his dark green brougham,--on the panel
of which there was no blazon to tell the owner's rank. He was very
cross. She had told him that she was always at home between four and
six on a Thursday. He had condescended to remember the information,
and had acted upon it,--and now she was not at home! She was not at
home, though he had come on a Thursday at the very hour she had named
to him. Any duke would have been cross, but the Duke of Omnium was
particularly cross. No;--he certainly would give himself no further
trouble by going to the cottage in Park Lane. And yet Madame Max
Goesler had been in her own drawing-room, while the Duke was handing
out his card from the brougham below.

On the next morning there came to him a note from the cottage,--such
a pretty note!--so penitent, so full of remorse,--and, which was
better still, so laden with disappointment, that he forgave her.


   MY DEAR DUKE,

   I hardly know how to apologise to you, after having told
   you that I am always at home on Thursdays; and I was at
   home yesterday when you called. But I was unwell, and I
   had told the servant to deny me, not thinking how much I
   might be losing. Indeed, indeed, I would not have given
   way to a silly headache, had I thought that your Grace
   would have been here. I suppose that now I must not even
   hope for the photograph.

   Yours penitently,

   MARIE M. G.


The note-paper was very pretty note-paper, hardly scented, and yet
conveying a sense of something sweet, and the monogram was small and
new, and fantastic without being grotesque, and the writing was of
that sort which the Duke, having much experience, had learned to
like,--and there was something in the signature which pleased him. So
he wrote a reply,--


   DEAR MADAME MAX GOESLER,

   I will call again next Thursday, or, if prevented, will
   let you know.

   Yours faithfully,

   O.


When the green brougham drew up at the door of the cottage on the
next Thursday, Madame Goesler was at home, and had no headache.

She was not at all penitent now. She had probably studied the
subject, and had resolved that penitence was more alluring in a
letter than when acted in person. She received her guest with perfect
ease, and apologised for the injury done to him in the preceding
week, with much self-complacency. "I was so sorry when I got your
card," she said; "and yet I am so glad now that you were refused."

"If you were ill," said the Duke, "it was better."

"I was horribly ill, to tell the truth;--as pale as a death's head,
and without a word to say for myself. I was fit to see no one."

"Then of course you were right."

"But it flashed upon me immediately that I had named a day, and that
you had been kind enough to remember it. But I did not think you came
to London till the March winds were over."

"The March winds blow everywhere in this wretched island, Madame
Goesler, and there is no escaping them. Youth may prevail against
them; but on me they are so potent that I think they will succeed in
driving me out of my country. I doubt whether an old man should ever
live in England if he can help it."

The Duke certainly was an old man, if a man turned of seventy be
old;--and he was a man too who did not bear his years with hearty
strength. He moved slowly, and turned his limbs, when he did turn
them, as though the joints were stiff in their sockets. But there was
nevertheless about him a dignity of demeanour, a majesty of person,
and an upright carriage which did not leave an idea of old age as
the first impress on the minds of those who encountered the Duke of
Omnium. He was tall and moved without a stoop; and though he moved
slowly, he had learned to seem so to do because it was the proper
kind of movement for one so high up in the world as himself. And
perhaps his tailor did something for him. He had not been long under
Madame Max Goesler's eyes before she perceived that his tailor had
done a good deal for him. When he alluded to his own age and to
her youth, she said some pleasant little word as to the difference
between oak-trees and currant-bushes; and by that time she was
seated comfortably on her sofa, and the Duke was on a chair before
her,--just as might have been any man who was not a Duke.

After a little time the photograph was brought forth from his Grace's
pocket. That bringing out and giving of photographs, with the demand
for counter photographs, is the most absurd practice of the day.
"I don't think I look very nice, do I?" "Oh yes,--very nice, but a
little too old; and certainly you haven't got those spots all over
your forehead. These are the remarks which on such occasions are the
most common. It may be said that to give a photograph or to take a
photograph without the utterance of some words which would be felt by
a bystander to be absurd, is almost an impossibility. At this moment
there was no bystander, and therefore the Duke and the lady had no
need for caution. Words were spoken that were very absurd. Madame
Goesler protested that the Duke's photograph was more to her than the
photographs of all the world beside; and the Duke declared that he
would carry the lady's picture next to his heart,--I am afraid he
said for ever and ever. Then he took her hand and pressed it, and was
conscious that for a man over seventy years of age he did that kind
of thing very well.

"You will come and dine with me, Duke?" she said, when he began to
talk of going.

"I never dine out."

"That is just the reason you should dine with me. You shall meet
nobody you do not wish to meet."

"I would so much rather see you in this way,--I would indeed. I do
dine out occasionally, but it is at big formal parties, which I
cannot escape without giving offence."

"And you cannot escape my little not formal party,--without giving
offence." She looked into his face as she spoke, and he knew that she
meant it. And he looked into hers, and thought that her eyes were
brighter than any he was in the habit of seeing in these latter days.
"Name your own day, Duke. Will a Sunday suit you?"

"If I must come--"

"You must come." As she spoke her eyes sparkled more and more, and
her colour went and came, and she shook her curls till they emitted
through the air the same soft feeling of a perfume that her note had
produced. Then her foot peeped out from beneath the black and yellow
drapery of her dress, and the Duke saw that it was perfect. And she
put out her finger and touched his arm as she spoke. Her hand was
very fair, and her fingers were bright with rich gems. To men such as
the Duke, a hand, to be quite fair, should be bright with rich gems.
"You must come," she said,--not imploring him now but commanding him.

"Then I will come," he answered, and a certain Sunday was fixed.

The arranging of the guests was a little difficulty, till Madame
Goesler begged the Duke to bring with him Lady Glencora Palliser,
his nephew's wife. This at last he agreed to do. As the wife of his
nephew and heir, Lady Glencora was to the Duke all that a woman could
be. She was everything that was proper as to her own conduct, and not
obtrusive as to his. She did not bore him, and yet she was attentive.
Although in her husband's house she was a fierce politician, in his
house she was simply an attractive woman. "Ah; she is very clever,"
the Duke once said, "she adapts herself. If she were to go from any
one place to any other, she would be at home in both." And the
movement of his Grace's hand as he spoke seemed to indicate the
widest possible sphere for travelling and the widest possible
scope for adaptation. The dinner was arranged, and went off very
pleasantly. Madame Goesler's eyes were not quite so bright as they
were during that morning visit, nor did she touch her guest's arm in
a manner so alluring. She was very quiet, allowing her guests to do
most of the talking. But the dinner and the flowers and the wine were
excellent, and the whole thing was so quiet that the Duke liked it.
"And now you must come and dine with me," the Duke said as he took
his leave. "A command to that effect will be one which I certainly
shall not disobey," whispered Madame Goesler.

"I am afraid he is going to get fond of that woman." These words
were spoken early on the following morning by Lady Glencora to her
husband, Mr. Palliser.

"He is always getting fond of some woman, and he will to the end,"
said Mr. Palliser.

"But this Madame Max Goesler is very clever."

"So they tell me. I have generally thought that my uncle likes
talking to a fool the best."

"Every man likes a clever woman the best," said Lady Glencora, "if
the clever woman only knows how to use her cleverness."

"I'm sure I hope he'll be amused," said Mr. Palliser innocently. "A
little amusement is all that he cares for now."

"Suppose you were told some day that he was going--to be married?"
said Lady Glencora.

"My uncle married!"

"Why not he as well as another?"

"And to Madame Goesler?"

"If he be ever married it will be to some such woman."

"There is not a man in all England who thinks more of his own
position than my uncle," said Mr. Palliser somewhat proudly,--almost
with a touch of anger.

"That is all very well, Plantagenet, and true enough in a kind of
way. But a child will sacrifice all that it has for the top brick
of the chimney, and old men sometimes become children. You would
not like to be told some morning that there was a little Lord
Silverbridge in the world." Now the eldest son of the Duke of
Omnium, when the Duke of Omnium had a son, was called the Earl of
Silverbridge; and Mr. Palliser, when this question was asked him,
became very pale. Mr. Palliser knew well how thoroughly the cunning
of the serpent was joined to the purity of the dove in the person
of his wife, and he was sure that there was cause for fear when she
hinted at danger.

"Perhaps you had better keep your eye upon him," he said to his wife.

"And upon her," said Lady Glencora.

When Madame Goesler dined at the Duke's house in St. James's Square
there was a large party, and Lady Glencora knew that there was no
need for apprehension then. Indeed Madame Goesler was no more than
any other guest, and the Duke hardly spoke to her. There was a
Duchess there,--the Duchess of St. Bungay, and old Lady Hartletop,
who was a dowager marchioness,--an old lady who pestered the Duke
very sorely,--and Madame Max Goesler received her reward, and knew
that she was receiving it, in being asked to meet these people. Would
not all these names, including her own, be blazoned to the world in
the columns of the next day's _Morning Post_? There was no absolute
danger here, as Lady Glencora knew; and Lady Glencora, who was
tolerant and begrudged nothing to Madame Max except the one thing,
was quite willing to meet the lady at such a grand affair as this.
But the Duke, even should he become ever so childish a child in his
old age, still would have that plain green brougham at his command,
and could go anywhere in that at any hour in the day. And then
Madame Goesler was so manifestly a clever woman. A Duchess of Omnium
might be said to fill,--in the estimation, at any rate, of English
people,--the highest position in the world short of royalty. And the
reader will remember that Lady Glencora intended to be a Duchess of
Omnium herself,--unless some very unexpected event should intrude
itself. She intended also that her little boy, her fair-haired,
curly-pated, bold-faced little boy, should be Earl of Silverbridge
when the sand of the old man should have run itself out. Heavens,
what a blow would it be, should some little wizen-cheeked half-monkey
baby, with black brows, and yellow skin, be brought forward and shown
to her some day as the heir! What a blow to herself;--and what a blow
to all England! "We can't prevent it if he chooses to do it," said
her husband, who had his budget to bring forward that very night, and
who in truth cared more for his budget than he did for his heirship
at that moment. "But we must prevent it," said Lady Glencora. "If I
stick to him by the tail of his coat, I'll prevent it." At the time
when she thus spoke, the dark green brougham had been twice again
brought up at the door in Park Lane.

And the brougham was standing there a third time. It was May now, the
latter end of May, and the park opposite was beautiful with green
things, and the air was soft and balmy, as it will be sometimes even
in May, and the flowers in the balcony were full of perfume, and the
charm of London,--what London can be to the rich,--was at its height.
The Duke was sitting in Madame Goesler's drawing-room, at some
distance from her, for she had retreated. The Duke had a habit
of taking her hand, which she never would permit for above a few
seconds. At such times she would show no anger, but would retreat.

"Marie," said the Duke, "you will go abroad when the summer is over."
As an old man he had taken the privilege of calling her Marie, and
she had not forbidden it.

Yes, probably; to Vienna. I have property in Vienna you know, which
must be looked after.

"Do not mind Vienna this year. Come to Italy."

"What; in summer, Duke?"

"The lakes are charming in August. I have a villa on Como which is
empty now, and I think I shall go there. If you do not know the
Italian lakes, I shall be so happy to show them to you."

"I know them well, my lord. When I was young I was on the Maggiore
almost alone. Some day I will tell you a history of what I was in
those days."

"You shall tell it me there."

"No, my lord, I fear not. I have no villa there."

"Will you not accept the loan of mine? It shall be all your own while
you use it."

"My own,--to deny the right of entrance to its owner?"

"If it so pleases you."

"It would not please me. It would so far from please me that I will
never put myself in a position that might make it possible for me to
require to do so. No, Duke; it behoves me to live in houses of my
own. Women of whom more is known can afford to be your guests."

"Marie, I would have no other guest than you."

"It cannot be so, Duke."

"And why not?"

"Why not? Am I to be put to the blush by being made to answer such a
question as that? Because the world would say that the Duke of Omnium
had a new mistress, and that Madame Goesler was the woman. Do you
think that I would be any man's mistress;--even yours? Or do you
believe that for the sake of the softness of a summer evening on an
Italian lake, I would give cause to the tongues of the women here to
say that I was such a thing? You would have me lose all that I have
gained by steady years of sober work for the sake of a week or two of
dalliance such as that! No, Duke; not for your dukedom!"

How his Grace might have got through his difficulty had they been
left alone, cannot be told. For at this moment the door was opened,
and Lady Glencora Palliser was announced.




CHAPTER LVIII

Rara Avis in Terris


"Come and see the country and judge for yourself," said Phineas.

"I should like nothing better," said Mr. Monk.

"It has often seemed to me that men in Parliament know less about
Ireland than they do of the interior of Africa," said Phineas.

"It is seldom that we know anything accurately on any subject that
we have not made matter of careful study," said Mr. Monk, "and very
often do not do so even then. We are very apt to think that we men
and women understand one another; but most probably you know nothing
even of the modes of thought of the man who lives next door to you."

"I suppose not."

"There are general laws current in the world as to morality. 'Thou
shalt not steal,' for instance. That has necessarily been current as
a law through all nations. But the first man you meet in the street
will have ideas about theft so different from yours, that, if you
knew them as you know your own, you would say that this law and yours
were not even founded on the same principle. It is compatible with
this man's honesty to cheat you in a matter of horseflesh, with that
man's in a traffic of railway shares, with that other man's as to a
woman's fortune; with a fourth's anything may be done for a seat in
Parliament, while the fifth man, who stands high among us, and who
implores his God every Sunday to write that law on his heart, spends
every hour of his daily toil in a system of fraud, and is regarded as
a pattern of the national commerce!"

Mr. Monk and Phineas were dining together at Mr. Monk's house, and
the elder politician of the two in this little speech had recurred to
certain matters which had already been discussed between them. Mr.
Monk was becoming somewhat sick of his place in the Cabinet, though
he had not as yet whispered a word of his sickness to any living
ears; and he had begun to pine for the lost freedom of a seat below
the gangway. He had been discussing political honesty with Phineas,
and hence had come the sermon of which I have ventured to reproduce
the concluding denunciations.

Phineas was fond of such discussions and fond of holding them with
Mr. Monk,--in this matter fluttering like a moth round a candle. He
would not perceive that as he had made up his mind to be a servant
of the public in Parliament, he must abandon all idea of independent
action; and unless he did so he could be neither successful as
regarded himself, or useful to the public whom he served. Could a man
be honest in Parliament, and yet abandon all idea of independence?
When he put such questions to Mr. Monk he did not get a direct
answer. And indeed the question was never put directly. But the
teaching which he received was ever of a nature to make him uneasy.
It was always to this effect: "You have taken up the trade now, and
seem to be fit for success in it. You had better give up thinking
about its special honesty." And yet Mr. Monk would on an occasion
preach to him such a sermon as that which he had just uttered!
Perhaps there is no question more difficult to a man's mind than that
of the expediency or inexpediency of scruples in political life.
Whether would a candidate for office be more liable to rejection from
a leader because he was known to be scrupulous, or because he was
known to be the reverse?

"But putting aside the fourth commandment and all the theories, you
will come to Ireland?" said Phineas.

"I shall be delighted."

"I don't live in a castle, you know."

"I thought everybody did live in a castle in Ireland," said Mr. Monk.
"They seemed to do when I was there twenty years ago. But for myself,
I prefer a cottage."

This trip to Ireland had been proposed in consequence of certain
ideas respecting tenant-right which Mr. Monk was beginning to adopt,
and as to which the minds of politicians were becoming moved. It
had been all very well to put down Fenianism, and Ribandmen, and
Repeal,--and everything that had been put down in Ireland in the way
of rebellion for the last seventy-five years. England and Ireland
had been apparently joined together by laws of nature so fixed,
that even politicians liberal as was Mr. Monk,--liberal as was Mr.
Turnbull,--could not trust themselves to think that disunion could
be for the good of the Irish. They had taught themselves that it
certainly could not be good for the English. But if it was incumbent
on England to force upon Ireland the maintenance of the Union for her
own sake, and for England's sake, because England could not afford
independence established so close against her own ribs,--it was at
any rate necessary to England's character that the bride thus
bound in a compulsory wedlock should be endowed with all the best
privileges that a wife can enjoy. Let her at least not be a kept
mistress. Let it be bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh, if we
are to live together in the married state. Between husband and
wife a warm word now and then matters but little, if there be a
thoroughly good understanding at bottom. But let there be that good
understanding at bottom. What about this Protestant Church; and what
about this tenant-right? Mr. Monk had been asking himself these
questions for some time past. In regard to the Church, he had long
made up his mind that the Establishment in Ireland was a crying sin.
A man had married a woman whom he knew to be of a religion different
from his own, and then insisted that his wife should say that she
believed those things which he knew very well that she did not
believe. But, as Mr. Monk well knew, the subject of the Protestant
Endowments in Ireland was so difficult that it would require almost
more than human wisdom to adjust it. It was one of those matters
which almost seemed to require the interposition of some higher
power,--the coming of some apparently chance event,--to clear away
the evil; as a fire comes, and pestilential alleys are removed; as a
famine comes, and men are driven from want and ignorance and dirt to
seek new homes and new thoughts across the broad waters; as a war
comes, and slavery is banished from the face of the earth. But in
regard to tenant-right, to some arrangement by which a tenant in
Ireland might be at least encouraged to lay out what little capital
he might have in labour or money without being at once called upon to
pay rent for that outlay which was his own, as well as for the land
which was not his own,--Mr. Monk thought that it was possible that if
a man would look hard enough he might perhaps be able to see his way
as to that. He had spoken to two of his colleagues on the subject,
the two men in the Cabinet whom he believed to be the most thoroughly
honest in their ideas as public servants, the Duke and Mr. Gresham.
There was so much to be done;--and then so little was known upon the
subject! "I will endeavour to study it," said Mr. Monk. "If you can
see your way, do;" said Mr. Gresham,--"but of course we cannot bind
ourselves." "I should be glad to see it named in the Queen's speech
at the beginning of the next session," said Mr. Monk. "That is a long
way off as yet," said Mr. Gresham, laughing. "Who will be in then,
and who will be out?" So the matter was disposed of at the time, but
Mr. Monk did not abandon his idea. He rather felt himself the more
bound to cling to it because he received so little encouragement.
What was a seat in the Cabinet to him that he should on that account
omit a duty? He had not taken up politics as a trade. He had sat
far behind the Treasury bench or below the gangway for many a year,
without owing any man a shilling,--and could afford to do so again.

But it was different with Phineas Finn, as Mr. Monk himself
understood;--and, understanding this, he felt himself bound to
caution his young friend. But it may be a question whether his
cautions did not do more harm than good. "I shall be delighted," he
said, "to go over with you in August, but I do not think that if I
were you, I would take up this matter."

"And why not? You don't want to fight the battle singlehanded?"

"No; I desire no such glory, and would wish to have no better
lieutenant than you. But you have a subject of which you are really
fond, which you are beginning to understand, and in regard to which
you can make yourself useful."

"You mean this Canada business?"

"Yes;--and that will grow to other matters as regards the colonies.
There is nothing so important to a public man as that he should have
his own subject;--the thing which he understands, and in respect of
which he can make himself really useful."

"Then there comes a change."

"Yes;--and the man who has half learned how to have a ship built
without waste is sent into opposition, and is then brought back
to look after regiments, or perhaps has to take up that beautiful
subject, a study of the career of India. But, nevertheless, if you
have a subject, stick to it at any rate as long as it will stick to
you."

"But," said Phineas, "if a man takes up his own subject, independent
of the Government, no man can drive him from it."

"And how often does he do anything? Look at the annual motions which
come forward in the hands of private men,--Maynooth and the ballot
for instance. It is becoming more and more apparent every day that
all legislation must be carried by the Government, and must be
carried in obedience to the expressed wish of the people. The truest
democracy that ever had a chance of living is that which we are now
establishing in Great Britain."

"Then leave tenant-right to the people and the Cabinet. Why should
you take it up?"

Mr. Monk paused a moment or two before he replied. "If I choose to
run a-muck, there is no reason why you should follow me. I am old and
you are young. I want nothing from politics as a profession, and you
do. Moreover, you have a congenial subject where you are, and need
not disturb yourself. For myself, I tell you, in confidence, that I
cannot speak so comfortably of my own position."

"We will go and see, at any rate," said Phineas.

"Yes," said Mr. Monk, "we will go and see." And thus, in the month of
May, it was settled between them that, as soon as the session should
be over, and the incidental work of his office should allow Phineas
to pack up and be off, they two should start together for Ireland.
Phineas felt rather proud as he wrote to his father and asked
permission to bring home with him a Cabinet Minister as a visitor. At
this time the reputation of Phineas at Killaloe, as well in the minds
of the Killaloeians generally as in those of the inhabitants of the
paternal house, stood very high indeed. How could a father think that
a son had done badly when before he was thirty years of age he was
earning £2,000 a year? And how could a father not think well of a
son who had absolutely paid back certain moneys into the paternal
coffers? The moneys so repaid had not been much; but the repayment
of any such money at Killaloe had been regarded as little short of
miraculous. The news of Mr. Monk's coming flew about the town, about
the county, about the diocese, and all people began to say all good
things about the old doctor's only son. Mrs. Finn had long since
been quite sure that a real black swan had been sent forth out of
her nest. And the sisters Finn, for some time past, had felt in
all social gatherings they stood quite on a different footing than
formerly because of their brother. They were asked about in the
county, and two of them had been staying only last Easter with the
Molonys,--the Molonys of Poldoodie! How should a father and a mother
and sisters not be grateful to such a son, to such a brother, to such
a veritable black swan out of the nest! And as for dear little Mary
Flood Jones, her eyes became suffused with tears as in her solitude
she thought how much out of her reach this swan was flying. And yet
she took joy in his swanhood, and swore that she would love him
still;--that she would love him always. Might he bring home with him
to Killaloe, Mr. Monk, the Cabinet Minister! Of course he might. When
Mrs. Finn first heard of this august arrival, she felt as though she
would like to expend herself in entertaining, though but an hour, the
whole cabinet.

Phineas, during the spring, had, of course, met Mr. Kennedy
frequently in and about the House, and had become aware that Lady
Laura's husband, from time to time, made little overtures of civility
to him,--taking him now and again by the button-hole, walking home
with him as far as their joint paths allowed, and asking him once
or twice to come and dine in Grosvenor Place. These little advances
towards a repetition of the old friendship Phineas would have avoided
altogether, had it been possible. The invitation to Mr. Kennedy's
house he did refuse, feeling himself positively bound to do so by
Lady Laura's command, let the consequences be what they might. When
he did refuse, Mr. Kennedy would assume a look of displeasure and
leave him, and Phineas would hope that the work was done. Then there
would come another encounter, and the invitation would be repeated.
At last, about the middle of May, there came another note. "Dear
Finn, will you dine with us on Wednesday, the 28th? I give you a long
notice, because you seem to have so many appointments. Yours always,
Robert Kennedy." He had no alternative. He must refuse, even though
double the notice had been given. He could only think that Mr.
Kennedy was a very obtuse man and one who would not take a hint,
and hope that he might succeed at last. So he wrote an answer, not
intended to be conciliatory. "My dear Kennedy, I am sorry to say that
I am engaged on the 28th. Yours always, Phineas Finn." At this period
he did his best to keep out of Mr. Kennedy's way, and would be very
cunning in his manoeuvres that they should not be alone together.
It was difficult, as they sat on the same bench in the House,
and consequently saw each other almost every day of their lives.
Nevertheless, he thought that with a little cunning he might prevail,
especially as he was not unwilling to give so much of offence as
might assist his own object. But when Mr. Kennedy called upon him at
his office the day after he had written the above note, he had no
means of escape.

"I am sorry you cannot come to us on the 28th," Mr. Kennedy said, as
soon as he was seated.

Phineas was taken so much by surprise that all his cunning failed
him. "Well, yes," said he; "I was very sorry;--very sorry indeed."

"It seems to me, Finn, that you have had some reason for avoiding me
of late. I do not know that I have done anything to offend you."

"Nothing on earth," said Phineas.

"I am wrong, then, in supposing that anything beyond mere chance has
prevented you from coming to my house?" Phineas felt that he was in
a terrible difficulty, and he felt also that he was being rather
ill-used in being thus cross-examined as to his reasons for not going
to a gentleman's dinner. He thought that a man ought to be allowed
to choose where he would go and where he would not go, and that
questions such as these were very uncommon. Mr. Kennedy was sitting
opposite to him, looking more grave and more sour than usual;--and
now his own countenance also became a little solemn. It was
impossible that he should use Lady Laura's name, and yet he must, in
some way, let his persecuting friend know that no further invitation
would be of any use;--that there was something beyond mere chance
in his not going to Grosvenor Place. But how was he to do this? The
difficulty was so great that he could not see his way out of it. So
he sat silent with a solemn face. Mr. Kennedy then asked him another
question, which made the difficulty ten times greater. "Has my wife
asked you not to come to our house?"

It was necessary now that he should make a rush and get out of his
trouble in some way. "To tell you the truth, Kennedy, I don't think
she wants to see me there."

"That does not answer my question. Has she asked you not to come?"

"She said that which left on my mind an impression that she would
sooner that I did not come."

"What did she say?"

"How can I answer such a question as that, Kennedy? Is it fair to ask
it?"

"Quite fair,--I think."

"I think it quite unfair, and I must decline to answer it. I cannot
imagine what you expect to gain by cross-questioning me in this way.
Of course no man likes to go to a house if he does not believe that
everybody there will make him welcome."

"You and Lady Laura used to be great friends."

"I hope we are not enemies now. But things will occur that cause
friendships to grow cool."

"Have you quarrelled with her father?"

"With Lord Brentford?--no."

"Or with her brother,--since the duel I mean?"

"Upon my word and honour I cannot stand this, and I will not. I have
not as yet quarrelled with anybody; but I must quarrel with you, if
you go on in this way. It is quite unusual that a man should be put
through his facings after such a fashion, and I must beg that there
may be an end of it."

"Then I must ask Lady Laura."

"You can say what you like to your own wife of course. I cannot
hinder you."

Upon that Mr. Kennedy formally shook hands with him, in token that
there was no positive breach between them,--as two nations may still
maintain their alliance, though they have made up their minds to hate
each other, and thwart each other at every turn,--and took his leave.
Phineas, as he sat at his window, looking out into the park, and
thinking of what had passed, could not but reflect that, disagreeable
as Mr. Kennedy had been to him, he would probably make himself much
more disagreeable to his wife. And, for himself, he thought that he
had got out of the scrape very well by the exhibition of a little
mock anger.




CHAPTER LIX

The Earl's Wrath


The reader may remember that a rumour had been conveyed to
Phineas,--a rumour indeed which reached him from a source which he
regarded as very untrustworthy,--that Violet Effingham had quarrelled
with her lover. He would probably have paid no attention to the
rumour, beyond that which necessarily attached itself to any tidings
as to a matter so full of interest to him, had it not been repeated
to him in another quarter. "A bird has told me that your Violet
Effingham has broken with her lover," Madame Goesler said to him one
day. "What bird?" he asked. "Ah, that I cannot tell you. But this I
will confess to you, that these birds which tell us news are seldom
very credible,--and are often not very creditable, You must take
a bird's word for what it may be worth. It is said that they have
quarrelled. I daresay, if the truth were known, they are billing and
cooing in each other's arms at this moment."

Phineas did not like to be told of their billing and cooing,--did
not like to be told even of their quarrelling. Though they were to
quarrel, it would do him no good. He would rather that nobody should
mention their names to him;--so that his back, which had been so
utterly broken, might in process of time get itself cured. From what
he knew of Violet he thought it very improbable that, even were
she to quarrel with one lover, she would at once throw herself into
the arms of another. And he did feel, too, that there would be
some meanness in taking her, were she willing to be so taken. But,
nevertheless, these rumours, coming to him in this way from different
sources, almost made it incumbent on him to find out the truth. He
began to think that his broken back was not cured;--that perhaps,
after all, it was not in the way of being cured, And was it not
possible that there might be explanations? Then he went to work
and built castles in the air, so constructed as to admit of the
possibility of Violet Effingham becoming his wife.

This had been in April, and at that time all that he knew of Violet
was, that she was not yet in London. And he thought that he knew the
same as to Lord Chiltern. The Earl had told him that Chiltern was not
in town, nor expected in town as yet; and in saying so had seemed to
express displeasure against his son. Phineas had met Lady Baldock at
some house which he frequented, and had been quite surprised to find
himself graciously received by the old woman. She had said not a word
of Violet, but had spoken of Lord Chiltern,--mentioning his name in
bitter wrath. "But he is a friend of mine," said Phineas, smiling.
"A friend indeed! Mr. Finn. I know what sort of a friend. I don't
believe that you are his friend. I am afraid he is not worthy of
having any friend." Phineas did not quite understand from this
that Lady Baldock was signifying to him that, badly as she had
thought of him as a suitor for her niece, she would have preferred
him,--especially now when people were beginning to speak well of
him,--to that terrible young man, who, from his youth upwards, had
been to her a cause of fear and trembling. Of course it was desirable
that Violet should marry an elder son, and a peer's heir. All that
kind of thing, in Lady Baldock's eyes, was most desirable. But,
nevertheless, anything was better than Lord Chiltern. If Violet would
not take Mr. Appledom or Lord Fawn, in heaven's name let her take
this young man, who was kind, worthy, and steady, who was civilised
in his manners, and would no doubt be amenable in regard to
settlements. Lady Baldock had so far fallen in the world that she
would have consented to make a bargain with her niece,--almost any
bargain, so long as Lord Chiltern was excluded. Phineas did not quite
understand all this; but when Lady Baldock asked him to come to
Berkeley Square, he perceived that help was being proffered to him
where he certainly had not looked for help.

He was frequently with Lord Brentford, who talked to him constantly
on matters connected with his parliamentary life. After having been
the intimate friend of the daughter and of the son, it now seemed
to be his lot to be the intimate friend of the father. The Earl
had constantly discussed with him his arrangements with his son,
and had lately expressed himself as only half satisfied with such
reconciliation as had taken place. And Phineas could perceive that
from day to day the Earl was less and less satisfied. He would
complain bitterly of his son,--complain of his silence, complain of
his not coming to London, complain of his conduct to Violet, complain
of his idle indifference to anything like proper occupation; but he
had never as yet said a word to show that there had been any quarrel
between Violet and her lover, and Phineas had felt that he could not
ask the question. "Mr. Finn," said the Earl to him one morning, as
soon as he entered the room, "I have just heard a story which has
almost seemed to me to be incredible." The nobleman's manner was very
stern, and the fact that he called his young friend "Mr. Finn",
showed at once that something was wrong.

"What is it you have heard, my lord?" said Phineas.

"That you and Chiltern went over,--last year to,--Belgium, and
fought,--a duel there!"

Now it must have been the case that, in the set among which they
all lived,--Lord Brentford and his son and daughter and Phineas
Finn,--the old lord was the only man who had not heard of the duel
before this. It had even penetrated to the dull ears of Mr. Kennedy,
reminding him, as it did so, that his wife had,--told him a lie! But
it was the fact that no rumour of the duel had reached the Earl till
this morning.

"It is true," said Phineas.

"I have never been so much shocked in my life;--never. I had no idea
that you had any thought of aspiring to the hand of Miss Effingham."
The lord's voice as he said this was very stern.

"As I aspired in vain, and as Chiltern has been successful, that need
not now be made a reproach against me."

"I do not know what to think of it, Mr. Finn. I am so much surprised
that I hardly know what to say. I must declare my opinion at once,
that you behaved,--very badly."

"I do not know how much you know, my lord, and how much you do not
know; and the circumstances of the little affair do not permit me to
be explicit about them; but, as you have expressed your opinion so
openly you must allow me to express mine, and to say that, as far as
I can judge of my own actions, I did not behave badly at all."

"Do you intend to defend duelling, sir?"

"No. If you mean to tell me that a duel is of itself sinful, I have
nothing to say. I suppose it is. My defence of myself merely goes to
the manner in which this duel was fought, and the fact that I fought
it with your son."

"I cannot conceive how you can have come to my house as my guest,
and stood upon my interest for my borough, when you at the time were
doing your very best to interpose yourself between Chiltern and the
lady whom you so well knew I wished to become his wife." Phineas was
aware that the Earl must have been very much moved indeed when he
thus permitted himself to speak of "his" borough. He said nothing
now, however, though the Earl paused;--and then the angry lord
went on. "I must say that there was something,--something almost
approaching to duplicity in such conduct."

"If I were to defend myself by evidence, Lord Brentford, I should
have to go back to exact dates,--and dates not of facts which I could
verify, but dates as to my feelings which could not be verified,--and
that would be useless. I can only say that I believe I know what
the honour and truth of a gentleman demand,--even to the verge of
self-sacrifice, and that I have done nothing that ought to place my
character as a gentleman in jeopardy. If you will ask your son, I
think he will tell you the same."

"I have asked him. It was he who told me of the duel."

"When did he tell you, my lord?"

"Just now; this morning." Thus Phineas learned that Lord Chiltern was
at this moment in the house,--or at least in London.

"And did he complain of my conduct?"

"I complain of it, sir. I complain of it very bitterly. I placed the
greatest confidence in you, especially in regard to my son's affairs,
and you deceived me." The Earl was very angry, and was more angry
from the fact that this young man who had offended him, to whom he
had given such vital assistance when assistance was needed, had used
that assistance to its utmost before his sin was found out. Had
Phineas still been sitting for Loughton, so that the Earl could have
said to him, "You are now bound to retreat from this borough because
you have offended me, your patron," I think that he would have
forgiven the offender and allowed him to remain in his seat. There
would have been a scene, and the Earl would have been pacified. But
now the offender was beyond his reach altogether, having used the
borough as a most convenient stepping-stone over his difficulties,
and having so used it just at the time when he was committing this
sin. There was a good fortune about Phineas which added greatly to
the lord's wrath. And then, to tell the truth, he had not that rich
consolation for which Phineas gave him credit. Lord Chiltern had told
him that morning that the engagement between him and Violet was at an
end. "You have so preached to her, my lord, about my duties," the son
had said to his father, "that she finds herself obliged to give me
your sermons at second hand, till I can bear them no longer." But of
this Phineas knew nothing as yet. The Earl, however, was so imprudent
in his anger that before this interview was over he had told the
whole story. "Yes;--you deceived me," he continued; "and I can never
trust you again."

"Was it for me, my lord, to tell you of that which would have
increased your anger against your own son? When he wanted me to fight
was I to come, like a sneak at school, and tell you the story? I know
what you would have thought of me had I done so. And when it was over
was I to come and tell you then? Think what you yourself would have
done when you were young, and you may be quite sure that I did the
same. What have I gained? He has got all that he wanted; and you
have also got all that you wanted;--and I have helped you both. Lord
Brentford, I can put my hand on my heart and say that I have been
honest to you."

"I have got nothing that I wanted," said the Earl in his despair.

"Lord Chiltern and Miss Effingham will be man and wife."

"No;--they will not. He has quarrelled with her. He is so obstinate
that she will not bear with him."

Then it was all true, even though the rumours had reached him through
Laurence Fitzgibbon and Madame Max Goesler. "At any rate, my lord,
that has not been my fault," he said, after a moment's hesitation.
The Earl was walking up and down the room, angry with himself at his
own mistake in having told the story, and not knowing what further to
say to his visitor. He had been in the habit of talking so freely to
Phineas about his son that he could hardly resist the temptation of
doing so still; and yet it was impossible that he could swallow his
anger and continue in the same strain. "My lord," said Phineas, after
a while, "I can assure you that I grieve that you should be grieved.
I have received so much undeserved favour from your family, that I
owe you a debt which I can never pay. I am sorry that you should be
angry with me now; but I hope that a time may come when you will
think less severely of my conduct."

He was about to leave the room when the Earl stopped him. "Will you
give me your word," said the Earl, "that you will think no more of
Miss Effingham?" Phineas stood silent, considering how he might
answer this proposal, resolving that nothing should bring him to such
a pledge as that suggested while there was yet a ledge for hope to
stand on. "Say that, Mr. Finn, and I will forgive everything."

"I cannot acknowledge that I have done anything to be forgiven."

"Say that," repeated the Earl, "and everything shall be forgotten."

"There need be no cause for alarm, my lord," said Phineas. "You may
be sure that Miss Effingham will not think of me."

"Will you give me your word?"

"No, my lord;--certainly not. You have no right to ask it, and the
pursuit is open to me as to any other man who may choose to follow
it. I have hardly a vestige of a hope of success. It is barely
possible that I should succeed. But if it be true that Miss Effingham
be disengaged, I shall endeavour to find an opportunity of urging my
suit. I would give up everything that I have, my seat in Parliament,
all the ambition of my life, for the barest chance of success. When
she had accepted your son, I desisted,--of course. I have now heard,
from more sources than one, that she or he or both of them have
changed their minds. If this be so, I am free to try again." The
Earl stood opposite to him, scowling at him, but said nothing. "Good
morning, my lord."

"Good morning, sir."

"I am afraid it must be good-bye, for some long days to come."

"Good morning, sir," And the Earl as he spoke rang the bell. Then
Phineas took up his hat and departed.

As he walked away his mind filled itself gradually with various
ideas, all springing from the words which Lord Brentford had spoken.
What account had Lord Chiltern given to his father of the duel? Our
hero was a man very sensitive as to the good opinion of others, and
in spite of his bold assertion of his own knowledge of what became
a gentleman, was beyond measure solicitous that others should
acknowledge his claim at any rate to that title. He thought that he
had been generous to Lord Chiltern; and as he went back in his memory
over almost every word that had been spoken in the interview that had
just passed, he fancied that he was able to collect evidence that his
antagonist at Blankenberg had not spoken ill of him. As to the charge
of deceit which the Earl had made against him, he told himself that
the Earl had made it in anger. He would not even think hardly of the
Earl who had been so good a friend to him, but he believed in his
heart that the Earl had made the accusation out of his wrath and not
out of his judgment. "He cannot think that I have been false to him,"
Phineas said to himself. But it was very sad to him that he should
have to quarrel with all the family of the Standishes, as he could
not but feel that it was they who had put him on his feet. It seemed
as though he were never to see Lady Laura again except when they
chanced to meet in company,--on which occasions he simply bowed to
her. Now the Earl had almost turned him out of his house. And though
there had been to a certain extent a reconciliation between him and
Lord Chiltern, he in these days never saw the friend who had once put
him upon Bonebreaker; and now,--now that Violet Effingham was again
free,--how was it possible to avoid some renewal of enmity between
them? He would, however, endeavour to see Lord Chiltern at once.

And then he thought of Violet,--of Violet again free, of Violet as
again a possible wife for himself, of Violet to whom he might address
himself at any rate without any scruple as to his own unworthiness.
Everybody concerned, and many who were not concerned at all, were
aware that he had been among her lovers, and he thought that he could
perceive that those who interested themselves on the subject, had
regarded him as the only horse in the race likely to run with success
against Lord Chiltern. She herself had received his offers without
scorn, and had always treated him as though he were a favoured
friend, though not favoured as a lover. And now even Lady Baldock was
smiling upon him, and asking him to her house as though the red-faced
porter in the hall in Berkeley Square had never been ordered to
refuse him a moment's admission inside the doors. He had been very
humble in speaking of his own hopes to the Earl, but surely there
might be a chance. What if after all the little strain which he had
had in his back was to be cured after such a fashion as this! When he
got to his lodgings, he found a card from Lady Baldock, informing him
that Lady Baldock would be at home on a certain night, and that there
would be music. He could not go to Lady Baldock's on the night named,
as it would be necessary that he should be in the House;--nor did he
much care to go there, as Violet Effingham was not in town. But he
would call and explain, and endeavour to curry favour in that way.

He at once wrote a note to Lord Chiltern, which he addressed to
Portman Square. "As you are in town, can we not meet? Come and dine
with me at the ---- Club on Saturday." That was the note. After a
few days he received the following answer, dated from the Bull at
Willingford. Why on earth should Chiltern be staying at the Bull at
Willingford in May?


   The old Shop at W----, Friday.

   DEAR PHINEAS,

   I can't dine with you, because I am down here, looking
   after the cripples, and writing a sporting novel. They
   tell me I ought to do something, so I am going to do that.
   I hope you don't think I turned informer against you in
   telling the Earl of our pleasant little meeting on the
   sands. It had become necessary, and you are too much of a
   man to care much for any truth being told. He was terribly
   angry both with me and with you; but the fact is, he is so
   blindly unreasonable that one cannot regard his anger. I
   endeavoured to tell the story truly, and, so told, it
   certainly should not have injured you in his estimation.
   But it did. Very sorry, old fellow, and I hope you'll get
   over it. It is a good deal more important to me than to
   you.

   Yours,

   C.


There was not a word about Violet. But then it was hardly to be
expected that there should be words about Violet. It was not likely
that a man should write to his rival of his own failure. But yet
there was a flavour of Violet in the letter which would not have been
there, so Phineas thought, if the writer had been despondent. The
pleasant little meeting on the sands had been convened altogether in
respect of Violet. And the telling of the story to the Earl must have
arisen from discussions about Violet. Lord Chiltern must have told
his father that Phineas was his rival. Could the rejected suitor have
written on such a subject in such a strain to such a correspondent
if he had believed his own rejection to be certain? But then
Lord Chiltern was not like anybody else in the world, and it was
impossible to judge of him by one's experience of the motives of
others.

Shortly afterwards Phineas did call in Berkeley Square, and was shown
up at once into Lady Baldock's drawing-room. The whole aspect of the
porter's countenance was changed towards him, and from this, too, he
gathered good auguries This had surprised him; but his surprise was
far greater, when, on entering the room, he found Violet Effingham
there alone. A little fresh colour came to her face as she greeted
him, though it cannot be said that she blushed. She behaved herself
admirably, not endeavouring to conceal some little emotion at thus
meeting him, but betraying none that was injurious to her composure.
"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Finn," she said. "My aunt has just left
me, and will be back directly."

He was by no means her equal in his management of himself on the
occasion; but perhaps it may be acknowledged that his position
was the more difficult of the two. He had not seen her since her
engagement had been proclaimed to the world, and now he had heard
from a source which was not to be doubted, that it had been broken
off. Of course there was nothing to be said on that matter. He could
not have congratulated her in the one case, nor could he either
congratulate her or condole with her on the other. And yet he did not
know how to speak to her as though no such events had occurred. "I
did not know that you were in town," he said.

"I only came yesterday. I have been, you know, at Rome with the
Effinghams; and since that I have been--; but, indeed, I have been
such a vagrant that I cannot tell you of all my comings and goings.
And you,--you are hard at work!"

"Oh yes;--always."

"That is right. I wish I could be something, if it were only a stick
in waiting, or a door-keeper. It is so good to be something." Was it
some such teaching as this that had jarred against Lord Chiltern's
susceptibilities, and had seemed to him to be a repetition of his
father's sermons?

"A man should try to be something," said Phineas.

"And a woman must be content to be nothing,--unless Mr. Mill can pull
us through! And now, tell me,--have you seen Lady Laura?"

"Not lately."

"Nor Mr. Kennedy?"

"I sometimes see him in the House." The visit to the Colonial Office
of which the reader has been made aware had not at that time as yet
been made.

"I am sorry for all that," she said. Upon which Phineas smiled and
shook his head. "I am very sorry that there should be a quarrel
between you two."

"There is no quarrel."

"I used to think that you and he might do so much for each
other,--that is, of course, if you could make a friend of him."

"He is a man of whom it is very hard to make a friend," said Phineas,
feeling that he was dishonest to Mr. Kennedy in saying so, but
thinking that such dishonesty was justified by what he owed to Lady
Laura.

"Yes;--he is hard, and what I call ungenial. We won't say anything
about him,--will we? Have you seen much of the Earl?" This she asked
as though such a question had no reference whatever to Lord Chiltern.

"Oh dear,--alas, alas!"

"You have not quarrelled with him too?"

"He has quarrelled with me. He has heard, Miss Effingham, of what
happened last year, and he thinks that I was wrong."

"Of course you were wrong, Mr. Finn."

"Very likely. To him I chose to defend myself, but I certainly shall
not do so to you. At any rate, you did not think it necessary to
quarrel with me."

"I ought to have done so. I wonder why my aunt does not come." Then
she rang the bell.

"Now I have told you all about myself," said he; "you should tell me
something of yourself."

"About me? I am like the knife-grinder, who had no story to
tell,--none at least to be told. We have all, no doubt, got our
little stories, interesting enough to ourselves."

"But your story, Miss Effingham," he said, "is of such intense
interest to me." At that moment, luckily, Lady Baldock came into
the room, and Phineas was saved from the necessity of making a
declaration at a moment which would have been most inopportune.

Lady Baldock was exceedingly gracious to him, bidding Violet use her
influence to persuade him to come to the gathering. "Persuade him to
desert his work to come and hear some fiddlers!" said Miss Effingham.
"Indeed I shall not, aunt. Who can tell but what the colonies might
suffer from it through centuries, and that such a lapse of duty might
drive a province or two into the arms of our mortal enemies?"

"Herr Moll is coming," said Lady Baldock, "and so is Signor Scrubi,
and Pjinskt, who, they say, is the greatest man living on the
flageolet. Have you ever heard Pjinskt, Mr. Finn?" Phineas never had
heard Pjinskt. "And as for Herr Moll, there is nothing equal to him,
this year, at least." Lady Baldock had taken up music this season,
but all her enthusiasm was unable to shake the conscientious zeal of
the young Under-Secretary of State. At such a gathering he would have
been unable to say a word in private to Violet Effingham.




CHAPTER LX

Madame Goesler's Politics


It may be remembered that when Lady Glencora Palliser was shown into
Madame Goesler's room, Madame Goesler had just explained somewhat
forcibly to the Duke of Omnium her reasons for refusing the loan of
his Grace's villa at Como. She had told the Duke in so many words
that she did not mean to give the world an opportunity of maligning
her, and it would then have been left to the Duke to decide whether
any other arrangements might have been made for taking Madame Goesler
to Como, had he not been interrupted. That he was very anxious to
take her was certain. The green brougham had already been often
enough at the door in Park Lane to make his Grace feel that Madame
Goesler's company was very desirable,--was, perhaps, of all things
left for his enjoyment, the one thing the most desirable. Lady
Glencora had spoken to her husband of children crying for the top
brick of the chimney. Now it had come to this, that in the eyes
of the Duke of Omnium Marie Max Goesler was the top brick of the
chimney. She had more wit for him than other women,--more of that
sort of wit which he was capable of enjoying. She had a beauty which
he had learned to think more alluring than other beauty. He was sick
of fair faces, and fat arms, and free necks. Madame Goesler's eyes
sparkled as other eyes did not sparkle, and there was something
of the vagueness of mystery in the very blackness and gloss and
abundance of her hair,--as though her beauty was the beauty of some
world which he had not yet known. And there was a quickness and yet
a grace of motion about her which was quite new to him. The ladies
upon whom the Duke had of late most often smiled had been somewhat
slow,--perhaps almost heavy,--though, no doubt, graceful withal. In
his early youth he remembered to have seen, somewhere in Greece, such
a houri as was this Madame Goesler. The houri in that case had run
off with the captain of a Russian vessel engaged in the tallow trade;
but not the less was there left on his Grace's mind some dreamy
memory of charms which had impressed him very strongly when he was
simply a young Mr. Palliser, and had had at his command not so
convenient a mode of sudden abduction as the Russian captain's tallow
ship. Pressed hard by such circumstances as these, there is no
knowing how the Duke might have got out of his difficulties had not
Lady Glencora appeared upon the scene.

Since the future little Lord Silverbridge had been born, the Duke had
been very constant in his worship of Lady Glencora, and as, from year
to year, a little brother was added, thus making the family very
strong and stable, his acts of worship had increased; but with his
worship there had come of late something almost of dread,--something
almost of obedience, which had made those who were immediately
about the Duke declare that his Grace was a good deal changed. For,
hitherto, whatever may have been the Duke's weaknesses, he certainly
had known no master. His heir, Plantagenet Palliser, had been always
subject to him. His other relations had been kept at such a distance
as hardly to be more than recognised; and though his Grace no
doubt had had his intimacies, they who had been intimate with him
had either never tried to obtain ascendancy, or had failed. Lady
Glencora, whether with or without a struggle, had succeeded, and
people about the Duke said that the Duke was much changed. Mr.
Fothergill,--who was his Grace's man of business, and who was not
a favourite with Lady Glencora,--said that he was very much changed
indeed. Finding his Grace so much changed, Mr. Fothergill had made
a little attempt at dictation himself, but had receded with fingers
very much scorched in the attempt. It was indeed possible that the
Duke was becoming in the slightest degree weary of Lady Glencora's
thraldom, and that he thought that Madame Max Goesler might be more
tender with him. Madame Max Goesler, however, intended to be tender
only on one condition.

When Lady Glencora entered the room, Madame Goesler received her
beautifully. "How lucky that you should have come just when his Grace
is here!" she said.

"I saw my uncle's carriage, and of course I knew it," said Lady
Glencora.

"Then the favour is to him," said Madame Goesler, smiling.

"No, indeed; I was coming. If my word is to be doubted in that point,
I must insist on having the servant up; I must, certainly. I told
him to drive to this door, as far back as Grosvenor Street. Did I
not, Planty?" Planty was the little Lord Silverbridge as was to
be, if nothing unfortunate intervened, who was now sitting on his
granduncle's knee.

"Dou said to the little house in Park Lane," said the boy.

"Yes,--because I forgot the number."

"And it is the smallest house in Park Lane, so the evidence is
complete," said Madame Goesler. Lady Glencora had not cared much for
evidence to convince Madame Goesler, but she had not wished her uncle
to think that he was watched and hunted down. It might be necessary
that he should know that he was watched, but things had not come to
that as yet.

"How is Plantagenet?" asked the Duke.

"Answer for papa," said Lady Glencora to her child.

"Papa is very well, but he almost never comes home."

"He is working for his country," said the Duke. "Your papa is a busy,
useful man, and can't afford time to play with a little boy as I
can."

"But papa is not a duke."

"He will be some day, and that probably before long, my boy. He will
be a duke quite as soon as he wants to be a duke. He likes the House
of Commons better than the strawberry leaves, I fancy. There is not a
man in England less in a hurry than he is."

"No, indeed," said Lady Glencora.

"How nice that is," said Madame Goesler.

"And I ain't in a hurry either,--am I, mamma?" said the little future
Lord Silverbridge.

"You are a wicked little monkey," said his grand-uncle, kissing him.
At this moment Lady Glencora was, no doubt, thinking how necessary
it was that she should be careful to see that things did turn out
in the manner proposed,--so that people who had waited should not
be disappointed; and the Duke was perhaps thinking that he was not
absolutely bound to his nephew by any law of God or man; and Madame
Max Goesler,--I wonder whether her thoughts were injurious to the
prospects of that handsome bold-faced little boy.

Lady Glencora rose to take her leave first. It was not for her to
show any anxiety to force the Duke out of the lady's presence. If the
Duke were resolved to make a fool of himself, nothing that she could
do would prevent it. But she thought that this little inspection
might possibly be of service, and that her uncle's ardour would
be cooled by the interruption to which he had been subjected. So
she went, and immediately afterwards the Duke followed her. The
interruption had, at any rate, saved him on that occasion from making
the highest bid for the pleasure of Madame Goesler's company at Como.
The Duke went down with the little boy in his hand, so that there
was not an opportunity for a single word of interest between the
gentleman and the lady.

Madame Goesler, when she was alone, seated herself on her sofa,
tucking her feet up under her as though she were seated somewhere in
the East, pushed her ringlets back roughly from her face, and then
placed her two hands to her sides so that her thumbs rested lightly
on her girdle. When alone with something weighty on her mind she
would sit in this form for the hour together, resolving, or trying
to resolve, what should be her conduct. She did few things without
much thinking, and though she walked very boldly, she walked warily.
She often told herself that such success as she had achieved could
not have been achieved without much caution. And yet she was ever
discontented with herself, telling herself that all that she had done
was nothing, or worse than nothing. What was it all, to have a duke
and to have lords dining with her, to dine with lords or with a duke
itself, if life were dull with her, and the hours hung heavy! Life
with her was dull, and the hours did hang heavy. And what if she
caught this old man, and became herself a duchess,--caught him by
means of his weakness, to the inexpressible dismay of all those
who were bound to him by ties of blood,--would that make her life
happier, or her hours less tedious? That prospect of a life on the
Italian lakes with an old man tied to her side was not so charming in
her eyes as it was in those of the Duke. Were she to succeed, and to
be blazoned forth to the world as Duchess of Omnium, what would she
have gained?

She perfectly understood the motive of Lady Glencora's visit, and
thought that she would at any rate gain something in the very triumph
of baffling the manoeuvres of so clever a woman. Let Lady Glencora
throw her ægis before the Duke, and it would be something to carry
off his Grace from beneath the protection of so thick a shield. The
very flavour of the contest was pleasing to Madame Goesler. But, the
victory gained, what then would remain to her? Money she had already;
position, too, she had of her own. She was free as air, and should it
suit her at any time to go off to some lake of Como in society that
would personally be more agreeable to her than that of the Duke of
Omnium, there was nothing to hinder her for a moment. And then came a
smile over her face,--but the saddest smile,--as she thought of one
with whom it might be pleasant to look at the colour of Italian skies
and feel the softness of Italian breezes. In feigning to like to do
this with an old man, in acting the raptures of love on behalf of a
worn-out duke who at the best would scarce believe in her acting,
there would not be much delight for her. She had never yet known what
it was to have anything of the pleasure of love. She had grown, as
she often told herself, to be a hard, cautious, selfish, successful
woman, without any interference or assistance from such pleasure.
Might there not be yet time left for her to try it without
selfishness,--with an absolute devotion of self,--if only she
could find the right companion? There was one who might be such a
companion, but the Duke of Omnium certainly could not be such a one.

But to be Duchess of Omnium! After all, success in this world is
everything;--is at any rate the only thing the pleasure of which will
endure. There was the name of many a woman written in a black list
within Madame Goesler's breast,--written there because of scorn,
because of rejected overtures, because of deep social injury; and
Madame Goesler told herself often that it would be a pleasure to her
to use the list, and to be revenged on those who had ill-used and
scornfully treated her. She did not readily forgive those who had
injured her. As Duchess of Omnium she thought that probably she might
use that list with efficacy. Lady Glencora had treated her well, and
she had no such feeling against Lady Glencora. As Duchess of Omnium
she would accept Lady Glencora as her dearest friend, if Lady
Glencora would admit it. But if it should be necessary that there
should be a little duel between them, as to which of them should take
the Duke in hand, the duel must of course be fought. In a matter so
important, one woman would of course expect no false sentiment from
another. She and Lady Glencora would understand each other;--and no
doubt, respect each other.

I have said that she would sit there resolving, or trying to resolve.
There is nothing in the world so difficult as that task of making
up one's mind. Who is there that has not longed that the power and
privilege of selection among alternatives should be taken away from
him in some important crisis of his life, and that his conduct should
be arranged for him, either this way or that, by some divine power
if it were possible,--by some patriarchal power in the absence of
divinity,--or by chance even, if nothing better than chance could be
found to do it? But no one dares to cast the die, and to go honestly
by the hazard. There must be the actual necessity of obeying the die,
before even the die can be of any use. As it was, when Madame Goesler
had sat there for an hour, till her legs were tired beneath her, she
had not resolved. It must be as her impulse should direct her when
the important moment came. There was not a soul on earth to whom she
could go for counsel, and when she asked herself for counsel, the
counsel would not come.

Two days afterwards the Duke called again. He would come generally on
a Thursday,--early, so that he might be there before other visitors;
and he had already quite learned that when he was there other
visitors would probably be refused admittance. How Lady Glencora had
made her way in, telling the servant that her uncle was there, he had
not understood. That visit had been made on the Thursday, but now he
came on the Saturday,--having, I regret to say, sent down some early
fruit from his own hot-houses,--or from Covent Garden,--with a little
note on the previous day. The grapes might have been pretty well, but
the note was injudicious. There were three lines about the grapes, as
to which there was some special history, the vine having been brought
from the garden of some villa in which some ill-used queen had lived
and died; and then there was a postscript in one line to say that the
Duke would call on the following morning. I do not think that he had
meant to add this when he began his note; but then children, who want
the top brick, want it so badly, and cry for it so perversely!

Of course Madame Goesler was at home. But even then she had not made
up her mind. She had made up her mind only to this,--that he should
be made to speak plainly, and that she would take time for her reply.
Not even with such a gem as the Duke's coronet before her eyes, would
she jump at it. Where there was so much doubt, there need at least be
no impatience.

"You ran away the other day, Duke, because you could not resist the
charm of that little boy," she said, laughing.

"He is a dear little boy,--but it was not that," he answered.

"Then what was it? Your niece carried you off in a whirl-wind. She
was come and gone, taking you with her, in half a minute."

"She had disturbed me when I was thinking of something," said the
Duke.

"Things shouldn't be thought of,--not so deeply as that." Madame
Goesler was playing with a bunch of his grapes now, eating one or
two from a small china plate which had stood upon the table, and
he thought that he had never seen a woman so graceful and yet
so natural. "Will you not eat your own grapes with me? They are
delicious;--flavoured with the poor queen's sorrows." He shook his
head, knowing that it did not suit his gastric juices to have to deal
with fruit eaten at odd times. "Never think, Duke. I am convinced
that it does no good. It simply means doubting, and doubt always
leads to error. The safest way in the world is to do nothing."

"I believe so," said the Duke.

"Much the safest. But if you have not sufficient command over
yourself to enable you to sit in repose, always quiet, never
committing yourself to the chance of any danger,--then take a leap in
the dark; or rather many leaps. A stumbling horse regains his footing
by persevering in his onward course. As for moving cautiously, that I
detest."

"And yet one must think;--for instance, whether one will succeed or
not."

"Take that for granted always. Remember, I do not recommend motion at
all. Repose is my idea of life;--repose and grapes."

The Duke sat for a while silent, taking his repose as far as the
outer man was concerned, looking at his top brick of the chimney, as
from time to time she ate one of his grapes. Probably she did not eat
above half-a-dozen of them altogether, but he thought that the grapes
must have been made for the woman, she was so pretty in the eating of
them. But it was necessary that he should speak at last. "Have you
been thinking of coming to Como?" he said.

"I told you that I never think."

"But I want an answer to my proposition."

"I thought I had answered your Grace on that question." Then she put
down the grapes, and moved herself on her chair, so that she sat with
her face turned away from him.

"But a request to a lady may be made twice."

"Oh, yes. And I am grateful, knowing how far it is from your
intention to do me any harm. And I am somewhat ashamed of my warmth
on the other day. But still there can be but one answer. There
are delights which a woman must deny herself, let them be ever so
delightful."

"I had thought,--" the Duke began, and then he stopped himself.

"Your Grace was saying that you thought,--"

"Marie, a man at my age does not like to be denied."

"What man likes to be denied anything by a woman at any age? A woman
who denies anything is called cruel at once,--even though it be
her very soul." She had turned round upon him now, and was leaning
forward towards him from her chair, so that he could touch her if he
put out his hand.

He put out his hand and touched her. "Marie," he said, "will you deny
me if I ask?"

"Nay, my lord; how shall I say? There is many a trifle I would deny
you. There is many a great gift I would give you willingly."

"But the greatest gift of all?"

"My lord, if you have anything to say, you must say it plainly. There
never was a woman worse than I am at the reading of riddles."

"Could you endure to live in the quietude of an Italian lake with an
old man?" Now he touched her again, and had taken her hand.

"No, my lord;--nor with a young one,--for all my days. But I do not
know that age would guide me."

Then the Duke rose and made his proposition in form. "Marie, you know
that I love you. Why it is that I at my age should feel so sore a
love, I cannot say."

"So sore a love!"

"So sore, if it be not gratified. Marie, I ask you to be my wife."

"Duke of Omnium, this from you!"

"Yes, from me. My coronet is at your feet. If you will allow me to
raise it, I will place it on your brow."

Then she went away from him, and seated herself at a distance. After
a moment or two he followed her, and stood with his arm upon her
shoulder. "You will give me an answer, Marie?"

"You cannot have thought of this, my lord."

"Nay; I have thought of it much."

"And your friends?"

"My dear, I may venture to please myself in this,--as in everything.
Will you not answer me?"

"Certainly not on the spur of the moment, my lord. Think how high is
the position you offer me, and how immense is the change you propose
to me. Allow me two days, and I will answer you by letter. I am so
fluttered now that I must leave you." Then he came to her, took her
hand, kissed her brow, and opened the door for her.




CHAPTER LXI

Another Duel


It happened that there were at this time certain matters of business
to be settled between the Duke of Omnium and his nephew Mr. Palliser,
respecting which the latter called upon his uncle on the morning
after the Duke had committed himself by his offer. Mr. Palliser had
come by appointment made with Mr. Fothergill, the Duke's man of
business, and had expected to meet Mr. Fothergill. Mr. Fothergill,
however, was not with the Duke, and the uncle told the nephew that
the business had been postponed. Then Mr. Palliser asked some
question as to the reason of such postponement, not meaning much by
his question,--and the Duke, after a moment's hesitation, answered
him, meaning very much by his answer. "The truth is, Plantagenet,
that it is possible that I may marry, and if so this arrangement
would not suit me."

"Are you going to be married?" asked the astonished nephew.

"It is not exactly that,--but it is possible that I may do so. Since
I proposed this matter to Fothergill, I have been thinking over it,
and I have changed my mind. It will make but little difference to
you; and after all you are a far richer man than I am."

"I am not thinking of money, Duke," said Plantagenet Palliser.

"Of what then were you thinking?"

"Simply of what you told me. I do not in the least mean to
interfere."

"I hope not, Plantagenet."

"But I could not hear such a statement from you without some
surprise. Whatever you do I hope will tend to make you happy."

So much passed between the uncle and the nephew, and what the uncle
told to the nephew, the nephew of course told to his wife. "He was
with her again, yesterday," said Lady Glencora, "for more than an
hour. And he had been half the morning dressing himself before he
went to her."

"He is not engaged to her, or he would have told me," said
Plantagenet Palliser.

"I think he would, but there is no knowing. At the present moment I
have only one doubt,--whether to act upon him or upon her."

"I do not see that you can do good by going to either."

"Well, we will see. If she be the woman I take her to be, I think I
could do something with her. I have never supposed her to be a bad
woman,--never. I will think of it." Then Lady Glencora left her
husband, and did not consult him afterwards as to the course she
would pursue. He had his budget to manage, and his speeches to make.
The little affair of the Duke and Madame Goesler, she thought it best
to take into her own hands without any assistance from him. "What a
fool I was," she said to herself, "to have her down there when the
Duke was at Matching!"

Madame Goesler, when she was left alone, felt that now indeed she
must make up her mind. She had asked for two days. The intervening
day was a Sunday, and on the Monday she must send her answer. She
might doubt at any rate for this one night,--the Saturday night,--and
sit playing, as it were, with the coronet of a duchess in her lap.
She had been born the daughter of a small country attorney, and now a
duke had asked her to be his wife,--and a duke who was acknowledged
to stand above other dukes! Nothing at any rate could rob her of that
satisfaction. Whatever resolution she might form at last, she had by
her own resources reached a point of success in remembering which
there would always be a keen gratification. It would be much to be
Duchess of Omnium; but it would be something also to have refused to
be a Duchess of Omnium. During that evening, that night, and the next
morning, she remained playing with the coronet in her lap. She would
not go to church. What good could any sermon do her while that bauble
was dangling before her eyes? After church-time, about two o'clock,
Phineas Finn came to her. Just at this period Phineas would come
to her often;--sometimes full of a new decision to forget Violet
Effingham altogether, at others minded to continue his siege let the
hope of success be ever so small. He had now heard that Violet and
Lord Chiltern had in truth quarrelled, and was of course anxious to
be advised to continue the siege. When he first came in and spoke a
word or two, in which there was no reference to Violet Effingham,
there came upon Madame Goesler a strong wish to decide at once that
she would play no longer with the coronet, that the gem was not worth
the cost she would be called upon to pay for it. There was something
in the world better for her than the coronet,--if only it might be
had. But within ten minutes he had told her the whole tale about Lord
Chiltern, and how he had seen Violet at Lady Baldock's,--and how
there might yet be hope for him. What would she advise him to do? "Go
home, Mr. Finn," she said, "and write a sonnet to her eyebrow. See if
that will have any effect."

"Ah, well! It is natural that you should laugh at me; but somehow, I
did not expect it from you."

"Do not be angry with me. What I mean is that such little things seem
to influence this Violet of yours."

"Do they? I have not found that they do so."

"If she had loved Lord Chiltern she would not have quarrelled with
him for a few words. If she had loved you, she would not have
accepted Lord Chiltern. If she loves neither of you, she should say
so. I am losing my respect for her."

"Do not say that, Madame Goesler. I respect her as strongly as I love
her." Then Madame Goesler almost made up her mind that she would have
the coronet. There was a substance about the coronet that would not
elude her grasp.

Late that afternoon, while she was still hesitating, there came
another caller to the cottage in Park Lane. She was still hesitating,
feeling that she had as yet another night before her. Should she be
Duchess of Omnium or not? All that she wished to be, she could not
be;--but to be Duchess of Omnium was within her reach. Then she began
to ask herself various questions. Would the Queen refuse to accept
her in her new rank? Refuse! How could any Queen refuse to accept
her? She had not done aught amiss in life. There was no slur on her
name; no stain on her character. What though her father had been a
small attorney, and her first husband a Jew banker! She had broken
no law of God or man, had been accused of breaking no law, which
breaking or which accusation need stand in the way of her being as
good a duchess as any other woman! She was sitting thinking of this,
almost angry with herself at the awe with which the proposed rank
inspired her, when Lady Glencora was announced to her.

"Madame Goesler," said Lady Glencora, "I am very glad to find you."

"And I more than equally so, to be found," said Madame Goesler,
smiling with all her grace.

"My uncle has been with you since I saw you last?"

"Oh yes;--more than once if I remember right. He was here yesterday
at any rate."

"He comes often to you then?"

"Not so often as I would wish, Lady Glencora. The Duke is one of my
dearest friends."

"It has been a quick friendship."

"Yes;--a quick friendship," said Madame Goesler. Then there was a
pause for some moments which Madame Goesler was determined that she
would not break. It was clear to her now on what ground Lady Glencora
had come to her, and she was fully minded that if she could bear the
full light of the god himself in all his glory, she would not allow
herself to be scorched by any reflected heat coming from the god's
niece. She thought she could endure anything that Lady Glencora might
say; but she would wait and hear what might be said.

"I think, Madame Goesler, that I had better hurry on to my subject
at once," said Lady Glencora, almost hesitating as she spoke, and
feeling that the colour was rushing up to her cheeks and covering her
brow. "Of course what I have to say will be disagreeable. Of course I
shall offend you. And yet I do not mean it."

"I shall be offended at nothing, Lady Glencora, unless I think that
you mean to offend me."

"I protest that I do not. You have seen my little boy."

"Yes, indeed. The sweetest child! God never gave me anything half so
precious as that."

"He is the Duke's heir."

"So I understand."

"For myself, by my honour as a woman, I care nothing. I am rich and
have all that the world can give me. For my husband, in this matter,
I care nothing. His career he will make for himself, and it will
depend on no title."

"Why all this to me, Lady Glencora? What have I to do with your
husband's titles?"

"Much;--if it be true that there is an idea of marriage between you
and the Duke of Omnium."

"Psha!" said Madame Goesler, with all the scorn of which she was
mistress.

"It is untrue, then?" asked Lady Glencora.

"No;--it is not untrue. There is an idea of such a marriage."

"And you are engaged to him?"

"No;--I am not engaged to him."

"Has he asked you?"

"Lady Glencora, I really must say that such a cross-questioning
from one lady to another is very unusual. I have promised not to be
offended, unless I thought that you wished to offend me. But do not
drive me too far."

"Madame Goesler, if you will tell me that I am mistaken, I will beg
your pardon, and offer to you the most sincere friendship which one
woman can give another."

"Lady Glencora, I can tell you nothing of the kind."

"Then it is to be so! And have you thought what you would gain?"

"I have thought much of what I should gain:--and something also of
what I should lose."

"You have money."

"Yes, indeed; plenty,--for wants so moderate as mine."

"And position."

"Well, yes; a sort of position. Not such as yours, Lady Glencora.
That, if it be not born to a woman, can only come to her from a
husband. She cannot win it for herself."

"You are free as air, going where you like, and doing what you like."

"Too free, sometimes," said Madame Goesler.

"And what will you gain by changing all this simply for a title?"

"But for such a title, Lady Glencora! It may be little to you to be
Duchess of Omnium, but think what it must be to me!"

"And for this you will not hesitate to rob him of all his friends, to
embitter his future life, to degrade him among his peers,--"

"Degrade him! Who dares say that I shall degrade him? He will exalt
me, but I shall no whit degrade him. You forget yourself, Lady
Glencora."

"Ask any one. It is not that I despise you. If I did, would I offer
you my hand in friendship? But an old man, over seventy, carrying the
weight and burden of such rank as his, will degrade himself in the
eyes of his fellows, if he marries a young woman without rank, let
her be ever so clever, ever so beautiful. A Duke of Omnium may not do
as he pleases, as may another man."

"It may be well, Lady Glencora, for other dukes, and for the
daughters and heirs and cousins of other dukes, that his Grace should
try that question. I will, if you wish it, argue this matter with you
on many points, but I will not allow you to say that I should degrade
any man whom I might marry. My name is as unstained as your own."

"I meant nothing of that," said Lady Glencora.

"For him;--I certainly would not willingly injure him. Who wishes
to injure a friend? And, in truth, I have so little to gain, that
the temptation to do him an injury, if I thought it one, is not
strong. For your little boy, Lady Glencora, I think your fears are
premature." As she said this, there came a smile over her face, which
threatened to break from control and almost become laughter. "But, if
you will allow me to say so, my mind will not be turned against this
marriage half so strongly by any arguments you can use as by those
which I can adduce myself. You have nearly driven me into it by
telling me I should degrade his house. It is almost incumbent on me
to prove that you are wrong. But you had better leave me to settle
the matter in my own bosom. You had indeed."

After a while Lady Glencora did leave her,--to settle the matter
within her own bosom,--having no other alternative.




CHAPTER LXII

The Letter That Was Sent to Brighton


Monday morning came and Madame Goesler had as yet written no answer
to the Duke of Omnium. Had not Lady Glencora gone to Park Lane on
the Sunday afternoon, I think the letter would have been written on
that day; but, whatever may have been the effect of Lady Glencora's
visit, it so far disturbed Madame Goesler as to keep her from her
writing-table. There was yet another night for thought, and then the
letter should be written on the Monday morning.

When Lady Glencora left Madame Goesler she went at once to the Duke's
house. It was her custom to see her husband's uncle on a Sunday, and
she would most frequently find him just at this hour,--before he went
up-stairs to dress for dinner. She usually took her boy with her, but
on this occasion she went alone. She had tried what she could do with
Madame Goesler, and she found that she had failed. She must now make
her attempt upon the Duke. But the Duke, perhaps anticipating some
attack of the kind, had fled. "Where is his Grace, Barker?" said Lady
Glencora to the porter. "We do not know, your ladyship. His Grace
went away yesterday evening with nobody but Lapoule." Lapoule was
the Duke's French valet. Lady Glencora could only return home and
consider in her own mind what batteries might yet be brought to
bear upon the Duke, towards stopping the marriage, even after the
engagement should have been made,--if it were to be made. Lady
Glencora felt that such batteries might still be brought up as would
not improbably have an effect on a proud, weak old man. If all other
resources failed, royalty in some of its branches might be induced
to make a request, and every august relation in the peerage should
interfere. The Duke no doubt might persevere and marry whom he
pleased,--if he were strong enough. But it requires much personal
strength,--that standing alone against the well-armed batteries of
all one's friends. Lady Glencora had once tried such a battle on
her own behalf, and had failed. She had wished to be imprudent when
she was young; but her friends had been too strong for her. She had
been reduced, and kept in order, and made to run in a groove,--and
was now, when she sat looking at her little boy with his bold face,
almost inclined to think that the world was right, and that grooves
were best. But if she had been controlled when she was young, so
ought the Duke to be controlled now that he was old. It is all very
well for a man or woman to boast that he,--or she,--may do what he
likes with his own,--or with her own. But there are circumstances in
which such self-action is ruinous to so many that coercion from the
outside becomes absolutely needed. Nobody had felt the injustice of
such coercion when applied to herself more sharply than had Lady
Glencora. But she had lived to acknowledge that such coercion might
be proper, and was now prepared to use it in any shape in which it
might be made available. It was all very well for Madame Goesler
to laugh and exclaim, "Psha!" when Lady Glencora declared her real
trouble. But should it ever come to pass that a black-browed baby
with a yellow skin should be shown to the world as Lord Silverbridge,
Lady Glencora knew that her peace of mind would be gone for ever. She
had begun the world desiring one thing, and had missed it. She had
suffered much, and had then reconciled herself to other hopes. If
those other hopes were also to be cut away from her, the world would
not be worth a pinch of snuff to her. The Duke had fled, and she
could do nothing to-day; but to-morrow she would begin with her
batteries. And she herself had done the mischief! She had invited
this woman down to Matching! Heaven and earth!--that such a man as
the Duke should be such a fool!--The widow of a Jew banker! He, the
Duke of Omnium,--and thus to cut away from himself, for the rest of
his life, all honour, all peace of mind, all the grace of a noble
end to a career which, if not very noble in itself, had received
the praise of nobility! And to do this for a thin, black-browed,
yellow-visaged woman with ringlets and devil's eyes, and a beard on
her upper lip,--a Jewess,--a creature of whose habits of life and
manners of thought they all were absolutely ignorant; who drank,
possibly; who might have been a forger, for what any one knew;
an adventuress who had found her way into society by her art and
perseverance,--and who did not even pretend to have a relation in
the world! That such a one should have influence enough to intrude
herself into the house of Omnium, and blot the scutcheon, and,--
what was worst of all,--perhaps be the mother of future dukes! Lady
Glencora, in her anger, was very unjust to Madame Goesler, thinking
all evil of her, accusing her in her mind of every crime, denying
her all charm, all beauty. Had the Duke forgotten himself and his
position for the sake of some fair girl with a pink complexion and
grey eyes, and smooth hair, and a father, Lady Glencora thought that
she would have forgiven it better. It might be that Madame Goesler
would win her way to the coronet; but when she came to put it on, she
should find that there were sharp thorns inside the lining of it. Not
a woman worth the knowing in all London should speak to her;--nor a
man either of those men with whom a Duchess of Omnium would wish to
hold converse. She should find her husband rated as a doting fool,
and herself rated as a scheming female adventuress. And it should go
hard with Lady Glencora, if the Duke were not separated from his new
Duchess before the end of the first year! In her anger Lady Glencora
was very unjust.

The Duke, when he left his house without telling his household
whither he was going, did send his address to,--the top brick of the
chimney. His note, which was delivered at Madame Goesler's house late
on the Sunday evening, was as follows:--"I am to have your answer on
Monday. I shall be at Brighton. Send it by a private messenger to the
Bedford Hotel there. I need not tell you with what expectation, with
what hope, with what fear I shall await it.--O." Poor old man! He had
run through all the pleasures of life too quickly, and had not much
left with which to amuse himself. At length he had set his eyes on a
top brick, and being tired of everything else, wanted it very sorely.
Poor old man! How should it do him any good, even if he got it?
Madame Goesler, when she received the note, sat with it in her
hand, thinking of his great want. "And he would be tired of his new
plaything after a month," she said to herself. But she had given
herself to the next morning, and she would not make up her mind that
night. She would sleep once more with the coronet of a duchess within
her reach. She did do so; and woke in the morning with her mind
absolutely in doubt. When she walked down to breakfast, all doubt was
at an end. The time had come when it was necessary that she should
resolve, and while her maid was brushing her hair for her she did
make her resolution.

"What a thing it is to be a great lady," said the maid, who may
probably have reflected that the Duke of Omnium did not come here so
often for nothing.

"What do you mean by that, Lotta?"

"The women I know, madame, talk so much of their countesses, and
ladyships, and duchesses. I would never rest till I had a title in
this country, if I were a lady,--and rich and beautiful."

"And can the countesses, and the ladyships, and the duchesses do as
they please?"

"Ah, madame;--I know not that."

"But I know. That will do, Lotta. Now leave me." Then Madame Goesler
had made up her mind; but I do not know whether that doubt as to
having her own way had much to do with it. As the wife of an old man
she would probably have had much of her own way. Immediately after
breakfast she wrote her answer to the Duke, which was as follows:--


   Park Lane, Monday.

   MY DEAR DUKE OF OMNIUM,

   I find so great a difficulty in expressing myself to your
   Grace in a written letter, that since you left me I have
   never ceased to wish that I had been less nervous, less
   doubting, and less foolish when you were present with me
   here in my room. I might then have said in one word what
   will take so many awkward words to explain.

   Great as is the honour you propose to confer on me, rich
   as is the gift you offer me, I cannot accept it. I cannot
   be your Grace's wife. I may almost say that I knew it
   was so when you parted from me; but the surprise of the
   situation took away from me a part of my judgment, and
   made me unable to answer you as I should have done. My
   lord, the truth is, that I am not fit to be the wife of
   the Duke of Omnium. I should injure you; and though I
   should raise myself in name, I should injure myself in
   character. But you must not think, because I say this,
   that there is any reason why I should not be an honest
   man's wife. There is none. I have nothing on my conscience
   which I could not tell you,--or to another man; nothing
   that I need fear to tell to all the world. Indeed, my
   lord, there is nothing to tell but this,--that I am not
   fitted by birth and position to be the wife of the Duke of
   Omnium. You would have to blush for me, and that no man
   shall ever have to do on my account.

   I will own that I have been ambitious, too ambitious, and
   have been pleased to think that one so exalted as you are,
   one whose high position is so rife in the eyes of all men,
   should have taken pleasure in my company. I will confess
   to a foolish woman's silly vanity in having wished to be
   known to be the friend of the Duke of Omnium. I am like
   the other moths that flutter near the light and have their
   wings burned. But I am wiser than they in this, that
   having been scorched, I know that I must keep my distance.
   You will easily believe that a woman, such as I am, does
   not refuse to ride in a carriage with your Grace's arms on
   the panels without a regret. I am no philosopher. I do not
   pretend to despise the rich things of the world, or the
   high things. According to my way of thinking a woman ought
   to wish to be Duchess of Omnium;--but she ought to wish
   also to be able to carry her coronet with a proper grace.
   As Madame Goesler I can live, even among my superiors, at
   my ease. As your Grace's wife, I should be easy no longer;
   --nor would your Grace.

   You will think perhaps that what I write is heartless,
   that I speak altogether of your rank, and not at all of
   the affection you have shown me, or of that which I might
   possibly bear towards you. I think that when the first
   flush of passion is over in early youth men and women
   should strive to regulate their love, as they do their
   other desires, by their reason. I could love your Grace,
   fondly, as your wife, if I thought it well for your Grace
   or for myself that we should be man and wife. As I think
   it would be ill for both of us, I will restrain that
   feeling, and remember your Grace ever with the purest
   feeling of true friendship.

   Before I close this letter, I must utter a word of
   gratitude. In the kind of life which I have led as a
   widow, a life which has been very isolated as regards
   true fellowship, it has been my greatest effort to obtain
   the good opinion of those among whom I have attempted to
   make my way. I may, perhaps, own to you now that I have
   had many difficulties. A woman who is alone in the world
   is ever regarded with suspicion. In this country a woman
   with a foreign name, with means derived from foreign
   sources, with a foreign history, is specially suspected.
   I have striven to live that down, and I have succeeded.
   But in my wildest dreams I never dreamed of such success
   as this,--that the Duke of Omnium should think me the
   worthiest of the worthy. You may be sure that I am not
   ungrateful,--that I never will be ungrateful. And I trust
   it will not derogate from your opinion of my worth, that
   I have known what was due to your Grace's highness.

   I have the honour to be,
   My Lord Duke,
   Your most obliged and faithful servant,

   MARIE MAX GOESLER.


"How many unmarried women in England are there would do the same?"
she said to herself, as she folded the paper, and put it into an
envelope, and sealed the cover. The moment that the letter was
completed she sent it off, as she was directed to send it, so
that there might be no possibility of repentance and subsequent
hesitation. She had at last made up her mind, and she would stand
by the making. She knew that there would come moments in which she
would deeply regret the opportunity that she had lost,--the chance
of greatness that she had flung away from her. But so would she
have often regretted it, also, had she accepted the greatness. Her
position was one in which there must be regret, let her decision have
been what it might. But she had decided, and the thing was done. She
would still be free,--Marie Max Goesler,--unless in abandoning her
freedom she would obtain something that she might in truth prefer to
it. When the letter was gone she sat disconsolate, at the window of
an up-stairs room in which she had written, thinking much of the
coronet, much of the name, much of the rank, much of that position
in society which she had flattered herself she might have won for
herself as Duchess of Omnium by her beauty, her grace, and her wit.
It had not been simply her ambition to be a duchess, without further
aim or object. She had fancied that she might have been such a
duchess as there is never another, so that her fame might have been
great throughout Europe, as a woman charming at all points. And she
would have had friends, then,--real friends, and would not have lived
alone as it was now her fate to do. And she would have loved her
ducal husband, old though he was, and stiff with pomp and ceremony.
She would have loved him, and done her best to add something of
brightness to his life. It was indeed true that there was one whom
she loved better; but of what avail was it to love a man who, when he
came to her, would speak to her of nothing but of the charms which he
found in another woman!

She had been sitting thus at her window, with a book in her hand, at
which she never looked, gazing over the park which was now beautiful
with its May verdure, when on a sudden a thought struck her. Lady
Glencora Palliser had come to her, trying to enlist her sympathy for
the little heir, behaving, indeed, not very well, as Madame Goesler
had thought, but still with an earnest purpose which was in itself
good. She would write to Lady Glencora and put her out of her misery.
Perhaps there was some feeling of triumph in her mind as she returned
to the desk from which her epistle had been sent to the Duke;--not of
that triumph which would have found its gratification in boasting of
the offer that had been made to her, but arising from a feeling that
she could now show the proud mother of the bold-faced boy that though
she would not pledge herself to any woman as to what she might do or
not do, she was nevertheless capable of resisting such a temptation
as would have been irresistible to many. Of the Duke's offer to her
she would have spoken to no human being, had not this woman shown
that the Duke's purpose was known at least to her, and now, in her
letter, she would write no plain word of that offer. She would not
state, in words intelligible to any one who might read, that the Duke
had offered her his hand and his coronet. But she would write so that
Lady Glencora should understand her. And she would be careful that
there should be no word in the letter to make Lady Glencora think
that she supposed herself to be unfit for the rank offered to her.
She had been very humble in what she had written to the Duke, but
she would not be at all humble in what she was about to write to the
mother of the bold-faced boy. And this was the letter when it was
written:--


   MY DEAR LADY GLENCORA,

   I venture to send you a line to put you out of your
   misery;--for you were very miserable when you were so good
   as to come here yesterday. Your dear little boy is safe
   from me;--and, what is more to the purpose, so are you and
   your husband,--and your uncle, whom, in truth, I love. You
   asked me a downright question which I did not then choose
   to answer by a downright answer. The downright answer was
   not at that time due to you. It has since been given, and
   as I like you too well to wish you to be in torment, I
   send you a line to say that I shall never be in the way of
   you or your boy.

   And now, dear Lady Glencora, one word more. Should it
   ever again appear to you to be necessary to use your zeal
   for the protection of your husband or your child, do not
   endeavour to dissuade a woman by trying to make her think
   that she, by her alliance, would bring degradation into
   any house, or to any man. If there could have been an
   argument powerful with me, to make me do that which you
   wished to prevent, it was the argument which you used. But
   my own comfort, and the happiness of another person whom
   I value almost as much as myself, were too important to
   be sacrificed even to a woman's revenge. I take mine by
   writing to you and telling you that I am better and more
   rational and wiser than you took me to be.

   If, after this, you choose to be on good terms with me, I
   shall be happy to be your friend. I shall want no further
   revenge. You owe me some little apology; but whether you
   make it or not, I will be contented, and will never do
   more than ask whether your darling's prospects are still
   safe. There are more women than one in the world, you
   know, and you must not consider yourself to be out of the
   wood because you have escaped from a single danger. If
   there arise another, come to me, and we will consult
   together.

   Dear Lady Glencora, yours always sincerely,

   MARIE M. G.


There was a thing or two besides which she longed to say, laughing
as she thought of them. But she refrained, and her letter, when
finished, was as it is given above.

On the day following, Lady Glencora was again in Park Lane. When she
first read Madame Goesler's letter, she felt herself to be annoyed
and angry, but her anger was with herself rather than with her
correspondent. Ever since her last interview with the woman whom she
had feared, she had been conscious of having been indiscreet. All her
feelings had been too violent, and it might well have been that she
should have driven this woman to do the very thing that she was so
anxious to avoid. "You owe me some little apology," Madame Goesler
had said. It was true,--and she would apologise. Undue pride was not
a part of Lady Glencora's character. Indeed, there was not enough
of pride in her composition. She had been quite ready to hate this
woman, and to fight her on every point as long as the danger existed;
but she was equally willing to take the woman to her heart now that
the danger was over. Apologise! Of course she would apologise. And
she would make a friend of the woman if the woman wished it. But she
would not have the woman and the Duke at Matching together again,
lest, after all, there might be a mistake. She did not show Madame
Goesler's letter to her husband, or tell him anything of the relief
she had received. He had cared but little for the danger, thinking
more of his budget than of the danger; and would be sufficiently at
his ease if he heard no more rumours of his uncle's marriage. Lady
Glencora went to Park Lane early on the Tuesday morning, but she did
not take her boy with her. She understood that Madame Goesler might
perhaps indulge in a little gentle raillery at the child's expense,
and the mother felt that this might be borne the more easily if the
child were not present.

"I have come to thank you for your letter, Madame Goesler," said Lady
Glencora, before she sat down.

"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our
bridal?" said Madame Goesler, standing up from her chair and
laughing, as she sang the lines.

"Certainly not to dance at your bridal," said Lady Glencora.

"Alas! no. You have forbidden the banns too effectually for that, and
I sit here wearing the willow all alone. Why shouldn't I be allowed
to get married as well as another woman, I wonder? I think you have
been very hard upon me among you. But sit down, Lady Glencora. At any
rate you come in peace."

"Certainly in peace, and with much admiration,--and a great deal of
love and affection, and all that kind of thing, if you will only
accept it."

"I shall be too proud, Lady Glencora;--for the Duke's sake, if for no
other reason."

"And I have to make my apology."

"It was made as soon as your carriage stopped at my door with
friendly wheels. Of course I understand. I can know how terrible it
all was to you,--even though the dear little Plantagenet might not
have been in much danger. Fancy what it would be to disturb the
career of a Plantagenet! I am far too well read in history, I can
assure you."

"I said a word for which I am sorry, and which I should not have
said."

"Never mind the word. After all, it was a true word. I do not
hesitate to say so now myself, though I will allow no other woman
to say it,--and no man either. I should have degraded him,--and
disgraced him." Madame Goesler now had dropped the bantering tone
which she had assumed, and was speaking in sober earnest. "I, for
myself, have nothing about me of which I am ashamed. I have no
history to hide, no story to be brought to light to my discredit.
But I have not been so born, or so placed by circumstances, as make
me fit to be the wife of the Duke of Omnium. I should not have been
happy, you know."

"You want nothing, dear Madame Goesler. You have all that society can
give you."

"I do not know about that. I have much given to me by society, but
there are many things that I want;--a bright-faced little boy, for
instance, to go about with me in my carriage. Why did you not bring
him, Lady Glencora?"

"I came out in my penitential sheet, and when one goes in that guise,
one goes alone. I had half a mind to walk."

"You will bring him soon?"

"Oh, yes. He was very anxious to know the other day who was the
beautiful lady with the black hair."

"You did not tell him that the beautiful lady with the black hair was
a possible aunt, was a possible--? But we will not think any more of
things so horrible."

"I told him nothing of my fears, you may be sure."

"Some day, when I am a very old woman, and when his father is quite
an old duke, and when he has a dozen little boys and girls of his
own, you will tell him the story. Then he will reflect what a madman
his great-uncle must have been, to have thought of making a duchess
out of such a wizened old woman as that."

They parted the best of friends, but Lady Glencora was still of
opinion that if the lady and the Duke were to be brought together at
Matching, or elsewhere, there might still be danger.




CHAPTER LXIII

Showing How the Duke Stood His Ground


Mr. Low the barrister, who had given so many lectures to our friend
Phineas Finn, lectures that ought to have been useful, was now
himself in the House of Commons, having reached it in the legitimate
course of his profession. At a certain point of his career, supposing
his career to have been sufficiently prosperous, it becomes natural
to a barrister to stand for some constituency, and natural for him
also to form his politics at that period of his life with a view to
his further advancement, looking, as he does so, carefully at the age
and standing of the various candidates for high legal office. When a
man has worked as Mr. Low had worked, he begins to regard the bench
wistfully, and to calculate the profits of a two years' run in the
Attorney-Generalship. It is the way of the profession, and thus a
proper and sufficient number of real barristers finds its way into
the House. Mr. Low had been angry with Phineas because he, being a
barrister, had climbed into it after another fashion, having taken
up politics, not in the proper way as an assistance to his great
profession, but as a profession in itself. Mr. Low had been quite
sure that his pupil had been wrong in this, and that the error would
at last show itself, to his pupil's cost. And Mrs. Low had been more
sure than Mr. Low, having not unnaturally been jealous that a young
whipper-snapper of a pupil,--as she had once called Phineas,--should
become a Parliament man before her husband, who had worked his way
up gallantly, in the usual course. She would not give way a jot even
now,--not even when she heard that Phineas was going to marry this
and that heiress. For at this period of his life such rumours were
afloat about him, originating probably in his hopes as to Violet
Effingham and his intimacy with Madame Goesler. "Oh, heiresses!"
said Mrs. Low. "I don't believe in heiresses' money till I see it.
Three or four hundred a year is a great fortune for a woman, but it
don't go far in keeping a house in London. And when a woman has got
a little money she generally knows how to spend it. He has begun at
the wrong end, and they who do that never get themselves right at
the last."

At this time Phineas had become somewhat of a fine gentleman, which
made Mrs. Low the more angry with him. He showed himself willing
enough to go to Mrs. Low's house, but when there he seemed to her
to give himself airs. I think that she was unjust to him, and that
it was natural that he should not bear himself beneath her remarks
exactly as he had done when he was nobody. He had certainly been very
successful. He was always listened to in the House, and rarely spoke
except on subjects which belonged to him, or had been allotted to him
as part of his business. He lived quite at his ease with people of
the highest rank,--and those of his own mode of life who disliked him
did so simply because they regarded with envy his too rapid rise. He
rode upon a pretty horse in the park, and was careful in his dress,
and had about him an air of comfortable wealth which Mrs. Low thought
he had not earned. When her husband told her of his sufficient
salary, she would shake her head and express her opinion that a good
time was coming. By which she perhaps meant to imply a belief that
a time was coming in which her husband would have a salary much
better than that now enjoyed by Phineas, and much more likely to be
permanent. The Radicals were not to have office for ever, and when
they were gone, what then? "I don't suppose he saves a shilling,"
said Mrs. Low. "How can he, keeping a horse in the park, and hunting
down in the country, and living with lords? I shouldn't wonder if he
isn't found to be over head and ears in debt when things come to be
looked into." Mrs. Low was fond of an assured prosperity, of money in
the funds, and was proud to think that her husband lived in a house
of his own. "£19 10s. ground-rent to the Portman estate is what we
pay, Mr. Bunce," she once said to that gallant Radical, "and that
comes of beginning at the right end. Mr. Low had nothing when he
began the world, and I had just what made us decent the day we
married. But he began at the right end, and let things go as they may
he can't get a fall." Mr. Bunce and Mrs. Low, though they differed
much in politics, sympathised in reference to Phineas.

"I never believes, ma'am, in nobody doing any good by getting a
place," said Mr. Bunce. "Of course I don't mean judges and them like,
which must be. But when a young man has ever so much a year for
sitting in a big room down at Whitehall, and reading a newspaper
with his feet up on a chair, I don't think it honest, whether he's
a Parliament man or whether he ain't." Whence Mr. Bunce had got his
notions as to the way in which officials at Whitehall pass their
time, I cannot say; but his notions are very common notions. The
British world at large is slow to believe that the great British
housekeeper keeps no more cats than what kill mice.

Mr. Low, who was now frequently in the habit of seeing Phineas at
the House, had somewhat changed his opinions, and was not so eager
in condemning Phineas as was his wife. He had begun to think that
perhaps Phineas had shown some knowledge of his own aptitudes in the
career which he had sought, and was aware, at any rate, that his late
pupil was somebody in the House of Commons. A man will almost always
respect him whom those around him respect, and will generally look up
to one who is evidently above himself in his own daily avocation. Now
Phineas was certainly above Mr. Low in parliamentary reputation. He
sat on a front bench. He knew the leaders of parties. He was at home
amidst the forms of the House. He enjoyed something of the prestige
of Government power. And he walked about familiarly with the sons of
dukes and the brothers of earls in a manner which had its effect even
on Mr. Low. Seeing these things Mr. Low could not maintain his old
opinion as stoutly as did his wife. It was almost a privilege to Mr.
Low to be intimate with Phineas Finn. How then could he look down
upon him?

He was surprised, therefore, one day when Phineas discussed the
matter with him fully. Phineas had asked him what would be his chance
of success if even now he were to give up politics and take to the
Bar as the means of earning his livelihood. "You would have uphill
work at first, as a matter of course," said Mr. Low.

"But it might be done, I suppose. To have been in office would not be
fatal to me?"

"No, not fatal, Nothing of the kind need be fatal. Men have
succeeded, and have sat on the bench afterwards, who did not begin
till they were past forty. You would have to live down a prejudice
created against yourself; that is all. The attorneys do not like
barristers who are anything else but barristers."

"The attorneys are very arbitrary, I know," said Phineas.

"Yes;--and there would be this against you--that it is so difficult
for a man to go back to the verdure and malleability of pupildom,
who has once escaped from the necessary humility of its conditions.
You will find it difficult to sit and wait for business in a
Vice-Chancellor's Court, after having had Vice-Chancellors, or men
as big as Vice-Chancellors, to wait upon you."

"I do not think much of that."

"But others would think of it, and you would find that there were
difficulties. But you are not thinking of it in earnest?"

"Yes, in earnest."

"Why so? I should have thought that every day had removed you
further and further from any such idea."

"The ground I'm on at present is so slippery."

"Well, yes. I can understand that. But yet it is less slippery than
it used to be."

"Ah;--you do not exactly see. What if I were to lose my seat?"

"You are safe at least for the next four years, I should say."

"Ah;--no one can tell. And suppose I took it into my head to differ
from the Government?"

"You must not do that. You have put yourself into a boat with these
men, and you must remain in the boat. I should have thought all that
was easy to you."

"It is not so easy as it seems. The very necessity of sitting still
in the boat is in itself irksome,--very irksome. And then there comes
some crisis in which a man cannot sit still."

"Is there any such crisis at hand now?"

"I cannot say that;--but I am beginning to find that sitting still is
very disagreeable to me. When I hear those fellows below having their
own way, and saying just what they like, it makes me furious. There
is Robson. He tried office for a couple of years, and has broken
away; and now, by George, there is no man they think so much of as
they do of Robson. He is twice the man he was when he sat on the
Treasury Bench."

"He is a man of fortune;--is he not?"

"I suppose so. Of course he is, because he lives. He never earns
anything. His wife had money."

"My dear Finn, that makes all the difference. When a man has means
of his own he can please himself. Do you marry a wife with money,
and then you may kick up your heels, and do as you like about the
Colonial Office. When a man hasn't money, of course he must fit
himself to the circumstances of a profession."

"Though his profession may require him to be dishonest."

"I did not say that."

"But I say it, my dear Low. A man who is ready to vote black white
because somebody tells him, is dishonest. Never mind, old fellow. I
shall pull through, I daresay. Don't go and tell your wife all this,
or she'll be harder upon me than ever when she sees me." After that
Mr. Low began to think that his wife's judgment in this matter had
been better than his own.

Robson could do as he liked because he had married a woman with
money. Phineas told himself that that game was also open to him. He,
too, might marry money. Violet Effingham had money;--quite enough to
make him independent were he married to her. And Madame Goesler had
money;--plenty of money. And an idea had begun to creep upon him that
Madame Goesler would take him were he to offer himself. But he would
sooner go back to the Bar as the lowest pupil, sooner clean boots for
barristers,--so he told himself,--than marry a woman simply because
she had money, than marry any other woman as long as there was a
chance that Violet might be won. But it was very desirable that he
should know whether Violet might be won or not. It was now July, and
everybody would be gone in another month. Before August would be over
he was to start for Ireland with Mr. Monk, and he knew that words
would be spoken in Ireland which might make it indispensable for
him to be, at any rate, able to throw up his office. In these days
he became more anxious than he used to be about Miss Effingham's
fortune.

He had never spoken as yet to Lord Brentford since the day on which
the Earl had quarrelled with him, nor had he ever been at the house
in Portman Square. Lady Laura he met occasionally, and had always
spoken to her. She was gracious to him, but there had been no renewal
of their intimacy. Rumours had reached him that things were going
badly with her and her husband; but when men repeated such rumours
in his presence, he said little or nothing on the subject. It was
not for him, at any rate, to speak of Lady Laura's unhappiness. Lord
Chiltern he had seen once or twice during the last month, and they
had met cordially as friends. Of course he could ask no question
from Lord Chiltern as to Violet; but he did learn that his friend
had again patched up some reconciliation with his father. "He has
quarrelled with me, you know," said Phineas.

"I am very sorry, but what could I do? As things went, I was obliged
to tell him."

"Do not suppose for a moment that I am blaming you. It is, no doubt,
much better that he should know it all."

"And it cannot make much difference to you, I should say."

"One doesn't like to quarrel with those who have been kind to one,"
said Phineas.

"But it isn't your doing. He'll come right again after a time. When
I can get my own affairs settled, you may be sure I'll do my best to
bring him round. But what's the reason you never see Laura now?"

"What's the reason that everything goes awry?" said Phineas,
bitterly.

"When I mentioned your name to Kennedy the other day, he looked as
black as thunder. But it is not odd that any one should quarrel with
him. I can't stand him. Do you know, I sometimes think that Laura
will have to give it up. Then there will be another mess in the
family!"

This was all very well as coming from Lord Chiltern; but there was no
word about Violet, and Phineas did not know how to get a word from
any one. Lady Laura could have told him everything, but he could not
go to Lady Laura. He did go to Lady Baldock's house as often as he
thought he could with propriety, and occasionally he saw Violet. But
he could do no more than see her, and the days and weeks were passing
by, and the time was coming in which he would have to go away, and be
with her no more. The end of the season, which was always to other
men,--to other working men such as our hero,--a period of pleasurable
anticipation, to him was a time of sadness, in which he felt that
he was not exactly like to, or even equal to, the men with whom he
lived in London. In the old days, in which he was allowed to go to
Loughlinter or to Saulsby, when all men and women were going to their
Loughlinters and their Saulsbys, it was very well with him; but there
was something melancholy to him in his yearly journey to Ireland. He
loved his father and mother and sisters as well as do other men; but
there was a falling off in the manner of his life which made him feel
that he had been in some sort out of his own element in London. He
would have liked to have shot grouse at Loughlinter, or pheasants at
Saulsby, or to have hunted down at Willingford,--or better still, to
have made love to Violet Effingham wherever Violet Effingham might
have placed herself. But all this was closed to him now; and there
would be nothing for him but to remain at Killaloe, or to return
to his work in Downing Street, from August to February. Mr. Monk,
indeed, was going with him for a few weeks; but even this association
did not make up for that sort of society which he would have
preferred.

The session went on very quietly. The question of the Irish Reform
Bill was postponed till the next year, which was a great thing
gained. He carried his bill about the Canada Railway, with sundry
other small bills appertaining to it, through the House in a manner
which redounded infinitely to his credit. There was just enough
of opposition to give a zest to the work, and to make the affair
conspicuous among the affairs of the year. As his chief was in the
other house, the work fell altogether into his hands, so that he came
to be conspicuous among Under-Secretaries. It was only when he said
a word to any leaders of his party about other matters,--about Irish
Tenant-right, for instance, which was beginning to loom very large,
that he found himself to be snubbed. But there was no room for action
this year in reference to Irish Tenant-right, and therefore any deep
consideration of that discomfort might be legitimately postponed. If
he did by chance open his mouth on the subject to Mr. Monk, even Mr.
Monk discouraged him.

In the early days of July, when the weather was very hot, and people
were beginning to complain of the Thames, and members were becoming
thirsty after grouse, and the remaining days of parliamentary work
were being counted up, there came to him news,--news that was soon
known throughout the fashionable world,--that the Duke of Omnium was
going to give a garden party at a certain villa residence on the
banks of the Thames above Richmond. It was to be such a garden party
as had never been seen before. And it would be the more remarkable
because the Duke had never been known to do such a thing. The villa
was called The Horns, and had, indeed, been given by the Duke to
Lady Glencora on her marriage; but the party was to be the Duke's
party, and The Horns, with all its gardens, conservatories, lawns,
shrubberies, paddocks, boat-houses, and boats, was to be made bright
and beautiful for the occasion. Scores of workmen were about the
place through the three first weeks of July. The world at large did
not at all know why the Duke was doing so unwonted a thing,--why
he should undertake so new a trouble. But Lady Glencora knew, and
Madame Goesler shrewdly guessed, the riddle. When Madame Goesler's
unexpected refusal had reached his Grace, he felt that he must either
accept the lady's refusal, or persevere. After a day's consideration,
he resolved that he would accept it. The top brick of the chimney was
very desirable; but perhaps it might be well that he should endeavour
to live without it. Then, accepting this refusal, he must either
stand his ground and bear the blow,--or he must run away to that
villa at Como, or elsewhere. The running away seemed to him at first
to be the better, or at least the more pleasant, course; but at last
he determined that he would stand his ground and bear the blow.
Therefore he gave his garden party at The Horns.

Who was to be invited? Before the first week in July was over, many
a bosom in London was fluttering with anxiety on that subject. The
Duke, in giving his short word of instruction to Lady Glencora,
made her understand that he would wish her to be particular in her
invitations. Her Royal Highness the Princess, and his Royal Highness
the Prince, had both been so gracious as to say that they would
honour his fête. The Duke himself had made out a short list, with not
more than a dozen names. Lady Glencora was employed to select the
real crowd,--the five hundred out of the ten thousand who were to
be blessed. On the Duke's own private list was the name of Madame
Goesler. Lady Glencora understood it all. When Madame Goesler got her
card, she thought that she understood it too. And she thought also
that the Duke was behaving in a gallant way.

There was, no doubt, much difficulty about the invitations, and a
considerable amount of ill-will was created. And they who considered
themselves entitled to be asked, and were not asked, were full of
wrath against their more fortunate friends, instead of being angry
with the Duke or with Lady Glencora, who had neglected them. It was
soon known that Lady Glencora was the real dispenser of the favours,
and I fancy that her ladyship was tired of her task before it was
completed. The party was to take place on Wednesday, the 27th of
July, and before the day had come, men and women had become so hardy
in the combat that personal applications were made with unflinching
importunity; and letters were written to Lady Glencora putting
forward this claim and that claim with a piteous clamour. "No, that
is too bad," Lady Glencora said to her particular friend, Mrs. Grey,
when a letter came from Mrs. Bonteen, stating all that her husband
had ever done towards supporting Mr. Palliser in Parliament,--and all
that he ever would do. "She shan't have it, even though she could put
Plantagenet into a minority to-morrow."

Mrs. Bonteen did not get a card; and when she heard that Phineas Finn
had received one, her wrath against Phineas was very great. He was
"an Irish adventurer," and she regretted deeply that Mr. Bonteen had
ever interested himself in bringing such an upstart forward in the
world of politics. But as Mr. Bonteen never had done anything towards
bringing Phineas forward, there was not much cause for regret on this
head. Phineas, however, got his card, and, of course, accepted the
invitation.

The grounds were opened at four. There was to be an early dinner out
in tents at five; and after dinner men and women were to walk about,
or dance, or make love--or hay, as suited them. The haycocks,
however, were ready prepared, while it was expected that they should
bring the love with them. Phineas, knowing that he should meet Violet
Effingham, took a great deal with him ready made.

For an hour and a half Lady Glencora kept her position in a saloon
through which the guests passed to the grounds, and to every comer
she imparted the information that the Duke was on the lawn;--to every
comer but one. To Madame Goesler she said no such word. "So glad to
see you, my dear," she said, as she pressed her friend's hand: "if I
am not killed by this work, I'll make you out again by-and-by." Then
Madame Goesler passed on, and soon found herself amidst a throng
of acquaintance. After a few minutes she saw the Duke seated in an
arm-chair, close to the river-bank, and she bravely went up to him,
and thanked him for the invitation. "The thanks are due to you for
gracing our entertainment," said the Duke, rising to greet her. There
were a dozen people standing round, and so the thing was done without
difficulty. At that moment there came a notice that their royal
highnesses were on the ground, and the Duke, of course, went off to
meet them. There was not a word more spoken between the Duke and
Madame Goesler on that afternoon.

Phineas did not come till late,--till seven, when the banquet was
over. I think he was right in this, as the banqueting in tents loses
in comfort almost more than it gains in romance. A small picnic may
be very well, and the distance previously travelled may give to a
dinner on the ground the seeming excuse of necessity. Frail human
nature must be supported,--and human nature, having gone so far
in pursuit of the beautiful, is entitled to what best support the
unaccustomed circumstances will allow. Therefore, out with the cold
pies, out with the salads, and the chickens, and the champagne. Since
no better may be, let us recruit human nature sitting upon this moss,
and forget our discomforts in the glory of the verdure around us. And
dear Mary, seeing that the cushion from the waggonet is small, and
not wishing to accept the too generous offer that she should take it
all for her own use, will admit a contact somewhat closer than the
ordinary chairs of a dining-room render necessary. That in its way is
very well;--but I hold that a banquet on narrow tables in a tent is
displeasing.

Phineas strolled into the grounds when the tent was nearly empty, and
when Lady Glencora, almost sinking beneath her exertions, was taking
rest in an inner room. The Duke at this time was dining with their
royal highnesses, and three or four others, specially selected,
very comfortably within doors. Out of doors the world had begun to
dance,--and the world was beginning to say that it would be much
nicer to go and dance upon the boards inside as soon as possible.
For, though of all parties a garden party is the nicest, everybody
is always anxious to get out of the garden as quick as may be. A few
ardent lovers of suburban picturesque effect were sitting beneath the
haycocks, and four forlorn damsels were vainly endeavouring to excite
the sympathy of manly youth by playing croquet in a corner. I am not
sure, however, that the lovers beneath the haycocks and the players
at croquet were not actors hired by Lady Glencora for the occasion.

Phineas had not been long on the lawn before he saw Lady Laura
Kennedy. She was standing with another lady, and Barrington Erle was
with them. "So you have been successful?" said Barrington, greeting
him.

"Successful in what?"

"In what? In getting a ticket. I have had to promise three
tide-waiterships, and to give deep hints about a bishopric expected
to be vacant, before I got in. But what matters? Success pays for
everything. My only trouble now is how I'm to get back to London."

Lady Laura shook hands with Phineas, and then as he was passing on,
followed him for a step and whispered a word to him. "Mr. Finn," she
said, "if you are not going yet, come back to me presently. I have
something to say to you. I shall not be far from the river, and shall
stay here for about an hour."

Phineas said that he would, and then went on, not knowing exactly
where he was going. He had one desire,--to find Violet Effingham, but
when he should find her he could not carry her off, and sit with her
beneath a haycock.




CHAPTER LXIV

The Horns


While looking for Violet Effingham, Phineas encountered Madame
Goesler, among a crowd of people who were watching the adventurous
embarkation of certain daring spirits in a pleasure-boat. There were
watermen there in the Duke's livery, ready to take such spirits down
to Richmond or up to Teddington lock, and many daring spirits did
take such trips,--to the great peril of muslins, ribbons, and starch,
to the peril also of ornamental summer white garments, so that when
the thing was over, the boats were voted to have been a bore.

"Are you going to venture?" said Phineas to the lady.

"I should like it of all things if I were not afraid for my clothes.
Will you come?"

"I was never good upon the water. I should be sea-sick to a
certainty. They are going down beneath the bridge too, and we should
be splashed by the steamers. I don't think my courage is high
enough." Thus Phineas excused himself, being still intent on
prosecuting his search for Violet.

"Then neither will I," said Madame Goesler. "One dash from a peccant
oar would destroy the whole symmetry of my dress. Look. That green
young lady has already been sprinkled."

"But the blue young gentleman has been sprinkled also," said Phineas,
"and they will be happy in a joint baptism." Then they strolled along
the river path together, and were soon alone. "You will be leaving
town soon, Madame Goesler?"

"Almost immediately."

"And where do you go?"

"Oh,--to Vienna. I am there for a couple of months every year,
minding my business. I wonder whether you would know me, if you saw
me;--sometimes sitting on a stool in a counting-house, sometimes
going about among old houses, settling what must be done to save them
from tumbling down. I dress so differently at such times, and talk so
differently, and look so much older, that I almost fancy myself to be
another person."

"Is it a great trouble to you?"

"No,--I rather like it. It makes me feel that I do something in the
world."

"Do you go alone?"

"Quite alone. I take a German maid with me, and never speak a word to
any one else on the journey."

"That must be very bad," said Phineas.

"Yes; it is the worst of it. But then I am so much accustomed to be
alone. You see me in society, and in society only, and therefore
naturally look upon me as one of a gregarious herd; but I am in truth
an animal that feeds alone and lives alone. Take the hours of the
year all through, and I am a solitary during four-fifths of them. And
what do you intend to do?"

"I go to Ireland."

"Home to your own people. How nice! I have no people to go to. I
have one sister, who lives with her husband at Riga. She is my only
relation, and I never see her."

"But you have thousands of friends in England."

"Yes,--as you see them,"--and she turned and spread out her hands
towards the crowded lawn, which was behind them. "What are such
friends worth? What would they do for me?"

"I do not know that the Duke would do much," said Phineas laughing.

Madame Goesler laughed also. "The Duke is not so bad," she said. "The
Duke would do as much as any one else. I won't have the Duke abused."

"He may be your particular friend, for what I know," said Phineas.

"Ah;--no. I have no particular friend. And were I to wish to choose
one, I should think the Duke a little above me."

"Oh, yes;--and too stiff, and too old, and too pompous, and too cold,
and too make-believe, and too gingerbread."

"Mr. Finn!"

"The Duke is all buckram, you know."

"Then why do you come to his house?"

"To see you, Madame Goesler."

"Is that true, Mr. Finn?"

"Yes;--it is true in its way. One goes about to meet those whom one
likes, not always for the pleasure of the host's society. I hope I am
not wrong because I go to houses at which I like neither the host nor
the hostess." Phineas as he said this was thinking of Lady Baldock,
to whom of late he had been exceedingly civil,--but he certainly did
not like Lady Baldock.

"I think you have been too hard upon the Duke of Omnium. Do you know
him well?"

"Personally? certainly not. Do you? Does anybody?"

"I think he is a gracious gentleman," said Madame Goesler, "and
though I cannot boast of knowing him well, I do not like to hear him
called buckram. I do not think he is buckram. It is not very easy for
a man in his position to live so as to please all people. He has to
maintain the prestige of the highest aristocracy in Europe."

"Look at his nephew, who will be the next Duke, and who works as hard
as any man in the country. Will he not maintain it better? What good
did the present man ever do?"

"You believe only in motion, Mr. Finn;--and not at all in quiescence.
An express train at full speed is grander to you than a mountain with
heaps of snow. I own that to me there is something glorious in the
dignity of a man too high to do anything,--if only he knows how to
carry that dignity with a proper grace. I think that there should be
breasts made to carry stars."

"Stars which they have never earned," said Phineas.

"Ah;--well; we will not fight about it. Go and earn your star, and I
will say that it becomes you better than any glitter on the coat of
the Duke of Omnium." This she said with an earnestness which he could
not pretend not to notice or not to understand. "I too may be able to
see that the express train is really greater than the mountain."

"Though, for your own life, you would prefer to sit and gaze upon the
snowy peaks?"

"No;--that is not so. For myself, I would prefer to be of use
somewhere,--to some one, if it were possible. I strive sometimes."

"And I am sure successfully."

"Never mind. I hate to talk about myself. You and the Duke are
fair subjects for conversation; you as the express train, who will
probably do your sixty miles an hour in safety, but may possibly go
down a bank with a crash."

"Certainly I may," said Phineas.

"And the Duke, as the mountain, which is fixed in its stateliness,
short of the power of some earthquake, which shall be grander and
more terrible than any earthquake yet known. Here we are at the house
again. I will go in and sit down for a while."

"If I leave you, Madame Goesler, I will say good-bye till next
winter."

"I shall be in town again before Christmas, you know. You will come
and see me?"

"Of course I will."

"And then this love trouble of course will be over,--one way or the
other;--will it not?"

"Ah!--who can say?"

"Faint heart never won fair lady. But your heart is never faint.
Farewell."

Then he left her. Up to this moment he had not seen Violet, and yet
he knew that she was to be there. She had herself told him that she
was to accompany Lady Laura, whom he had already met. Lady Baldock
had not been invited, and had expressed great animosity against the
Duke in consequence. She had gone so far as to say that the Duke was
a man at whose house a young lady such as her niece ought not to be
seen. But Violet had laughed at this, and declared her intention of
accepting the invitation. "Go," she had said; "of course I shall go.
I should have broken my heart if I could not have got there." Phineas
therefore was sure that she must be in the place. He had kept his
eyes ever on the alert, and yet he had not found her. And now he must
keep his appointment with Lady Laura Kennedy. So he went down to the
path by the river, and there he found her seated close by the water's
edge. Her cousin Barrington Erle was still with her, but as soon as
Phineas joined them, Erle went away. "I had told him," said Lady
Laura, "that I wished to speak to you, and he stayed with me till you
came. There are worse men than Barrington a great deal."

"I am sure of that."

"Are you and he still friends, Mr. Finn?"

"I hope so. I do not see so much of him as I did when I had less to
do."

"He says that you have got into altogether a different set."

"I don't know that. I have gone as circumstances have directed me,
but I have certainly not intended to throw over so old and good a
friend as Barrington Erle."

"Oh,--he does not blame you. He tells me that you have found your
way among what he calls the working men of the party, and he thinks
you will do very well,--if you can only be patient enough. We all
expected a different line from you, you know,--more of words and
less of deeds, if I may say so;--more of liberal oratory and less of
government action; but I do not doubt that you are right."

"I think that I have been wrong," said Phineas. "I am becoming
heartily sick of officialities."

"That comes from the fickleness about which papa is so fond of
quoting his Latin. The ox desires the saddle. The charger wants to
plough."

"And which am I?"

"Your career may combine the dignity of the one with the utility of
the other. At any rate you must not think of changing now. Have you
seen Mr. Kennedy lately?" She asked the question abruptly, showing
that she was anxious to get to the matter respecting which she had
summoned him to her side, and that all that she had said hitherto had
been uttered as it were in preparation of that subject.

"Seen him? yes; I see him daily. But we hardly do more than speak,"

"Why not?" Phineas stood for a moment in silence, hesitating. "Why is
it that he and you do not speak?"

"How can I answer that question, Lady Laura?"

"Do you know any reason? Sit down, or, if you please, I will get up
and walk with you. He tells me that you have chosen to quarrel with
him, and that I have made you do so. He says that you have confessed
to him that I have asked you to quarrel with him."

"He can hardly have said that."

"But he has said it,--in so many words. Do you think that I would
tell you such a story falsely?"

"Is he here now?"

"No;--he is not here. He would not come. I came alone."

"Is not Miss Effingham with you?"

"No;--she is to come with my father later. She is here no doubt, now.
But answer my question, Mr. Finn;--unless you find that you cannot
answer it. What was it that you did say to my husband?"

"Nothing to justify what he has told you."

"Do you mean to say that he has spoken falsely?"

"I mean to use no harsh word,--but I think that Mr. Kennedy when
troubled in his spirit looks at things gloomily, and puts meaning
upon words which they should not bear."

"And what has troubled his spirit?"

"You must know that better than I can do, Lady Laura. I will tell you
all that I can tell you. He invited me to his house and I would not
go, because you had forbidden me. Then he asked me some questions
about you. Did I refuse because of you,--or of anything that you had
said? If I remember right, I told him that I did fancy that you would
not be glad to see me,--and that therefore I would rather stay away.
What was I to say?"

"You should have said nothing."

"Nothing with him would have been worse than what I did say. Remember
that he asked me the question point-blank, and that no reply would
have been equal to an affirmation. I should have confessed that his
suggestion was true."

"He could not then have twitted me with your words."

"If I have erred, Lady Laura, and brought any sorrow on you, I am
indeed grieved."

"It is all sorrow. There is nothing but sorrow. I have made up my
mind to leave him."

"Oh, Lady Laura!"

"It is very bad,--but not so bad, I think, as the life I am now
leading. He has accused me--, of what do you think? He says that you
are my lover!"

"He did not say that,--in those words?"

"He said it in words which made me feel that I must part from him."

"And how did you answer him?"

"I would not answer him at all. If he had come to me like a man,--not
accusing me, but asking me,--I would have told him everything. And
what was there to tell? I should have broken my faith to you, in
speaking of that scene at Loughlinter, but women always tell such
stories to their husbands when their husbands are good to them, and
true, and just. And it is well that they should be told. But to Mr.
Kennedy I can tell nothing. He does not believe my word."

"Not believe you, Lady Laura?"

"No! Because I did not blurt out to him all that story about your
foolish duel,--because I thought it best to keep my brother's secret,
as long as there was a secret to be kept, he told me that I
had,--lied to him!"

"What!--with that word?"

"Yes,--with that very word. He is not particular about his words,
when he thinks it necessary to express himself strongly. And he has
told me since that because of that he could never believe me again.
How is it possible that a woman should live with such a man?" But
why did she come to him with this story,--to him whom she had been
accused of entertaining as a lover;--to him who of all her friends
was the last whom she should have chosen as the recipient for such a
tale? Phineas as he thought how he might best answer her, with what
words he might try to comfort her, could not but ask himself this
question. "The moment that the word was out of his mouth," she went
on to say, "I resolved that I would tell you. The accusation is
against you as it is against me, and is equally false to both. I
have written to him, and there is my letter."

"But you will see him again?"

"No;--I will go to my father's house. I have already arranged it. Mr.
Kennedy has my letter by this time, and I go from hence home with my
father."

"Do you wish that I should read the letter?"

"Yes,--certainly. I wish that you should read it. Should I ever meet
him again, I shall tell him that you saw it."

They were now standing close upon the river's bank, at a corner of
the grounds, and, though the voices of people sounded near to them,
they were alone. Phineas had no alternative but to read the letter,
which was as follows:--


   After what you have said to me it is impossible that I
   should return to your house. I shall meet my father at the
   Duke of Omnium's, and have already asked him to give me an
   asylum. It is my wish to remain wherever he may be, either
   in town or in the country. Should I change my purpose in
   this, and change my residence, I will not fail to let you
   know where I go and what I propose to do. You I think must
   have forgotten that I was your wife; but I will never
   forget it.

   You have accused me of having a lover. You cannot have
   expected that I should continue to live with you after
   such an accusation. For myself I cannot understand how
   any man can have brought himself to bring such a charge
   against his wife. Even had it been true the accusation
   should not have been made by your mouth to my ears.

   That it is untrue I believe you must be as well aware as
   I am myself. How intimate I was with. Mr. Finn, and what
   were the limits of my intimacy with him you knew before
   I married you. After our marriage I encouraged his
   friendship till I found that there was something in
   it that displeased you,--and, after learning that, I
   discouraged it. You have said that he is my lover, but
   you have probably not defined for yourself that word very
   clearly. You have felt yourself slighted because his name
   has been mentioned with praise;--and your jealousy has
   been wounded because you have thought that I have regarded
   him as in some way superior to yourself. You have never
   really thought that he was my lover,--that he spoke words
   to me which others might not hear, that he claimed from
   me aught that a wife may not give, that he received aught
   which a friend should not receive. The accusation has been
   a coward's accusation.

   I shall be at my father's to-night, and to-morrow I will
   get you to let my servant bring to me such things as are
   my own,--my clothes, namely, and desk, and a few books.
   She will know what I want. I trust you may be happier
   without a wife, than ever you have been with me. I have
   felt almost daily since we were married that you were a
   man who would have been happier without a wife than with
   one.

   Yours affectionately,

   LAURA KENNEDY.


"It is at any rate true," she said, when Phineas had read the letter.

"True! Doubtless it is true," said Phineas, "except that I do not
suppose he was ever really angry with me, or jealous, or anything of
the sort,--because I got on well. It seems absurd even to think it."

"There is nothing too absurd for some men. I remember your telling
me that he was weak, and poor, and unworthy. I remember your saying
so when I first thought that he might become my husband. I wish I
had believed you when you told me so. I should not have made such a
shipwreck of myself as I have done. That is all I had to say to you.
After what has passed between us I did not choose that you should
hear how I was separated from my husband from any lips but my own.
I will go now and find papa. Do not come with me. I prefer being
alone." Then he was left standing by himself, looking down upon the
river as it glided by. How would it have been with both of them if
Lady Laura had accepted him three years ago, when she consented to
join her lot with that of Mr. Kennedy, and had rejected him? As he
stood he heard the sound of music from the house, and remembered
that he had come there with the one sole object of seeing Violet
Effingham. He had known that he would meet Lady Laura, and it had
been in his mind to break through that law of silence which she had
imposed upon him, and once more to ask her to assist him,--to implore
her for the sake of their old friendship to tell him whether there
might yet be for him any chance of success. But in the interview
which had just taken place it had been impossible for him to speak
a word of himself or of Violet. To her, in her great desolation,
he could address himself on no other subject than that of her own
misery. But not the less when she was talking to him of her own
sorrow, of her regret that she had not listened to him when in years
past he had spoken slightingly of Mr. Kennedy, was he thinking of
Violet Effingham. Mr. Kennedy had certainly mistaken the signs of
things when he had accused his wife by saying that Phineas was her
lover. Phineas had soon got over that early feeling; and as far as he
himself was concerned had never regretted Lady Laura's marriage.

He remained down by the water for a few minutes, giving Lady Laura
time to escape, and then he wandered across the grounds towards the
house. It was now about nine o'clock, and though there were still
many walking about the grounds, the crowd of people were in the
rooms. The musicians were ranged out on a verandah, so that their
music might have been available for dancing within or without; but
the dancers had found the boards pleasanter than the lawn, and the
Duke's garden party was becoming a mere ball, with privilege for the
dancers to stroll about the lawn between the dances. And in this
respect the fun was better than at a ball,--that let the engagements
made for partners be what they might, they could always be broken
with ease. No lady felt herself bound to dance with a cavalier who
was displeasing to her; and some gentlemen were left sadly in the
lurch. Phineas felt himself to be very much in the lurch, even after
he had discovered Violet Effingham standing up to dance with Lord
Fawn.

He bided his time patiently, and at last he found his opportunity.
"Would she dance with him?" She declared that she intended to dance
no more, and that she had promised to be ready to return home with
Lord Brentford before ten o'clock. "I have pledged myself not to be
after ten," she said, laughing. Then she put her hand upon his arm,
and they stepped out upon the terrace together. "Have you heard
anything?" she asked him, almost in a whisper.

"Yes," he said. "I have heard what you mean. I have heard it all."

"Is it not dreadful?"

"I fear it is the best thing she can do. She has never been happy
with him."

"But to be accused after that fashion,--by her husband!" said Violet.
"One can hardly believe it in these days. And of all women she is the
last to deserve such accusation."

"The very last," said Phineas, feeling that the subject was one upon
which it was not easy for him to speak.

"I cannot conceive to whom he can have alluded," said Violet. Then
Phineas began to understand that Violet had not heard the whole
story; but the difficulty of speaking was still very great.

"It has been the result of ungovernable temper," he said.

"But a man does not usually strive to dishonour himself because he
is in a rage. And this man is incapable of rage. He must be cursed
with one of those dark gloomy minds in which love always leads to
jealousy. She will never return to him."

"One cannot say. In many respects it would be better that she
should," said Phineas.

"She will never return to him," repeated Violet,--"never. Would you
advise her to do so?"

"How can I say? If one were called upon for advice, one would think
so much before one spoke."

"I would not,--not for a minute. What! to be accused of that! How are
a man and woman to live together after there have been such words
between them? Poor Laura! What a terrible end to all her high hopes!
Do you not grieve for her?"

They were now at some distance from the house, and Phineas could not
but feel that chance had been very good to him in giving him his
opportunity. She was leaning on his arm, and they were alone, and she
was speaking to him with all the familiarity of old friendship. "I
wonder whether I may change the subject," said he, "and ask you a
word about yourself?"

"What word?" she said sharply.

"I have heard--"

"What have you heard?"

"Simply this,--that you are not now as you were six months ago. Your
marriage was then fixed for June."

"It has been unfixed since then," she said.

"Yes;--it has been unfixed. I know it. Miss Effingham, you will not
be angry with me if I say that when I heard it was so, something of a
hope,--no, I must not call it a hope,--something that longed to form
itself into hope returned to my breast, and from that hour to this
has been the only subject on which I have cared to think."

"Lord Chiltern is your friend, Mr. Finn?"

"He is so, and I do not think that I have ever been untrue to my
friendship for him."

"He says that no man has ever had a truer friend. He will swear to
that in all companies. And I, when it was allowed to me to swear with
him, swore it too. As his friend, let me tell you one thing,--one
thing which I would never tell to any other man,--one thing which I
know I may tell you in confidence. You are a gentleman, and will not
break my confidence?"

"I think I will not."

"I know you will not, because you are a gentleman. I told Lord
Chiltern in the autumn of last year that I loved him. And I did love
him. I shall never have the same confession to make to another man.
That he and I are not now,--on those loving terms,--which once
existed, can make no difference in that. A woman cannot transfer her
heart. There have been things which have made me feel,--that I was
perhaps mistaken,--in saying that I would be,--his wife. But I said
so, and cannot now give myself to another. Here is Lord Brentford,
and we will join him." There was Lord Brentford with Lady Laura on
his arm, very gloomy,--resolving on what way he might be avenged on
the man who had insulted his daughter. He took but little notice
of Phineas as he resumed his charge of Miss Effingham; but the two
ladies wished him good night.

"Good night, Lady Laura," said Phineas, standing with his hat in his
hand,--"good night, Miss Effingham." Then he was alone,--quite alone.
Would it not be well for him to go down to the bottom of the garden,
and fling himself into the quiet river, so that there might be an
end of him? Or would it not be better still that he should create
for himself some quiet river of life, away from London, away from
politics, away from lords, and titled ladies, and fashionable
squares, and the parties given by dukes, and the disappointments
incident to a small man in attempting to make for himself a career
among big men? There had frequently been in the mind of this young
man an idea that there was something almost false in his own
position,--that his life was a pretence, and that he would ultimately
be subject to that ruin which always comes, sooner or later, on
things which are false; and now as he wandered alone about Lady
Glencora's gardens, this feeling was very strong within his bosom,
and robbed him altogether of the honour and glory of having been one
of the Duke of Omnium's guests.




CHAPTER LXV

The Cabinet Minister at Killaloe


Phineas did not throw himself into the river from the Duke's garden;
and was ready, in spite of Violet Effingham, to start for Ireland
with Mr. Monk at the end of the first week in August. The close of
that season in London certainly was not a happy period of his life.
Violet had spoken to him after such a fashion that he could not bring
himself not to believe her. She had given him no hint whether it was
likely or unlikely that she and Lord Chiltern would be reconciled;
but she had convinced him that he could not be allowed to take Lord
Chiltern's place. "A woman cannot transfer her heart," she had said.
Phineas was well aware that many women do transfer their hearts;
but he had gone to this woman too soon after the wrench which her
love had received; he had been too sudden with his proposal for a
transfer; and the punishment for such ill judgment must be that
success would now be impossible to him. And yet how could he have
waited, feeling that Miss Effingham, if she were at all like other
girls whom he had known, might have promised herself to some other
lover before she would return within his reach in the succeeding
spring? But she was not like some other girls. Ah;--he knew that now,
and repented him of his haste.

But he was ready for Mr. Monk on the 7th of August, and they started
together. Something less than twenty hours took them from London to
Killaloe, and during four or five of those twenty hours Mr. Monk
was unfitted for any conversation by the uncomfortable feelings
incidental to the passage from Holyhead to Kingstown. Nevertheless,
there was a great deal of conversation between them during the
journey. Mr. Monk had almost made up his mind to leave the Cabinet.
"It is sad to me to have to confess it," he said, "but the truth is
that my old rival, Turnbull, is right. A man who begins his political
life as I began mine, is not the man of whom a Minister should
be formed. I am inclined to think that Ministers of Government
require almost as much education in their trade as shoemakers or
tallow-chandlers. I doubt whether you can make a good public servant
of a man simply because he has got the ear of the House of Commons."

"Then you mean to say," said Phineas, "that we are altogether wrong
from beginning to end, in our way of arranging these things?"

"I do not say that at all. Look at the men who have been leading
statesmen since our present mode of government was formed,--from the
days in which it was forming itself, say from Walpole down, and you
will find that all who have been of real use had early training as
public servants."

"Are we never to get out of the old groove?"

"Not if the groove is good," said Mr. Monk, "Those who have been
efficient as ministers sucked in their efficacy with their mother's
milk. Lord Brock did so, and Lord de Terrier, and Mr. Mildmay. They
seated themselves in office chairs the moment they left college.
Mr. Gresham was in office before he was eight-and-twenty. The
Duke of St. Bungay was at work as a Private Secretary when he was
three-and-twenty. You, luckily for yourself, have done the same."

"And regret it every hour of my life."

"You have no cause for regret, but it is not so with me. If there be
any man unfitted by his previous career for office, it is he who has
become, or who has endeavoured to become, a popular politician,--an
exponent, if I may say so, of public opinion. As far as I can see,
office is offered to such men with one view only,--that of clipping
their wings."

"And of obtaining their help."

"It is the same thing. Help from Turnbull would mean the withdrawal
of all power of opposition from him. He could not give other help for
any long term, as the very fact of his accepting power and patronage
would take from him his popular leadership. The masses outside
require to have their minister as the Queen has hers; but the same
man cannot be minister to both. If the people's minister chooses to
change his master, and to take the Queen's shilling, something of
temporary relief may be gained by government in the fact that the
other place will for a time be vacant. But there are candidates
enough for such places, and the vacancy is not a vacancy long. Of
course the Crown has this pull, that it pays wages, and the people do
not."

"I do not think that that influenced you," said Phineas.

"It did not influence me. To you I will make bold to state so much
positively, though it would be foolish, perhaps, to do so to others.
I did not go for the shilling, though I am so poor a man that the
shilling is more to me than it would be to almost any man in the
House. I took the shilling, much doubting, but guided in part by
this, that I was ashamed of being afraid to take it. They told
me,--Mr. Mildmay and the Duke,--that I could earn it to the benefit
of the country. I have not earned it, and the country has not been
benefited,--unless it be for the good of the country that my voice in
the House should be silenced. If I believe that, I ought to hold my
tongue without taking a salary for holding it. I have made a mistake,
my friend. Such mistakes made at my time of life cannot be wholly
rectified; but, being convinced of my error, I must do the best in my
power to put myself right again."

There was a bitterness in all this to Phineas himself of which he
could not but make plaint to his companion. "The truth is," he said,
"that a man in office must be a slave, and that slavery is
distasteful."

"There I think you are wrong. If you mean that you cannot do joint
work with other men altogether after your own fashion the same may be
said of all work. If you had stuck to the Bar you must have pleaded
your causes in conformity with instructions from the attorneys."

"I should have been guided by my own lights in advising those
attorneys."

"I cannot see that you suffer anything that ought to go against the
grain with you. You are beginning young, and it is your first adopted
career. With me it is otherwise. If by my telling you this I shall
have led you astray, I shall regret my openness with you. Could I
begin again, I would willingly begin as you began."

It was a great day in Killaloe, that on which Mr. Monk arrived with
Phineas at the doctor's house. In London, perhaps, a bishop inspires
more awe than a Cabinet Minister. In Killaloe, where a bishop might
be seen walking about every day, the mitred dignitary of the Church,
though much loved, was thought of, I fear, but lightly; whereas a
Cabinet Minister coming to stay in the house of a townsman was a
thing to be wondered at, to be talked about, to be afraid of, to be
a fruitful source of conversation for a year to come. There were
many in Killaloe, especially among the elder ladies, who had shaken
their heads and expressed the saddest doubts when young Phineas Finn
had first become a Parliament man. And though by degrees they had
been half brought round, having been driven to acknowledge that he
had been wonderfully successful as a Parliament man, still they
had continued to shake their heads among themselves, and to fear
something in the future,--until he appeared at his old home leading a
Cabinet Minister by the hand. There was such assurance in this that
even old Mrs. Callaghan, at the brewery, gave way, and began to say
all manner of good things, and to praise the doctor's luck in that he
had a son gifted with parts so excellent. There was a great desire to
see the Cabinet Minister in the flesh, to be with him when he ate and
drank, to watch the gait and countenance of the man, and to drink
water from this fountain of state lore which had been so wonderfully
brought among them by their young townsman. Mrs. Finn was aware that
it behoved her to be chary of her invitations, but the lady from the
brewery had said such good things of Mrs. Finn's black swan, that she
carried her point, and was invited to meet the Cabinet Minister at
dinner on the day after his arrival.

Mrs. Flood Jones and her daughter were invited also to be of the
party. When Phineas had been last at Killaloe, Mrs. Flood Jones,
as the reader may remember, had remained with her daughter at
Floodborough,--feeling it to be her duty to keep her daughter away
from the danger of an unrequited attachment. But it seemed that
her purpose was changed now, or that she no longer feared the
danger,--for both Mary and her mother were now again living in
Killaloe, and Mary was at the doctor's house as much as ever.

A day or two before the coming of the god and the demigod to the
little town, Barbara Finn and her friend had thus come to understand
each other as they walked along the Shannon side. "I am sure, my
dear, that he is engaged to nobody," said Barbara Finn.

"And I am sure, my dear," said Mary, "that I do not care whether he
is or is not."

"What do you mean, Mary?"

"I mean what I say. Why should I care? Five years ago I had a foolish
dream, and now I am awake again. Think how old I have got to be!"

"Yes;--you are twenty-three. What has that to do with it?"

"It has this to do with it;--that I am old enough to know better.
Mamma and I quite understand each other. She used to be angry with
him, but she has got over all that foolishness now. It always made me
so vexed;--the idea of being angry with a man because,--because--!
You know one can't talk about it, it is so foolish. But that is all
over now."

"Do you mean to say you don't care for him, Mary? Do you remember
what you used to swear to me less than two years ago?"

"I remember it all very well, and I remember what a goose I was. As
for caring for him, of course I do,--because he is your brother, and
because I have known him all my life. But if he were going to be
married to-morrow, you would see that it would make no difference to
me."

Barbara Finn walked on for a couple of minutes in silence before she
replied. "Mary," she said at last, "I don't believe a word of it."

"Very well;--then all that I shall ask of you is, that we may not
talk about him any more. Mamma believes it, and that is enough for
me." Nevertheless, they did talk about Phineas during the whole of
that day, and very often talked about him afterwards, as long as Mary
remained at Killaloe.

There was a large dinner party at the doctor's on the day after Mr.
Monk's arrival. The bishop was not there, though he was on terms
sufficiently friendly with the doctor's family to have been invited
on so grand an occasion; but he was not there, because Mrs. Finn
was determined that she would be taken out to dinner by a Cabinet
Minister in the face of all her friends. She was aware that had the
bishop been there, she must have taken the bishop's arm. And though
there would have been glory in that, the other glory was more to her
taste. It was the first time in her life that she had ever seen a
Cabinet Minister, and I think that she was a little disappointed at
finding him so like other middle-aged gentlemen. She had hoped that
Mr. Monk would have assumed something of the dignity of his position;
but he assumed nothing. Now the bishop, though he was a very mild
man, did assume something by the very facts of his apron and
knee-breeches.

"I am sure, sir, it is very good of you to come and put up with our
humble way of living," said Mrs. Finn to her guest, as they sat down
at table. And yet she had resolved that she would not make any speech
of the kind,--that she would condescend to no apology,--that she
would bear herself as though a Cabinet Minister dined with her at
least once a year. But when the moment came, she broke down, and made
this apology with almost abject meekness, and then hated herself
because she had done so.

"My dear madam," said Mr. Monk, "I live myself so much like a hermit
that your house is a palace of luxury to me." Then he felt that he
had made a foolish speech, and he also hated himself. He found it
very difficult to talk to his hostess upon any subject, until by
chance he mentioned his young friend Phineas. Then her tongue was
unloosed. "Your son, madam," he said, "is going with me to Limerick
and back to Dublin. It is a shame, I know, taking him so soon away
from home, but I should not know how to get on without him."

"Oh, Mr. Monk, it is such a blessing for him, and such an honour for
us, that you should be so good to him." Then the mother spoke out
all her past fears and all her present hopes, and acknowledged the
great glory which it was to her to have a son sitting in Parliament,
holding an office with a stately name and a great salary, and blessed
with the friendship of such a man as Mr. Monk. After that Mr. Monk
got on better with her.

"I don't know any young man," said he, "in whose career I have taken
so strong an interest."

"He was always good," said Mrs. Finn, with a tear forcing itself into
the corner of each eye. "I am his mother, and of course I ought not
to say so,--not in this way; but it is true, Mr. Monk." And then the
poor lady was obliged to raise her handkerchief and wipe away the
drops.

Phineas on this occasion had taken out to dinner the mother of his
devoted Mary, Mrs. Flood Jones. "What a pleasure it must be to the
doctor and Mrs. Finn to see you come back in this way," said Mrs.
Flood Jones.

"With all my bones unbroken?" said he, laughing.

"Yes; with all your bones unbroken. You know, Phineas, when we
first heard that you were to sit in Parliament, we were afraid that
you might break a rib or two,--since you choose to talk about the
breaking of bones."

"Yes, I know. Everybody thought I should come to grief; but nobody
felt so sure of it as I did myself."

"But you have not come to grief."

"I am not out of the wood yet, you know, Mrs. Flood Jones. There is
plenty of possibility for grief in my way still."

"As far as I can understand it, you are out of the wood. All that
your friends here want to see now is, that you should marry some nice
English girl, with a little money, if possible. Rumours have reached
us, you know."

"Rumours always lie," said Phineas.

"Sometimes they do, of course; and I am not going to ask any
indiscreet questions. But that is what we all hope. Mary was saying,
only the other day, that if you were once married, we should all
feel quite safe about you. And you know we all take the most lively
interest in your welfare. It is not every day that a man from County
Clare gets on as you have done, and therefore we are bound to think
of you." Thus Mrs. Flood Jones signified to Phineas Finn that she had
forgiven him the thoughtlessness of his early youth,--even though
there had been something of treachery in that thoughtlessness to her
own daughter; and showed him, also, that whatever Mary's feelings
might have been once, they were not now of a nature to trouble her.
"Of course you will marry?" said Mrs. Flood Jones.

"I should think very likely not," said Phineas, who perhaps looked
farther into the mind of the lady than the lady intended.

"Oh, do," said the lady. "Every man should marry as soon as he can,
and especially a man in your position."

When the ladies met together in the drawing-room after dinner,
it was impossible but that they should discuss Mr. Monk. There
was Mrs. Callaghan from the brewery there, and old Lady Blood, of
Bloodstone,--who on ordinary occasions would hardly admit that she
was on dining-out terms with any one in Killaloe except the bishop,
but who had found it impossible to decline to meet a Cabinet
Minister,--and there was Mrs. Stackpoole from Sixmiletown, a far-away
cousin of the Finns, who hated Lady Blood with a true provincial
hatred.

"I don't see anything particularly uncommon in him, after all," said
Lady Blood.

"I think he is very nice indeed," said Mrs. Flood Jones.

"So very quiet, my dear, and just like other people," said Mrs.
Callaghan, meaning to pronounce a strong eulogium on the Cabinet
Minister.

"Very like other people indeed," said Lady Blood.

"And what would you expect, Lady Blood?" said Mrs. Stackpoole. "Men
and women in London walk upon two legs, just as they do in Ennis."
Now Lady Blood herself had been born and bred in Ennis, whereas Mrs.
Stackpoole had come from Limerick, which is a much more considerable
town, and therefore there was a satire in this allusion to the habits
of the men of Ennis which Lady Blood understood thoroughly.

"My dear Mrs. Stackpoole, I know how the people walk in London quite
as well as you do." Lady Blood had once passed three months in London
while Sir Patrick had been alive, whereas Mrs. Stackpoole had never
done more than visit the metropolis for a day or two.

"Oh, no doubt," said Mrs. Stackpoole; "but I never can understand
what it is that people expect. I suppose Mr. Monk ought to have
come with his stars on the breast of his coat, to have pleased Lady
Blood."

"My dear Mrs. Stackpoole, Cabinet Ministers don't have stars," said
Lady Blood.

"I never said they did," said Mrs. Stackpoole.

"He is so nice and gentle to talk to," said Mrs. Finn. "You may say
what you will, but men who are high up do very often give themselves
airs. Now I must say that this friend of my son's does not do
anything of that kind."

"Not the least," said Mrs. Callaghan.

"Quite the contrary," said Mrs. Stackpoole.

"I dare say he is a wonderful man," said Lady Blood. "All I say is,
that I didn't hear anything wonderful come out of his mouth; and
as for people in Ennis walking on two legs, I have seen donkeys in
Limerick doing just the same thing." Now it was well known that Mrs.
Stackpoole had two sons living in Limerick, as to neither of whom
was it expected that he would set the Shannon on fire. After this
little speech there was no further mention of Mr. Monk, as it became
necessary that all the good-nature of Mrs. Finn and all the tact
of Mrs. Flood Jones and all the energy of Mrs. Callaghan should be
used, to prevent the raging of an internecine battle between Mrs.
Stackpoole and Lady Blood.




CHAPTER LXVI

Victrix


Mr. Monk's holiday programme allowed him a week at Killaloe, and
from thence he was to go to Limerick, and from Limerick to Dublin,
in order that, at both places, he might be entertained at a public
dinner and make a speech about tenant-right. Foreseeing that Phineas
might commit himself if he attended these meetings, Mr. Monk had
counselled him to remain at Killaloe. But Phineas had refused to
subject himself to such cautious abstinence. Mr. Monk had come to
Ireland as his friend, and he would see him through his travels. "I
shall not, probably, be asked to speak," said Phineas, "and if I am
asked, I need not say more than a few words. And what if I did speak
out?"

"You might find it disadvantageous to you in London."

"I must take my chance of that. I am not going to tie myself down for
ever and ever for the sake of being Under-Secretary to the Colonies."
Mr. Monk said very much to him on the subject,--was constantly saying
very much to him about it; but in spite of all that Mr. Monk said,
Phineas did make the journey to Limerick and Dublin.

He had not, since his arrival at Killaloe, been a moment alone with
Mary Flood Jones till the evening before he started with Mr. Monk.
She had kept out of his way successfully, though she had constantly
been with him in company, and was beginning to plume herself on the
strength and valour of her conduct. But her self-praise had in it
nothing of joy, and her glory was very sad. Of course she would care
for him no more,--more especially as it was so very evident that he
cared not at all for her. But the very fact of her keeping out of
his way, made her acknowledge to herself that her position was very
miserable. She had declared to her mother that she might certainly
go to Killaloe with safety,--that it would be better for her to put
herself in the way of meeting him as an old friend,--that the idea of
the necessity of shutting herself up because of his approach, was the
one thing that gave her real pain. Therefore her mother had brought
her to Killaloe and she had met him; but her fancied security had
deserted her, and she found herself to be miserable, hoping for
something she did not know what, still dreaming of possibilities,
feeling during every moment of his presence with her that some
special conduct was necessary on her part. She could not make further
confession to her mother and ask to be carried back to Floodborough;
but she knew that she was very wretched at Killaloe.

As for Phineas, he had felt that his old friend was very cold to him.
He was in that humour with reference to Violet Effingham which seemed
especially to require consolation. He knew now that all hope was
over there. Violet Effingham could never be his wife. Even were she
not to marry Lord Chiltern for the next five years, she would not,
during those five years, marry any other man. Such was our hero's
conviction; and, suffering under this conviction, he was in want of
the comfort of feminine sympathy. Had Mary known all this, and had it
suited her to play such a part, I think she might have had Phineas
at her feet before he had been a week at home. But she had kept
aloof from him and had heard nothing of his sorrows. As a natural
consequence of this, Phineas was more in love with her than ever.

On the evening before he started with Mr. Monk for Limerick, he
managed to be alone with her for a few minutes. Barbara may probably
have assisted in bringing about this arrangement, and had, perhaps,
been guilty of some treachery,--sisters in such circumstances will
sometimes be very treacherous to their friends. I feel sure, however,
that Mary herself was quite innocent of any guile in the matter.
"Mary," Phineas said to her suddenly, "it seems to me that you have
avoided me purposely ever since I have been at home." She smiled and
blushed, and stammered and said nothing. "Has there been any reason
for it, Mary?"

"No reason at all that I know of," she said.

"We used to be such great friends."

"That was before you were a great man, Phineas. It must necessarily
be different now. You know so many people now, and people of such a
different sort, that of course I fall a little into the background."

"When you talk in that way, Mary, I know that you are laughing at
me."

"Indeed, indeed I am not."

"I believe there is no one in the whole world," he said, after a
pause, "whose friendship is more to me than yours is. I think of it
so often, Mary. Say that when we come back it shall be between us as
it used to be." Then he put out his hand for hers, and she could not
help giving it to him. "Of course there will be people," he said,
"who talk nonsense, and one cannot help it; but I will not put up
with it from you."

"I did not mean to talk nonsense, Phineas!" Then there came some one
across them, and the conversation was ended; but the sound of his
voice remained on her ears, and she could not help but remember
that he had declared that her friendship was dearer to him than the
friendship of any one else.

Phineas went with Mr. Monk first to Limerick and then to Dublin, and
found himself at both places to be regarded as a hero only second
to the great hero. At both places the one subject of debate was
tenant-right;--could anything be done to make it profitable for men
with capital to put their capital into Irish land? The fertility of
the soil was questioned by no one,--nor the sufficiency of external
circumstances, such as railroads and the like;--nor the abundance of
labour;--nor even security for the wealth to be produced. The only
difficulty was in this, that the men who were to produce the wealth
had no guarantee that it would be theirs when it was created. In
England and elsewhere such guarantees were in existence. Might it not
be possible to introduce them into Ireland? That was the question
which Mr. Monk had in hand; and in various speeches which he made
both before and after the dinners given to him, he pledged himself to
keep it well in hand when Parliament should meet. Of course Phineas
spoke also. It was impossible that he should be silent when his
friend and leader was pouring out his eloquence. Of course he spoke,
and of course he pledged himself. Something like the old pleasures
of the debating society returned to him, as standing upon a platform
before a listening multitude, he gave full vent to his words. In
the House of Commons, of late he had been so cabined, cribbed, and
confined by office as to have enjoyed nothing of this. Indeed, from
the commencement of his career, he had fallen so thoroughly into the
decorum of Government ways, as to have missed altogether the delights
of that wild irresponsible oratory of which Mr. Monk had spoken
to him so often. He had envied men below the gangway, who, though
supporting the Government on main questions, could get up on their
legs whenever the House was full enough to make it worth their while,
and say almost whatever they pleased. There was that Mr. Robson, who
literally did say just what came uppermost; and the thing that came
uppermost was often ill-natured, often unbecoming the gravity of the
House, was always startling; but men listened to him and liked him to
speak. But Mr. Robson had--married a woman with money. Oh, why,--why,
had not Violet Effingham been kinder to him? He might even yet,
perhaps, marry a woman with money. But he could not bring himself to
do so unless he loved her.

The upshot of the Dublin meeting was that he also positively pledged
himself to support during the next session of Parliament a bill
advocating tenant-right. "I am sorry you went so far as that," Mr.
Monk said to him almost as soon as the meeting was over. They were
standing on the pier at Kingstown, and Mr. Monk was preparing to
return to England.

"And why not I as far as you?"

"Because I had thought about it, and I do not think that you have. I
am prepared to resign my office to-morrow; and directly that I can
see Mr. Gresham and explain to him what I have done, I shall offer to
do so."

"He won't accept your resignation."

"He must accept it, unless he is prepared to instruct the Irish
Secretary to bring in such a bill as I can support."

"I shall be exactly in the same boat."

"But you ought not to be in the same boat;--nor need you. My advice
to you is to say nothing about it till you get back to London, and
then speak to Lord Cantrip. Tell him that you will not say anything
on the subject in the House, but that in the event of there being a
division you hope to be allowed to vote as on an open question. It
may be that I shall get Gresham's assent, and if so we shall be all
right. If I do not, and if they choose to make it a point with you,
you must resign also."

"Of course I shall," said Phineas.

"But I do not think they will. You have been too useful, and they
will wish to avoid the weakness which comes to a ministry from
changing its team. Good-bye, my dear fellow; and remember this,--my
last word of advice to you is to stick by the ship. I am quite sure
it is a career which will suit you. I did not begin it soon enough."

Phineas was rather melancholy as he returned alone to Killaloe. It
was all very well to bid him stick to the ship, and he knew as well
as any one could tell him how material the ship was to him; but there
are circumstances in which a man cannot stick to his ship,--cannot
stick, at least, to this special Government ship. He knew that
whither Mr. Monk went, in this session, he must follow. He had
considerable hope that when Mr. Monk explained his purpose to the
Prime Minister, the Prime Minister would feel himself obliged to give
way. In that case Phineas would not only be able to keep his office,
but would have such an opportunity of making a speech in Parliament
as circumstances had never yet given to him. When he was again at
home he said nothing to his father or to the Killaloeians as to the
danger of his position. Of what use would it be to make his mother
and sisters miserable, or to incur the useless counsels of the
doctor? They seemed to think his speech at Dublin very fine, and were
never tired of talking of what Mr. Monk and Phineas were going to do;
but the idea had not come home to them that if Mr. Monk or Phineas
chose to do anything on their own account, they must give up the
places which they held under the Crown.

It was September when Phineas found himself back at Killaloe, and he
was due to be at his office in London in November. The excitement
of Mr. Monk's company was now over, and he had nothing to do but to
receive pouches full of official papers from the Colonial Office, and
study all the statistics which came within his reach in reference to
the proposed new law for tenant-right. In the meantime Mary was still
living with her mother at Killaloe, and still kept herself somewhat
aloof from the man she loved. How could it be possible for him not to
give way in such circumstances as those?

One day he found himself talking to her about himself, and speaking
to her of his own position with more frankness than he ever used with
his own family. He had begun by reminding her of that conversation
which they had had before he went away with Mr. Monk, and by
reminding her also that she had promised to return to her old
friendly ways with him.

"Nay, Phineas; there was no promise," she said.

"And are we not to be friends?"

"I only say that I made no particular promise. Of course we are
friends. We have always been friends."

"What would you say if you heard that I had resigned my office and
given up my seat?" he asked. Of course she expressed her surprise,
almost her horror, at such an idea, and then he told her everything.
It took long in the telling, because it was necessary that he should
explain to her the working of the system which made it impossible for
him, as a member of the Government, to entertain an opinion of his
own.

"And do you mean that you would lose your salary?" she asked.

"Certainly I should."

"Would not that be very dreadful?"

He laughed as he acknowledged that it would be dreadful. "It is very
dreadful, Mary, to have nothing to eat and drink. But what is a man
to do? Would you recommend me to say that black is white?"

"I am sure you will never do that."

"You see, Mary, it is very nice to be called by a big name and to
have a salary, and it is very comfortable to be envied by one's
friends and enemies;--but there are drawbacks. There is this especial
drawback." Then he paused for a moment before he went on.

"What especial drawback, Phineas?"

"A man cannot do what he pleases with himself. How can a man marry,
so circumstanced as I am?"

She hesitated for a moment, and then she answered him,--"A man may be
very happy without marrying, I suppose."

He also paused for many moments before he spoke again, and she then
made a faint attempt to escape from him. But before she succeeded he
had asked her a question which arrested her. "I wonder whether you
would listen to me if I were to tell you a history?" Of course she
listened, and the history he told her was the tale of his love for
Violet Effingham.

"And she has money of her own?" Mary asked.

"Yes;--she is rich. She has a large fortune."

"Then, Mr. Finn, you must seek some one else who is equally blessed."

"Mary, that is untrue,--that is ill-natured. You do not mean that.
Say that you do not mean it. You have not believed that I loved Miss
Effingham because she was rich."

"But you have told me that you could love no one who is not rich."

"I have said nothing of the kind. Love is involuntary. It does not
often run in a yoke with prudence. I have told you my history as
far as it is concerned with Violet Effingham. I did love her very
dearly."

"Did love her, Mr. Finn?"

"Yes;--did love her. Is there any inconstancy in ceasing to love when
one is not loved? Is there inconstancy in changing one's love, and in
loving again?"

"I do not know," said Mary, to whom the occasion was becoming so
embarrassing that she no longer was able to reply with words that had
a meaning in them.

"If there be, dear, I am inconstant." He paused, but of course she
had not a syllable to say. "I have changed my love. But I could not
speak of a new passion till I had told the story of that which has
passed away. You have heard it all now, Mary. Can you try to love me,
after that?" It had come at last,--the thing for which she had been
ever wishing. It had come in spite of her imprudence, and in spite of
her prudence. When she had heard him to the end she was not a whit
angry with him,--she was not in the least aggrieved,--because he had
been lost to her in his love for this Miss Effingham, while she had
been so nearly lost by her love for him. For women such episodes
in the lives of their lovers have an excitement which is almost
pleasurable, whereas each man is anxious to hear his lady swear that
until he appeared upon the scene her heart had been fancy free. Mary,
upon the whole, had liked the story,--had thought that it had been
finely told, and was well pleased with the final catastrophe. But,
nevertheless, she was not prepared with her reply. "Have you no
answer to give me, Mary?" he said, looking up into her eyes. I am
afraid that he did not doubt what would be her answer,--as it would
be good that all lovers should do. "You must vouchsafe me some word,
Mary."

When she essayed to speak she found that she was dumb. She could not
get her voice to give her the assistance of a single word. She did
not cry, but there was a motion as of sobbing in her throat which
impeded all utterance. She was as happy as earth,--as heaven could
make her; but she did not know how to tell him that she was happy.
And yet she longed to tell it, that he might know how thankful she
was to him for his goodness. He still sat looking at her, and now by
degrees he had got her hand in his. "Mary," he said, "will you be my
wife,--my own wife?"

When half an hour had passed, they were still together, and now she
had found the use of her tongue. "Do whatever you like best," she
said. "I do not care which you do. If you came to me to-morrow and
told me you had no income, it would make no difference. Though to
love you and to have your love is all the world to me,--though it
makes all the difference between misery and happiness,--I would
sooner give up that than be a clog on you." Then he took her in his
arms and kissed her. "Oh, Phineas!" she said, "I do love you so
entirely!"

"My own one!"

"Yes; your own one. But if you had known it always! Never mind. Now
you are my own,--are you not?"

"Indeed yes, dearest."

"Oh, what a thing it is to be victorious at last."

"What on earth are you two doing here these two hours together?" said
Barbara, bursting into the room.

"What are we doing?" said Phineas.

"Yes;--what are you doing?"

"Nothing in particular," said Mary.

"Nothing at all in particular," said Phineas. "Only this,--that we
have engaged ourselves to marry each other. It is quite a trifle,--is
it not, Mary?"

"Oh, Barbara!" said the joyful girl, springing forward into her
friend's arms; "I do believe I am the happiest creature on the face
of this earth!"




CHAPTER LXVII

Job's Comforters


Before Phineas had returned to London his engagement with Mary Flood
Jones was known to all his family, was known to Mrs. Flood Jones, and
was indeed known generally to all Killaloe. That other secret of his,
which had reference to the probability of his being obliged to throw
up his office, was known only to Mary herself. He thought that he had
done all that honour required of him in telling her of his position
before he had proposed;--so that she might on that ground refuse
him if she were so minded. And yet he had known very well that such
prudence on her part was not to be expected. If she loved him, of
course she would say so when she was asked. And he had known that
she loved him. "There may be delay, Mary," he said to her as he was
going; "nay, there must be delay, if I am obliged to resign."

"I do not care a straw for delay if you will be true to me," she
said.

"Do you doubt my truth, dearest?"

"Not in the least. I will swear by it as the one thing that is truest
in the world."

"You may, dearest. And if this should come to pass I must go to work
and put my shoulder to the wheel, and earn an income for you by my
old profession before I can make you my wife. With such a motive
before me I know that I shall earn an income." And thus they parted.
Mary, though of course she would have preferred that her future
husband should remain in his high office, that he should be a member
of Parliament and an Under-Secretary of State, admitted no doubt
into her mind to disturb her happiness; and Phineas, though he had
many misgivings as to the prudence of what he had done, was not the
less strong in his resolution of constancy and endurance. He would
throw up his position, resign his seat, and go to work at the Bar
instantly, if he found that his independence as a man required him to
do so. And, above all, let come what might, he would be true to Mary
Flood Jones.

December was half over before he saw Lord Cantrip. "Yes,--yes;" said
Lord Cantrip, when the Under-Secretary began to tell his story; "I
saw what you were about. I wish I had been at your elbow."

"If you knew the country as I know it, you would be as eager about it
as I am."

"Then I can only say that I am very glad that I do not know the
country as you know it. You see, Finn, it's my idea that if a man
wants to make himself useful he should stick to some special kind of
work. With you it's a thousand pities that you should not do so."

"You think, then, I ought to resign?"

"I don't say anything about that. As you wish it, of course I'll
speak to Gresham. Monk, I believe, has resigned already."

"He has written to me, and told me so," said Phineas.

"I always felt afraid of him for your sake, Finn. Mr. Monk is a
clever man, and as honest a man as any in the House, but I always
thought that he was a dangerous friend for you. However, we will see.
I will speak to Gresham after Christmas. There is no hurry about it."

When Parliament met the first great subject of interest was the
desertion of Mr. Monk from the Ministry. He at once took his place
below the gangway, sitting as it happened exactly in front of Mr.
Turnbull, and there he made his explanation. Some one opposite asked
a question whether a certain right honourable gentleman had not left
the Cabinet. Then Mr. Gresham replied that to his infinite regret his
right honourable friend, who lately presided at the Board of Trade,
had resigned; and he went on to explain that this resignation had,
according to his ideas, been quite unnecessary. His right honourable
friend entertained certain ideas about Irish tenant-right, as to
which he himself and his right honourable friend the Secretary for
Ireland could not exactly pledge themselves to be in unison with him;
but he had thought that the motion might have rested at any rate over
this session. Then Mr. Monk explained, making his first great speech
on Irish tenant-right. He found himself obliged to advocate some
immediate measure for giving security to the Irish farmer; and as he
could not do so as a member of the Cabinet, he was forced to resign
the honour of that position. He said something also as to the great
doubt which had ever weighed on his own mind as to the inexpediency
of a man at his time of life submitting himself for the first time
to the trammels of office. This called up Mr. Turnbull, who took
the opportunity of saying that he now agreed cordially with his old
friend for the first time since that old friend had listened to the
blandishments of the ministerial seducer, and that he welcomed his
old friend back to those independent benches with great satisfaction.
In this way the debate was very exciting. Nothing was said which made
it then necessary for Phineas to get upon his legs or to declare
himself; but he perceived that the time would rapidly come in which
he must do so. Mr. Gresham, though he strove to speak with gentle
words, was evidently very angry with the late President of the Board
of Trade; and, moreover, it was quite clear that a bill would be
introduced by Mr. Monk himself, which Mr. Gresham was determined
to oppose. If all this came to pass and there should be a close
division, Phineas felt that his fate would be sealed. When he again
spoke to Lord Cantrip on the subject, the Secretary of State shrugged
his shoulders and shook his head. "I can only advise you," said Lord
Cantrip, "to forget all that took place in Ireland. If you will do
so, nobody else will remember it." "As if it were possible to forget
such things," he said in the letter which he wrote to Mary that
night. "Of course I shall go now. If it were not for your sake, I
should not in the least regret it."

He had been with Madame Goesler frequently in the winter, and had
discussed with her so often the question of his official position
that she had declared that she was coming at last to understand the
mysteries of an English Cabinet. "I think you are quite right, my
friend," she said,--"quite right. What--you are to be in Parliament
and say that this black thing is white, or that this white thing is
black, because you like to take your salary! That cannot be honest!"
Then, when he came to talk to her of money,--that he must give up
Parliament itself, if he gave up his place,--she offered to lend him
money. "Why should you not treat me as a friend?" she said. When he
pointed out to her that there would never come a time in which he
could pay such money back, she stamped her foot and told him that
he had better leave her. "You have high principle," she said, "but
not principle sufficiently high to understand that this thing could
be done between you and me without disgrace to either of us." Then
Phineas assured her with tears in his eyes that such an arrangement
was impossible without disgrace to him.

But he whispered to this new friend no word of the engagement with
his dear Irish Mary. His Irish life, he would tell himself, was a
thing quite apart and separate from his life in England. He said not
a word about Mary Flood Jones to any of those with whom he lived
in London. Why should he, feeling as he did that it would so soon
be necessary that he should disappear from among them? About Miss
Effingham he had said much to Madame Goesler. She had asked him
whether he had abandoned all hope. "That affair, then, is over?" she
had said.

"Yes;--it is all over now."

"And she will marry the red-headed, violent lord?"

"Heaven knows. I think she will. But she is exactly the girl to
remain unmarried if she takes it into her head that the man she likes
is in any way unfitted for her."

"Does she love this lord?"

"Oh yes;--there is no doubt of that." And Phineas, as he made this
acknowledgment, seemed to do so without much inward agony of soul.
When he had been last in London he could not speak of Violet and Lord
Chiltern together without showing that his misery was almost too much
for him.

At this time he received some counsel from two friends. One was
Laurence Fitzgibbon, and the other was Barrington Erle. Laurence had
always been true to him after a fashion, and had never resented his
intrusion at the Colonial Office. "Phineas, me boy," he said, "if all
this is thrue, you're about up a tree."

"It is true that I shall support Monk's motion."

"Then, me boy, you're up a tree as far as office goes. A place like
that niver suited me, because, you see, that poker of a young lord
expected so much of a man; but you don't mind that kind of thing, and
I thought you were as snug as snug."

"Troubles will come, you see, Laurence."

"Bedad, yes. It's all throubles, I think, sometimes. But you've a way
out of all your throubles."

"What way?"

"Pop the question to Madame Max. The money's all thrue, you know."

"I don't doubt the money in the least," said Phineas.

"And it's my belief she'll take you without a second word. Anyways,
thry it, Phinny, my boy. That's my advice." Phineas so far agreed
with his friend Laurence that he thought it possible that Madame
Goesler might accept him were he to propose marriage to her. He knew,
of course, that that mode of escape from his difficulties was out
of the question for him, but he could not explain this to Laurence
Fitzgibbon.

"I am sorry to hear that you have taken up a bad cause," said
Barrington Erle to him.

"It is a pity;--is it not?"

"And the worst of it is that you'll sacrifice yourself and do no good
to the cause. I never knew a man break away in this fashion, and not
feel afterwards that he had done it all for nothing."

"But what is a man to do, Barrington? He can't smother his
convictions."

"Convictions! There is nothing on earth that I'm so much afraid of in
a young member of Parliament as convictions. There are ever so many
rocks against which men get broken. One man can't keep his temper.
Another can't hold his tongue. A third can't say a word unless he has
been priming himself half a session. A fourth is always thinking of
himself, and wanting more than he can get. A fifth is idle, and won't
be there when he's wanted. A sixth is always in the way. A seventh
lies so that you never can trust him. I've had to do with them all,
but a fellow with convictions is the worst of all."

"I don't see how a fellow is to help himself," said Phineas. "When a
fellow begins to meddle with politics they will come."

"Why can't you grow into them gradually as your betters and elders
have done before you? It ought to be enough for any man, when he
begins, to know that he's a Liberal. He understands which side of the
House he's to vote, and who is to lead him. What's the meaning of
having a leader to a party, if it's not that? Do you think that you
and Mr. Monk can go and make a government between you?"

"Whatever I think, I'm sure he doesn't."

"I'm not so sure of that. But look here, Phineas, I don't care two
straws about Monk's going. I always thought that Mildmay and the
Duke were wrong when they asked him to join. I knew he'd go over the
traces,--unless, indeed, he took his money and did nothing for it,
which is the way with some of those Radicals. I look upon him as
gone."

"He has gone."

"The devil go along with him, as you say in Ireland. But don't you be
such a fool as to ruin yourself for a crotchet of Monk's. It isn't
too late yet for you to hold back. To tell you the truth, Gresham
has said a word to me about it already. He is most anxious that you
should stay, but of course you can't stay and vote against us."

"Of course I cannot."

"I look upon you, you know, as in some sort my own child. I've tried
to bring other fellows forward who seemed to have something in them,
but I have never succeeded as I have with you. You've hit the thing
off, and have got the ball at your foot. Upon my honour, in the whole
course of my experience I have never known such good fortune as
yours."

"And I shall always remember how it began, Barrington," said Phineas,
who was greatly moved by the energy and solicitude of his friend.

"But, for God's sake, don't go and destroy it all by such mad
perversity as this. They mean to do something next session. Morrison
is going to take it up." Sir Walter Morrison was at this time
Secretary for Ireland. "But of course we can't let a fellow like Monk
take the matter into his own hands just when he pleases. I call it
d----d treachery."

"Monk is no traitor, Barrington."

"Men will have their own opinions about that. It's generally
understood that when a man is asked to take a seat in the Cabinet he
is expected to conform with his colleagues, unless something very
special turns up. But I am speaking of you now, and not of Monk. You
are not a man of fortune. You cannot afford to make ducks and drakes.
You are excellently placed, and you have plenty of time to hark back,
if you'll only listen to reason. All that Irish stump balderdash will
never be thrown in your teeth by us, if you will just go on as though
it had never been uttered."

Phineas could only thank his friend for his advice, which was at
least disinterested, and was good of its kind, and tell him that he
would think of it. He did think of it very much. He almost thought
that, were it to do again, he would allow Mr. Monk to go upon his
tour alone, and keep himself from the utterance of anything that so
good a judge as Erle could call stump balderdash. As he sat in his
arm-chair in his room at the Colonial Office, with despatch-boxes
around him, and official papers spread before him,--feeling himself
to be one of those who in truth managed and governed the affairs of
this great nation, feeling also that if he relinquished his post now
he could never regain it,--he did wish that he had been a little less
in love with independence, a little quieter in his boastings that no
official considerations should ever silence his tongue. But all this
was too late now. He knew that his skin was not thick enough to bear
the arrows of those archers who would bend their bows against him if
he should now dare to vote against Mr. Monk's motion. His own party
might be willing to forgive and forget; but there would be others who
would read those reports, and would appear in the House with the
odious tell-tale newspapers in their hands.

Then he received a letter from his father. Some good-natured person
had enlightened the doctor as to the danger in which his son
was placing himself. Dr. Finn, who in his own profession was a
very excellent and well-instructed man, had been so ignorant of
Parliamentary tactics, as to have been proud at his son's success at
the Irish meetings. He had thought that Phineas was carrying on his
trade as a public speaker with proper energy and continued success.
He had cared nothing himself for tenant-right, and had acknowledged
to Mr. Monk that he could not understand in what it was that the
farmers were wronged. But he knew that Mr. Monk was a Cabinet
Minister, and he thought that Phineas was earning his salary. Then
there came some one who undeceived him, and the paternal bosom of
the doctor was dismayed. "I don't mean to interfere," he said in his
letter, "but I can hardly believe that you really intend to resign
your place. Yet I am told that you must do so if you go on with this
matter. My dear boy, pray think about it. I cannot imagine you are
disposed to lose all that you have won for nothing." Mary also wrote
to him. Mrs. Finn had been talking to her, and Mary had taught
herself to believe that after the many sweet conversations she
had had with a man so high in office as Phineas, she really did
understand something about the British Government. Mrs. Finn had
interrogated Mary, and Mary had been obliged to own that it was quite
possible that Phineas would be called upon to resign.

"But why, my dear? Heaven and earth! Resign two thousand a year!"

"That he may maintain his independence," said Mary proudly.

"Fiddlestick!" said Mrs. Finn. "How is he to maintain you, or himself
either, if he goes on in that way? I shouldn't wonder if he didn't
get himself all wrong, even now." Then Mrs. Finn began to cry; and
Mary could only write to her lover, pointing out to him how very
anxious all his friends were that he should do nothing in a hurry.
But what if the thing were done already! Phineas in his great
discomfort went to seek further counsel from Madame Goesler. Of all
his counsellors, Madame Goesler was the only one who applauded him
for what he was about to do.

"But, after all, what is it you give up? Mr. Gresham may be out
to-morrow, and then where will be your place?"

"There does not seem to be much chance of that at present."

"Who can tell? Of course I do not understand,--but it was only the
other day when Mr. Mildmay was there, and only the day before that
when Lord de Terrier was there, and again only the day before
that when Lord Brock was there." Phineas endeavoured to make her
understand that of the four Prime Ministers whom she had named, three
were men of the same party as himself, under whom it would have
suited him to serve. "I would not serve under any man if I were an
English gentleman in Parliament," said Madame Goesler.

"What is a poor fellow to do?" said Phineas, laughing.

"A poor fellow need not be a poor fellow unless he likes," said
Madame Goesler. Immediately after this Phineas left her, and as he
went along the street he began to question himself whether the
prospects of his own darling Mary were at all endangered by his
visits to Park Lane; and to reflect what sort of a blackguard he
would be,--a blackguard of how deep a dye,--were he to desert Mary
and marry Madame Max Goesler. Then he also asked himself as to the
nature and quality of his own political honesty if he were to abandon
Mary in order that he might maintain his parliamentary independence.
After all, if it should ever come to pass that his biography should
be written, his biographer would say very much more about the manner
in which he kept his seat in Parliament than of the manner in which
he kept his engagement with Miss Mary Flood Jones. Half a dozen
people who knew him and her might think ill of him for his conduct
to Mary, but the world would not condemn him! And when he thundered
forth his liberal eloquence from below the gangway as an independent
member, having the fortune of his charming wife to back him, giving
excellent dinners at the same time in Park Lane, would not the world
praise him very loudly?

When he got to his office he found a note from Lord Brentford
inviting him to dine in Portman Square.




CHAPTER LXVIII

The Joint Attack


The note from Lord Brentford surprised our hero not a little. He had
had no communication with the Earl since the day on which he had been
so savagely scolded about the duel, when the Earl had plainly told
him that his conduct had been as bad as it could be. Phineas had not
on that account become at all ashamed of his conduct in reference to
the duel, but he had conceived that any reconciliation between him
and the Earl had been out of the question. Now there had come a
civilly-worded invitation, asking him to dine with the offended
nobleman. The note had been written by Lady Laura, but it had
purported to come from Lord Brentford himself. He sent back word to
say that he should be happy to have the honour of dining with Lord
Brentford.

Parliament at this time had been sitting nearly a month, and it was
already March. Phineas had heard nothing of Lady Laura, and did not
even know that she was in London till he saw her handwriting. He did
not know that she had not gone back to her husband, and that she had
remained with her father all the winter at Saulsby. He had also
heard that Lord Chiltern had been at Saulsby. All the world had been
talking of the separation of Mr. Kennedy from his wife, one half of
the world declaring that his wife, if not absolutely false to him,
had neglected all her duties; and the other half asserting that Mr.
Kennedy's treatment of his wife had been so bad that no woman could
possibly have lived with him. There had even been a rumour that Lady
Laura had gone off with a lover from the Duke of Omnium's garden
party, and some indiscreet tongue had hinted that a certain unmarried
Under-Secretary of State was missing at the same time. But Lord
Chiltern upon this had shown his teeth with so strong a propensity to
do some real biting, that no one had ventured to repeat that rumour.
Its untruth was soon established by the fact that Lady Laura Kennedy
was living with her father at Saulsby. Of Mr. Kennedy, Phineas had as
yet seen nothing since he had been up in town. That gentleman, though
a member of the Cabinet, had not been in London at the opening of the
session, nor had he attended the Cabinet meetings during the recess.
It had been stated in the newspapers that he was ill, and stated in
private that he could not bear to show himself since his wife had
left him. At last, however, he came to London, and Phineas saw him in
the House. Then, when the first meeting of the Cabinet was summoned
after his return, it became known that he also had resigned his
office. There was nothing said about his resignation in the House. He
had resigned on the score of ill-health, and that very worthy peer,
Lord Mount Thistle, formerly Sir Marmaduke Morecombe, came back to
the Duchy of Lancaster in his place. A Prime Minister sometimes finds
great relief in the possession of a serviceable stick who can be made
to go in and out as occasion may require; only it generally happens
that the stick will expect some reward when he is made to go out.
Lord Mount Thistle immediately saw his way to a viscount's coronet,
when he was once more summoned to the august councils of the
Ministers.

A few days after this had been arranged, in the interval between
Lord Brentford's invitation and Lord Brentford's dinner, Phineas
encountered Mr. Kennedy so closely in one of the passages of the
House that it was impossible that they should not speak to each
other, unless they were to avoid each other as people do who have
palpably quarrelled. Phineas saw that Mr. Kennedy was hesitating, and
therefore took the bull by the horns. He greeted his former friend
in a friendly fashion, shaking him by the hand, and then prepared
to pass on. But Mr. Kennedy, though he had hesitated at first, now
detained his brother member. "Finn," he said, "if you are not engaged
I should like to speak to you for a moment." Phineas was not engaged,
and allowed himself to be led out arm-in-arm by the late Chancellor
of the Duchy into Westminster Hall. "Of course you know what a
terrible thing has happened to me," said Mr. Kennedy.

"Yes;--I have heard of it," said Phineas.

"Everybody has heard of it. That is one of the terrible cruelties of
such a blow."

"All those things are very bad of course. I was very much
grieved,--because you have both been intimate friends of mine."

"Yes,--yes; we were. Do you ever see her now?"

"Not since last July,--at the Duke's party, you know."

"Ah, yes; the morning of that day was the last on which I spoke to
her. It was then she left me."

"I am going to dine with Lord Brentford to-morrow, and I dare say she
will be there."

"Yes;--she is in town. I saw her yesterday in her father's carriage.
I think that she had no cause to leave me."

"Of course I cannot say anything about that."

"I think she had no cause to leave me." Phineas as he heard this
could not but remember all that Lady Laura had told himself, and
thought that no woman had ever had a better reason for leaving her
husband. "There were things I did not like, and I said so."

"I suppose that is generally the way," replied Phineas.

"But surely a wife should listen to a word of caution from her
husband."

"I fancy they never like it," said Phineas.

"But are we all of us to have all that we like? I have not found it
so. Or would it be good for us if we had?" Then he paused; but as
Phineas had no further remark to make, he continued speaking after
they had walked about a third of the length of the hall. "It is not
of my own comfort I am thinking now so much as of her name and her
future conduct. Of course it will in every sense be best for her that
she should come back to her husband's roof."

"Well; yes;--perhaps it would," said Phineas.

"Has she not accepted that lot for better or for worse?" said Mr.
Kennedy, solemnly.

"But incompatibility of temper, you know, is always,--always
supposed--. You understand me?"

"It is my intention that she should come back to me. I do not wish to
make any legal demand;--at any rate, not as yet. Will you consent to
be the bearer of a message from me both to herself and to the Earl?"

Now it seemed to Phineas that of all the messengers whom Mr. Kennedy
could have chosen he was the most unsuited to be a Mercury in this
cause,--not perceiving that he had been so selected with some craft,
in order that Lady Laura might understand that the accusation against
her was, at any rate, withdrawn, which had named Phineas as her
lover. He paused again before he answered. "Of course," he said, "I
should be most willing to be of service, if it were possible. But I
do not see how I can speak to the Earl about it. Though I am going to
dine with him I don't know why he has asked me;--for he and I are on
very bad terms. He heard that stupid story about the duel, and has
not spoken to me since."

"I heard that, too," said Mr. Kennedy, frowning blackly as he
remembered his wife's duplicity.

"Everybody heard of it. But it has made such a difference between him
and me, that I don't think I can meddle. Send for Lord Chiltern, and
speak to him."

"Speak to Chiltern! Never! He would probably strike me on the head
with his club."

"Call on the Earl yourself."

"I did, and he would not see me."

"Write to him."

"I did, and he sent back my letter unopened."

"Write to her."

"I did;--and she answered me, saying only thus; 'Indeed, indeed, it
cannot be so.' But it must be so. The laws of God require it, and the
laws of man permit it. I want some one to point out that to them more
softly than I could do if I were simply to write to that effect. To
the Earl, of course, I cannot write again." The conference ended by a
promise from Phineas that he would, if possible, say a word to Lady
Laura.

When he was shown into Lord Brentford's drawing-room he found not
only Lady Laura there, but her brother. Lord Brentford was not in
the room. Barrington Erle was there, and so also were Lord and Lady
Cantrip.

"Is not your father going to be here?" he said to Lady Laura, after
their first greeting.

"We live in that hope," said she, "and do not at all know why he
should be late. What has become of him, Oswald?"

"He came in with me half an hour ago, and I suppose he does not
dress as quickly as I do," said Lord Chiltern; upon which Phineas
immediately understood that the father and the son were reconciled,
and he rushed to the conclusion that Violet and her lover would also
soon be reconciled, if such were not already the case. He felt some
remnant of a soreness that it should be so, as a man feels where
his headache has been when the real ache itself has left him. Then
the host came in and made his apologies. "Chiltern kept me standing
about," he said, "till the east wind had chilled me through and
through. The only charm I recognise in youth is that it is impervious
to the east wind." Phineas felt quite sure now that Violet and her
lover were reconciled, and he had a distinct feeling of the place
where the ache had been. Dear Violet! But, after all, Violet lacked
that sweet, clinging, feminine softness which made Mary Flood Jones
so pre-eminently the most charming of her sex. The Earl, when he had
repeated his general apology, especially to Lady Cantrip, who was the
only lady present except his daughter, came up to our hero and shook
him kindly by the hand. He took him up to one of the windows and then
addressed him in a voice of mock solemnity.

"Stick to the colonies, young man," he said, "and never meddle with
foreign affairs;--especially not at Blankenberg."

"Never again, my Lord;--never again."

"And leave all questions of fire-arms to be arranged between the
Horse Guards and the War Office. I have heard a good deal about it
since I saw you, and I retract a part of what I said. But a duel is a
foolish thing,--a very foolish thing. Come;--here is dinner." And the
Earl walked off with Lady Cantrip, and Lord Cantrip walked off with
Lady Laura. Barrington Erle followed, and Phineas had an opportunity
of saying a word to his friend, Lord Chiltern, as they went down
together.

"It's all right between you and your father?"

"Yes;--after a fashion. There is no knowing how long it will last. He
wants me to do three things, and I won't do any one of them."

"What are the three?"

"To go into Parliament, to be an owner of sheep and oxen, and to hunt
in his own county. I should never attend the first, I should ruin
myself with the second, and I should never get a run in the third."
But there was not a word said about his marriage.

There were only seven who sat down to dinner, and the six were all
people with whom Phineas was or had been on most intimate terms.
Lord Cantrip was his official chief, and, since that connection had
existed between them, Lady Cantrip had been very gracious to him.
She quite understood the comfort which it was to her husband to have
under him, as his representative in the House of Commons, a man whom
he could thoroughly trust and like, and therefore she had used her
woman's arts to bind Phineas to her lord in more than mere official
bondage. She had tried her skill also upon Laurence Fitzgibbon,--but
altogether in vain. He had eaten her dinners and accepted her
courtesies, and had given for them no return whatever. But Phineas
had possessed a more grateful mind, and had done all that had been
required of him;--had done all that had been required of him till
there had come that terrible absurdity in Ireland. "I knew very well
what sort of things would happen when they brought such a man as Mr.
Monk into the Cabinet," Lady Cantrip had said to her husband.

But though the party was very small, and though the guests were all
his intimate friends, Phineas suspected nothing special till an
attack was made upon him as soon as the servants had left the room.
This was done in the presence of the two ladies, and, no doubt, had
been preconcerted. There was Lord Cantrip there, who had already said
much to him, and Barrington Erle who had said more even than Lord
Cantrip. Lord Brentford, himself a member of the Cabinet, opened the
attack by asking whether it was actually true that Mr. Monk meant
to go on with his motion. Barrington Erle asserted that Mr. Monk
positively would do so. "And Gresham will oppose it?" asked the Earl.
"Of course he will," said Barrington. "Of course he will," said Lord
Cantrip. "I know what I should think of him if he did not," said Lady
Cantrip. "He is the last man in the world to be forced into a thing,"
said Lady Laura. Then Phineas knew pretty well what was coming on
him.

Lord Brentford began again by asking how many supporters Mr. Monk
would have in the House. "That depends upon the amount of courage
which the Conservatives may have," said Barrington Erle. "If they
dare to vote for a thoroughly democratic measure, simply for the sake
of turning us out, it is quite on the cards that they may succeed."
"But of our own people?" asked Lord Cantrip. "You had better inquire
that of Phineas Finn," said Barrington. And then the attack was made.

Our hero had a bad half hour of it, though many words were said which
must have gratified him much. They all wanted to keep him,--so Lord
Cantrip declared, "except one or two whom I could name, and who are
particularly anxious to wear his shoes," said Barrington, thinking
that certain reminiscences of Phineas with regard to Mr. Bonteen
and others might operate as strongly as any other consideration to
make him love his place. Lord Brentford declared that he could not
understand it,--that he should find himself lost in amazement if such
a man as his young friend allowed himself to be led into the outer
wilderness by such an ignis-fatuus of light as this. Lord Cantrip
laid down the unwritten traditional law of Government officials very
plainly. A man in office,--in an office which really imposed upon
him as much work as he could possibly do with credit to himself or
his cause,--was dispensed from the necessity of a conscience with
reference to other matters. It was for Sir Walter Morrison to have
a conscience about Irish tenant-right, as no doubt he had,--just as
Phineas Finn had a conscience about Canada, and Jamaica, and the
Cape. Barrington Erle was very strong about parties in general, and
painted the comforts of official position in glowing colours. But I
think that the two ladies were more efficacious than even their male
relatives in the arguments which they used. "We have been so happy
to have you among us," said Lady Cantrip, looking at him with
beseeching, almost loving eyes. "Mr. Finn knows," said Lady Laura,
"that since he first came into Parliament I have always believed
in his success, and I have been very proud to see it." "We shall
weep over him, as over a fallen angel, if he leaves us," said Lady
Cantrip. "I won't say that I will weep," said Lady Laura, "but I do
not know anything of the kind that would so truly make me unhappy."

What was he to say in answer to applications so flattering and so
pressing? He would have said nothing, had that been possible, but he
felt himself obliged to reply. He replied very weakly,--of course,
not justifying himself, but declaring that as he had gone so far he
must go further. He must vote for the measure now. Both his chief and
Barrington Erle proved, or attempted to prove, that he was wrong in
this. Of course he would not speak on the measure, and his vote for
his party would probably be allowed to pass without notice. One or
two newspapers might perhaps attack him; but what public man cared
for such attacks as those? His whole party would hang by him, and in
that he would find ample consolation. Phineas could only say that he
would think of it;--and this he said in so irresolute a tone of voice
that all the men then present believed that he was gained. The two
ladies, however, were of a different opinion. "In spite of anything
that anybody may say, he will do what he thinks right when the time
comes," said Laura to her father afterwards. But then Lady Laura had
been in love with him,--was perhaps almost in love with him still.
"I'm afraid he is a mule," said Lady Cantrip to her husband. "He's
a good mule up a hill with a load on his back," said his lordship.
"But with a mule there always comes a time when you can't manage
him," said Lady Cantrip. But Lady Cantrip had never been in love with
Phineas.

Phineas found a moment, before he left Lord Brentford's house, to say
a word to Lady Laura as to the commission that had been given to him.
"It can never be," said Lady Laura, shuddering;--"never, never,
never!"

"You are not angry with me for speaking?"

"Oh, no--not if he told you."

"He made me promise that I would."

"Tell him it cannot be. Tell him that if he has any instruction to
send me as to what he considers to be my duty, I will endeavour to
comply, if that duty can be done apart. I will recognize him so
far, because of my vow. But not even for the sake of my vow, will I
endeavour to live with him. His presence would kill me!"

When Phineas repeated this, or as much of this as he judged to be
necessary, to Mr. Kennedy a day or two afterwards, that gentleman
replied that in such case he would have no alternative but to seek
redress at law. "I have done nothing to my wife," said he, "of
which I need be ashamed. It will be sad, no doubt, to have all our
affairs bandied about in court, and made the subject of comment in
newspapers, but a man must go through that, or worse than that, in
the vindication of his rights, and for the performance of his duty to
his Maker." That very day Mr. Kennedy went to his lawyer, and desired
that steps might be taken for the restitution to him of his conjugal
rights.




CHAPTER LXIX

The Temptress


Mr. Monk's bill was read the first time before Easter, and Phineas
Finn still held his office. He had spoken to the Prime Minister
once on the subject, and had been surprised at that gentleman's
courtesy;--for Mr. Gresham had the reputation of being unconciliatory
in his manners, and very prone to resent anything like desertion from
that allegiance which was due to himself as the leader of his party.
"You had better stay where you are and take no step that may be
irretrievable, till you have quite made up your mind," said Mr.
Gresham.

"I fear I have made up my mind," said Phineas.

"Nothing can be done till after Easter," replied the great man, "and
there is no knowing how things may go then. I strongly recommend you
to stay with us. If you can do this it will be only necessary that
you shall put your resignation in Lord Cantrip's hands before you
speak or vote against us. See Monk and talk it over with him." Mr.
Gresham possibly imagined that Mr. Monk might be moved to abandon his
bill, when he saw what injury he was about to do.

At this time Phineas received the following letter from his darling
Mary:--


   Floodborough, Thursday.

   DEAREST PHINEAS,

   We have just got home from Killaloe, and mean to remain
   here all through the summer. After leaving your sisters
   this house seems so desolate; but I shall have the more
   time to think of you. I have been reading Tennyson, as you
   told me, and I fancy that I could in truth be a Mariana
   here, if it were not that I am so quite certain that you
   will come;--and that makes all the difference in the world
   in a moated grange. Last night I sat at the window and
   tried to realise what I should feel if you were to tell me
   that you did not want me; and I got myself into such an
   ecstatic state of mock melancholy that I cried for half an
   hour. But when one has such a real living joy at the back
   of one's romantic melancholy, tears are very pleasant;--
   they water and do not burn.

   I must tell you about them all at Killaloe. They certainly
   are very unhappy at the idea of your resigning. Your
   father says very little, but I made him own that to act
   as you are acting for the sake of principle is very grand.
   I would not leave him till he had said so, and he did say
   it. Dear Mrs. Finn does not understand it as well, but
   she will do so. She complains mostly for my sake, and
   when I tell her that I will wait twenty years if it is
   necessary, she tells me I do not know what waiting means.
   But I will,--and will be happy, and will never really
   think myself a Mariana. Dear, dear, dear Phineas, indeed
   I won't. The girls are half sad and half proud. But I am
   wholly proud, and know that you are doing just what you
   ought to do. I shall think more of you as a man who might
   have been a Prime Minister than if you were really sitting
   in the Cabinet like Lord Cantrip. As for mamma, I cannot
   make her quite understand it. She merely says that no
   young man who is going to be married ought to resign
   anything. Dear mamma;--sometimes she does say such odd
   things.

   You told me to tell you everything, and so I have. I
   talk to some of the people here, and tell them what they
   might do if they had tenant-right. One old fellow, Mike
   Dufferty,--I don't know whether you remember him,--asked
   if he would have to pay the rent all the same. When I said
   certainly he would, then he shook his head. But as you
   said once, when we want to do good to people one has no
   right to expect that they should understand it. It is like
   baptizing little infants.

   I got both your notes;--seven words in one, Mr.
   Under-Secretary, and nine in the other! But the one little
   word at the end was worth a whole sheet full of common
   words. How nice it is to write letters without paying
   postage, and to send them about the world with a grand
   name in the corner. When Barney brings me one he always
   looks as if he didn't know whether it was a love letter
   or an order to go to Botany Bay. If he saw the inside of
   them, how short they are, I don't think he'd think much of
   you as a lover nor yet as an Under-Secretary.

   But I think ever so much of you as both;--I do, indeed;
   and I am not scolding you a bit. As long as I can have two
   or three dear, sweet, loving words, I shall be as happy as
   a queen. Ah, if you knew it all! But you never can know
   it all. A man has so many other things to learn that he
   cannot understand it.

   Good-bye, dear, dear, dearest man. Whatever you do I shall
   be quite sure you have done the best.

   Ever your own, with all the love of her heart,

   MARY F. JONES.


This was very nice. Such a man as was Phineas Finn always takes a
delight which he cannot express even to himself in the receipt of
such a letter as this. There is nothing so flattering as the warm
expression of the confidence of a woman's love, and Phineas thought
that no woman ever expressed this more completely than did his Mary.
Dear, dearest Mary. As for giving her up, as for treachery to one so
trusting, so sweet, so well beloved, that was out of the question.
But nevertheless the truth came home to him more clearly day by day,
that he of all men was the last who ought to have given himself up to
such a passion. For her sake he ought to have abstained. So he told
himself now. For her sake he ought to have kept aloof from her;--and
for his own sake he ought to have kept aloof from Mr. Monk. That very
day, with Mary's letter in his pocket, he went to the livery stables
and explained that he would not keep his horse any longer. There was
no difficulty about the horse. Mr. Howard Macleod of the Treasury
would take him from that very hour. Phineas, as he walked away,
uttered a curse upon Mr. Howard Macleod. Mr. Howard Macleod was just
beginning the glory of his life in London, and he, Phineas Finn, was
bringing his to an end.

With Mary's letter in his pocket he went up to Portman Square. He had
again got into the habit of seeing Lady Laura frequently, and was
often with her brother, who now again lived at his father's house.
A letter had reached Lord Brentford, through his lawyer, in which a
demand was made by Mr. Kennedy for the return of his wife. She was
quite determined that she would never go back to him; and there had
come to her a doubt whether it would not be expedient that she should
live abroad so as to be out of the way of persecution from her
husband. Lord Brentford was in great wrath, and Lord Chiltern had
once or twice hinted that perhaps he had better "see" Mr. Kennedy.
The amenities of such an interview, as this would be, had up to the
present day been postponed; and, in a certain way, Phineas had been
used as a messenger between Mr. Kennedy and his wife's family.

"I think it will end," she said, "in my going to Dresden, and
settling myself there. Papa will come to me when Parliament is not
sitting."

"It will be very dull."

"Dull! What does dulness amount to when one has come to such a pass
as this? When one is in the ruck of fortune, to be dull is very bad;
but when misfortune comes, simple dulness is nothing. It sounds
almost like relief."

"It is so hard that you should be driven away." She did not answer
him for a while, and he was beginning to think of his own case also.
Was it not hard that he too should be driven away? "It is odd enough
that we should both be going at the same time."

"But you will not go?"

"I think I shall. I have resolved upon this,--that if I give up my
place, I will give up my seat too. I went into Parliament with the
hope of office, and how can I remain there when I shall have gained
it and then have lost it?"

"But you will stay in London, Mr. Finn?"

"I think not. After all that has come and gone I should not be happy
here, and I should make my way easier and on cheaper terms in Dublin.
My present idea is that I shall endeavour to make a practice over in
my own country. It will be hard work beginning at the bottom;--will
it not?"

"And so unnecessary."

"Ah, Lady Laura,--if it only could be avoided! But it is of no use
going through all that again."

"How much we would both of us avoid if we could only have another
chance!" said Lady Laura. "If I could only be as I was before I
persuaded myself to marry a man whom I never loved, what a paradise
the earth would be to me! With me all regrets are too late."

"And with me as much so."

"No, Mr. Finn. Even should you resign your office, there is no reason
why you should give up your seat."

"Simply that I have no income to maintain me in London."

She was silent for a few moments, during which she changed her seat
so as to come nearer to him, placing herself on a corner of a sofa
close to the chair on which he was seated. "I wonder whether I may
speak to you plainly," she said.

"Indeed you may."

"On any subject?"

"Yes;--on any subject."

"I trust you have been able to rid your bosom of all remembrances of
Violet Effingham."

"Certainly not of all remembrances, Lady Laura."

"Of all hope, then?"

"I have no such hope."

"And of all lingering desires?"

"Well, yes;--and of all lingering desires. I know now that it cannot
be. Your brother is welcome to her."

"Ah;--of that I know nothing. He, with his perversity, has estranged
her. But I am sure of this,--that if she do not marry him, she will
marry no one. But it is not on account of him that I speak. He must
fight his own battles now."

"I shall not interfere with him, Lady Laura."

"Then why should you not establish yourself by a marriage that will
make place a matter of indifference to you? I know that it is within
your power to do so." Phineas put his hand up to his breastcoat
pocket, and felt that Mary's letter,--her precious letter,--was there
safe. It certainly was not in his power to do this thing which Lady
Laura recommended to him, but he hardly thought that the present was
a moment suitable for explaining to her the nature of the impediment
which stood in the way of such an arrangement. He had so lately
spoken to Lady Laura with an assurance of undying constancy of his
love for Miss Effingham, that he could not as yet acknowledge the
force of another passion. He shook his head by way of reply. "I tell
you that it is so," she said with energy.

"I am afraid not."

"Go to Madame Goesler, and ask her. Hear what she will say."

"Madame Goesler would laugh at me, no doubt."

"Psha! You do not think so. You know that she would not laugh. And
are you the man to be afraid of a woman's laughter? I think not."

Again he did not answer her at once, and when he did speak the tone
of his voice was altered. "What was it you said of yourself, just
now?"

"What did I say of myself?"

"You regretted that you had consented to marry a man,--whom you did
not love."

"Why should you not love her? And it is so different with a man! A
woman is wretched if she does not love her husband, but I fancy that
a man gets on very well without any such feeling. She cannot domineer
over you. She cannot expect you to pluck yourself out of your own
soil, and begin a new growth altogether in accordance with the laws
of her own. It was that which Mr. Kennedy did."

"I do not for a moment think that she would take me, if I were to
offer myself."

"Try her," said Lady Laura energetically. "Such trials cost you but
little;--we both of us know that!" Still he said nothing of the
letter in his pocket. "It is everything that you should go on now
that you have once begun. I do not believe in you working at the
Bar. You cannot do it. A man who has commenced life as you have done
with the excitement of politics, who has known what it is to take a
prominent part in the control of public affairs, cannot give it up
and be happy at other work. Make her your wife, and you may resign
or remain in office just as you choose. Office will be much easier
to you than it is now, because it will not be a necessity. Let me
at any rate have the pleasure of thinking that one of us can remain
here,--that we need not both fall together."

Still he did not tell her of the letter in his pocket. He felt that
she moved him,--that she made him acknowledge to himself how great
would be the pity of such a failure as would be his. He was quite as
much alive as she could be to the fact that work at the Bar, either
in London or in Dublin, would have no charms for him now. The
prospect of such a life was very dreary to him. Even with the comfort
of Mary's love such a life would be very dreary to him. And then he
knew,--he thought that he knew,--that were he to offer himself to
Madame Goesler he would not in truth be rejected. She had told him
that if poverty was a trouble to him he need be no longer poor. Of
course he had understood this. Her money was at his service if he
should choose to stoop and pick it up. And it was not only money that
such a marriage would give him. He had acknowledged to himself more
than once that Madame Goesler was very lovely, that she was clever,
attractive in every way, and as far as he could see, blessed with a
sweet temper. She had a position, too, in the world that would help
him rather than mar him. What might he not do with an independent
seat in the House of Commons, and as joint owner of the little house
in Park Lane? Of all careers which the world could offer to a man the
pleasantest would then be within his reach. "You appear to me as a
tempter," he said at last to Lady Laura.

"It is unkind of you to say that, and ungrateful. I would do anything
on earth in my power to help you."

"Nevertheless you are a tempter."

"I know how it ought to have been," she said, in a low voice. "I know
very well how it ought to have been. I should have kept myself free
till that time when we met on the braes of Loughlinter, and then all
would have been well with us."

"I do not know how that might have been," said Phineas, hoarsely.

"You do not know! But I know. Of course you have stabbed me with a
thousand daggers when you have told me from time to time of your love
for Violet. You have been very cruel,--needlessly cruel. Men are so
cruel! But for all that I have known that I could have kept you,--had
it not been too late when you spoke to me. Will you not own as much
as that?"

"Of course you would have been everything to me. I should never have
thought of Violet then."

"That is the only kind word you have said to me from that day to
this. I try to comfort myself in thinking that it would have been so.
But all that is past and gone, and done. I have had my romance and
you have had yours. As you are a man, it is natural that you should
have been disturbed by a double image;--it is not so with me."

"And yet you can advise me to offer marriage to a woman,--a woman
whom I am to seek merely because she is rich?"

"Yes;--I do so advise you. You have had your romance and must now
put up with reality. Why should I so advise you but for the interest
that I have in you? Your prosperity will do me no good. I shall not
even be here to see it. I shall hear of it only as so many a woman
banished out of England hears a distant misunderstood report of what
is going on in the country she has left. But I still have regard
enough,--I will be bold, and, knowing that you will not take it
amiss, will say love enough for you,--to feel a desire that you
should not be shipwrecked. Since we first took you in hand between
us, Barrington and I, I have never swerved in my anxiety on your
behalf. When I resolved that it would be better for us both that we
should be only friends, I did not swerve. When you would talk to me
so cruelly of your love for Violet, I did not swerve. When I warned
you from Loughlinter because I thought there was danger, I did not
swerve. When I bade you not to come to me in London because of my
husband, I did not swerve. When my father was hard upon you, I
did not swerve then. I would not leave him till he was softened.
When you tried to rob Oswald of his love, and I thought you would
succeed,--for I did think so,--I did not swerve. I have ever been
true to you. And now that I must hide myself and go away, and be seen
no more, I am true still."

"Laura,--dearest Laura!" he exclaimed.

"Ah, no!" she said, speaking with no touch of anger, but all in
sorrow;--"it must not be like that. There is no room for that. Nor do
you mean it. I do not think so ill of you. But there may not be even
words of affection between us--only such as I may speak to make you
know that I am your friend."

"You are my friend," he said, stretching out his hand to her as he
turned away his face. "You are my friend, indeed."

"Then do as I would have you do."

He put his hand into his pocket, and had the letter between his
fingers with the purport of showing it to her. But at the moment
the thought occurred to him that were he to do so, then, indeed, he
would be bound for ever. He knew that he was bound for ever,--bound
for ever to his own Mary; but he desired to have the privilege of
thinking over such bondage once more before he proclaimed it even to
his dearest friend. He had told her that she tempted him, and she
stood before him now as a temptress. But lest it might be possible
that she should not tempt in vain,--that letter in his pocket must
never be shown to her. In that case Lady Laura must never hear from
his lips the name of Mary Flood Jones.

He left her without any assured purpose;--without, that is, the
assurance to her of any fixed purpose. There yet wanted a week to the
day on which Mr. Monk's bill was to be read,--or not to be read,--the
second time; and he had still that interval before he need decide.
He went to his club, and before he dined he strove to write a line
to Mary;--but when he had the paper before him he found that it was
impossible to do so. Though he did not even suspect himself of an
intention to be false, the idea that was in his mind made the effort
too much for him. He put the paper away from him and went down and
eat his dinner.

It was a Saturday, and there was no House in the evening. He had
remained in Portman Square with Lady Laura till near seven o'clock,
and was engaged to go out in the evening to a gathering at Mrs.
Gresham's house. Everybody in London would be there, and Phineas
was resolved that as long as he remained in London he would be seen
at places where everybody was seen. He would certainly be at Mrs.
Gresham's gathering; but there was an hour or two before he need
go home to dress, and as he had nothing to do, he went down to the
smoking-room of his club. The seats were crowded, but there was
one vacant; and before he had looked about him to scrutinise his
neighbourhood, he found that he had placed himself with Bonteen on
his right hand and Ratler on his left. There were no two men in all
London whom he more thoroughly disliked; but it was too late for him
to avoid them now.

They instantly attacked him, first on one side and then on the other.
"So I am told you are going to leave us," said Bonteen.

"Who can have been ill-natured enough to whisper such a thing?"
replied Phineas.

"The whispers are very loud, I can tell you," said Ratler. "I think I
know already pretty nearly how every man in the House will vote, and
I have not got your name down on the right side."

"Change it for heaven's sake," said Phineas.

"I will, if you'll tell me seriously that I may," said Ratler.

"My opinion is," said Bonteen, "that a man should be known either as
a friend or foe. I respect a declared foe."

"Know me as a declared foe then," said Phineas, "and respect me."

"That's all very well," said Ratler, "but it means nothing. I've
always had a sort of fear about you, Finn, that you would go over the
traces some day. Of course it's a very grand thing to be
independent."

"The finest thing in the world," said Bonteen; "only so d----d
useless."

"But a man shouldn't be independent and stick to the ship at the
same time. You forget the trouble you cause, and how you upset all
calculations."

"I hadn't thought of the calculations," said Phineas.

"The fact is, Finn," said Bonteen, "you are made of clay too fine for
office. I've always found it has been so with men from your country.
You are the grandest horses in the world to look at out on a prairie,
but you don't like the slavery of harness."

"And the sound of a whip over our shoulders sets us kicking;--does it
not, Ratler?"

"I shall show the list to Gresham to-morrow," said Ratler, "and of
course he can do as he pleases; but I don't understand this kind of
thing."

"Don't you be in a hurry," said Bonteen. "I'll bet you a sovereign
Finn votes with us yet. There's nothing like being a little coy to
set off a girl's charms. I'll bet you a sovereign, Ratler, that Finn
goes out into the lobby with you and me against Monk's bill."

Phineas, not being able to stand any more of this most unpleasant
raillery, got up and went away. The club was distasteful to him, and
he walked off and sauntered for a while about the park. He went down
by the Duke of York's column as though he were going to his office,
which of course was closed at this hour, but turned round when he
got beyond the new public buildings,--buildings which he was never
destined to use in their completed state,--and entered the gates of
the enclosure, and wandered on over the bridge across the water. As
he went his mind was full of thought. Could it be good for him to
give up everything for a fair face? He swore to himself that of all
women whom he had ever seen Mary was the sweetest and the dearest and
the best. If it could be well to lose the world for a woman, it would
be well to lose it for her. Violet, with all her skill, and all her
strength, and all her grace, could never have written such a letter
as that which he still held in his pocket. The best charm of a woman
is that she should be soft, and trusting, and generous; and who ever
had been more soft, more trusting, and more generous than his Mary?
Of course he would be true to her, though he did lose the world.

But to yield such a triumph to the Ratlers and Bonteens whom he left
behind him,--to let them have their will over him,--to know that they
would rejoice scurrilously behind his back over his downfall! The
feeling was terrible to him. The last words which Bonteen had spoken
made it impossible to him now not to support his old friend Mr. Monk.
It was not only what Bonteen had said, but that the words of Mr.
Bonteen so plainly indicated what would be the words of all the other
Bonteens. He knew that he was weak in this. He knew that had he been
strong, he would have allowed himself to be guided,--if not by the
firm decision of his own spirit,--by the counsels of such men as Mr.
Gresham and Lord Cantrip, and not by the sarcasms of the Bonteens and
Ratlers of official life. But men who sojourn amidst savagery fear
the mosquito more than they do the lion. He could not bear to think
that he should yield his blood to such a one as Bonteen.

And he must yield his blood, unless he could vote for Mr. Monk's
motion, and hold his ground afterwards among them all in the House
of Commons. He would at any rate see the session out, and try a
fall with Mr. Bonteen when they should be sitting on different
benches,--if ever fortune should give him an opportunity. And in the
meantime, what should he do about Madame Goesler? What a fate was his
to have the handsomest woman in London with thousands and thousands
a year at his disposal! For,--so he now swore to himself,--Madame
Goesler was the handsomest woman in London, as Mary Flood Jones was
the sweetest girl in the world.

He had not arrived at any decision so fixed as to make him
comfortable when he went home and dressed for Mrs. Gresham's party.
And yet he knew,--he thought that he knew that he would be true to
Mary Flood Jones.




CHAPTER LXX

The Prime Minister's House


The rooms and passages and staircases at Mrs. Gresham's house were
very crowded when Phineas arrived there. Men of all shades of
politics were there, and the wives and daughters of such men; and
there was a streak of royalty in one of the saloons, and a whole
rainbow of foreign ministers with their stars, and two blue ribbons
were to be seen together on the first landing-place, with a stout
lady between them carrying diamonds enough to load a pannier.
Everybody was there. Phineas found that even Lord Chiltern was come,
as he stumbled across his friend on the first foot-ground that he
gained in his ascent towards the rooms. "Halloa,--you here?" said
Phineas. "Yes, by George!" said the other, "but I am going to escape
as soon as possible. I've been trying to make my way up for the last
hour, but could never get round that huge promontory there. Laura was
more persevering." "Is Kennedy here?" Phineas whispered. "I do not
know," said Chiltern, "but she was determined to run the chance."

A little higher up,--for Phineas was blessed with more patience than
Lord Chiltern possessed,--he came upon Mr. Monk. "So you are still
admitted privately," said Phineas.

"Oh dear yes,--and we have just been having a most friendly
conversation about you. What a man he is! He knows everything. He
is so accurate; so just in the abstract,--and in the abstract so
generous!"

"He has been very generous to me in detail as well as in abstract,"
said Phineas.

"Ah, yes; I am not thinking of individuals exactly. His want of
generosity is to large masses,--to a party, to classes, to a people;
whereas his generosity is for mankind at large. He assumes the god,
affects to nod, and seems to shake the spheres. But I have nothing
against him. He has asked me here to-night, and has talked to me most
familiarly about Ireland."

"What do you think of your chance of a second reading?" asked
Phineas.

"What do you think of it?--you hear more of those things than I do."

"Everybody says it will be a close division."

"I never expected it," said Mr. Monk.

"Nor I, till I heard what Daubeny said at the first reading. They
will all vote for the bill en masse,--hating it in their hearts all
the time."

"Let us hope they are not so bad as that."

"It is the way with them always. They do all our work for
us,--sailing either on one tack or the other. That is their use in
creation, that when we split among ourselves, as we always do, they
come in and finish our job for us. It must be unpleasant for them to
be always doing that which they always say should never be done at
all."

"Wherever the gift horse may come from, I shall not look it in the
mouth," said Mr. Monk. "There is only one man in the House whom I
hope I may not see in the lobby with me, and that is yourself."

"The question is decided now," said Phineas.

"And how is it decided?"

Phineas could not tell his friend that a question of so great
magnitude to him had been decided by the last sting which he had
received from an insect so contemptible as Mr. Bonteen, but he
expressed the feeling as well as he knew how to express it. "Oh, I
shall be with you. I know what you are going to say, and I know how
good you are. But I could not stand it. Men are beginning already to
say things which almost make me get up and kick them. If I can help
it, I will give occasion to no man to hint anything to me which
can make me be so wretched as I have been to-day. Pray do not say
anything more. My idea is that I shall resign to-morrow."

"Then I hope that we may fight the battle side by side," said Mr.
Monk, giving him his hand.

"We will fight the battle side by side," replied Phineas.

After that he pushed his way still higher up the stairs, having no
special purpose in view, not dreaming of any such success as that
of reaching his host or hostess,--merely feeling that it should be
a point of honour with him to make a tour through the rooms before
he descended the stairs. The thing, he thought, was to be done with
courage and patience, and this might, probably, be the last time in
his life that he would find himself in the house of a Prime Minister.
Just at the turn of the balustrade at the top of the stairs, he found
Mr. Gresham in the very spot on which Mr. Monk had been talking with
him. "Very glad to see you," said Mr. Gresham. "You, I find, are a
persevering man, with a genius for getting upwards."

"Like the sparks," said Phineas.

"Not quite so quickly," said Mr. Gresham.

"But with the same assurance of speedy loss of my little light."

It did not suit Mr. Gresham to understand this, so he changed the
subject. "Have you seen the news from America?"

"Yes, I have seen it, but do not believe it," said Phineas.

"Ah, you have such faith in a combination of British colonies,
properly backed in Downing Street, as to think them strong
against a world in arms. In your place I should hold to the same
doctrine,--hold to it stoutly."

"And you do now, I hope, Mr. Gresham?"

"Well,--yes,--I am not down-hearted. But I confess to a feeling that
the world would go on even though we had nothing to say to a single
province in North America. But that is for your private ear. You are
not to whisper that in Downing Street." Then there came up somebody
else, and Phineas went on upon his slow course. He had longed for an
opportunity to tell Mr. Gresham that he could go to Downing Street no
more, but such opportunity had not reached him.

For a long time he found himself stuck close by the side of Miss
Fitzgibbon,--Miss Aspasia Fitzgibbon,--who had once relieved him from
terrible pecuniary anxiety by paying for him a sum of money which was
due by him on her brother's account. "It's a very nice thing to be
here, but one does get tired of it," said Miss Fitzgibbon.

"Very tired," said Phineas.

"Of course it is a part of your duty, Mr. Finn. You are on your
promotion and are bound to be here. When I asked Laurence to come, he
said there was nothing to be got till the cards were shuffled again."

"They'll be shuffled very soon," said Phineas.

"Whatever colour comes up, you'll hold trumps, I know," said the
lady. "Some hands always hold trumps." He could not explain to Miss
Fitzgibbon that it would never again be his fate to hold a single
trump in his hand; so he made another fight, and got on a few steps
farther.

He said a word as he went to half a dozen friends,--as friends went
with him. He was detained for five minutes by Lady Baldock, who was
very gracious and very disagreeable. She told him that Violet was in
the room, but where she did not know. "She is somewhere with Lady
Laura, I believe; and really, Mr. Finn, I do not like it." Lady
Baldock had heard that Phineas had quarrelled with Lord Brentford,
but had not heard of the reconciliation. "Really, I do not like it. I
am told that Mr. Kennedy is in the house, and nobody knows what may
happen."

"Mr. Kennedy is not likely to say anything."

"One cannot tell. And when I hear that a woman is separated from her
husband, I always think that she must have been imprudent. It may be
uncharitable, but I think it is most safe so to consider."

"As far as I have heard the circumstances, Lady Laura was quite
right," said Phineas.

"It may be so. Gentlemen will always take the lady's part,--of
course. But I should be very sorry to have a daughter separated from
her husband,--very sorry."

Phineas, who had nothing now to gain from Lady Baldock's favour, left
her abruptly, and went on again. He had a great desire to see Lady
Laura and Violet together, though he could hardly tell himself why.
He had not seen Miss Effingham since his return from Ireland, and he
thought that if he met her alone he could hardly have talked to her
with comfort; but he knew that if he met her with Lady Laura, she
would greet him as a friend, and speak to him as though there were no
cause for embarrassment between them. But he was so far disappointed,
that he suddenly encountered Violet alone. She had been leaning on
the arm of Lord Baldock, and Phineas saw her cousin leave her. But
he would not be such a coward as to avoid her, especially as he knew
that she had seen him. "Oh, Mr. Finn!" she said, "do you see that?"

"See what?"

"Look; There is Mr. Kennedy. We had heard that it was possible, and
Laura made me promise that I would not leave her." Phineas turned his
head, and saw Mr. Kennedy standing with his back bolt upright against
a door-post, with his brow as black as thunder. "She is just opposite
to him, where he can see her," said Violet. "Pray take me to her. He
will think nothing of you, because I know that you are still friends
with both of them. I came away because Lord Baldock wanted to
introduce me to Lady Mouser. You know he is going to marry Miss
Mouser."

Phineas, not caring much about Lord Baldock and Miss Mouser, took
Violet's hand upon his arm, and very slowly made his way across
the room to the spot indicated. There they found Lady Laura alone,
sitting under the upas-tree influence of her husband's gaze. There
was a concourse of people between them, and Mr. Kennedy did not seem
inclined to make any attempt to lessen the distance. But Lady Laura
had found it impossible to move while she was under her husband's
eyes.

"Mr. Finn," she said, "could you find Oswald? I know he is here."

"He has gone," said Phineas. "I was speaking to him downstairs."

"You have not seen my father? He said he would come."

"I have not seen him, but I will search."

"No;--it will do no good. I cannot stay. His carriage is there, I
know,--waiting for me." Phineas immediately started off to have the
carriage called, and promised to return with as much celerity as he
could use. As he went, making his way much quicker through the crowd
than he had done when he had no such object for haste, he purposely
avoided the door by which Mr. Kennedy had stood. It would have been
his nearest way, but his present service, he thought, required that
he should keep aloof from the man. But Mr. Kennedy passed through the
door and intercepted him in his path.

"Is she going?" he asked.

"Well. Yes. I dare say she may before long. I shall look for Lord
Brentford's carriage by-and-by."

"Tell her she need not go because of me. I shall not return. I shall
not annoy her here. It would have been much better that a woman in
such a plight should not have come to such an assembly."

"You would not wish her to shut herself up."

"I would wish her to come back to the home that she has left, and, if
there be any law in the land, she shall be made to do so. You tell
her that I say so." Then Mr. Kennedy fought his way down the stairs,
and Phineas Finn followed in his wake.

About half an hour afterwards Phineas returned to the two ladies with
tidings that the carriage would be at hand as soon as they could be
below. "Did he see you?" said Lady Laura.

"Yes, he followed me."

"And did he speak to you?"

"Yes;--he spoke to me."

"And what did he say?" And then, in the presence of Violet, Phineas
gave the message. He thought it better that it should be given;
and were he to decline to deliver it now, it would never be given.
"Whether there be law in the land to protect me or whether there be
none, I will never live with him," said Lady Laura. "Is a woman like
a head of cattle, that she can be fastened in her crib by force? I
will never live with him though all the judges of the land should
decide that I must do so."

Phineas thought much of all this as he went to his solitary lodgings.
After all, was not the world much better with him than it was with
either of those two wretched married beings? And why? He had not,
at any rate as yet, sacrificed for money or social gains any of
the instincts of his nature. He had been fickle, foolish, vain,
uncertain, and perhaps covetous;--but as yet he had not been false.
Then he took out Mary's last letter and read it again.




CHAPTER LXXI

Comparing Notes


It would, perhaps, be difficult to decide,--between Lord Chiltern and
Miss Effingham,--which had been most wrong, or which had been nearest
to the right, in the circumstances which had led to their separation.
The old lord, wishing to induce his son to undertake work of some
sort, and feeling that his own efforts in this direction were worse
than useless, had closeted himself with his intended daughter-in-law,
and had obtained from her a promise that she would use her influence
with her lover. "Of course I think it right that he should do
something," Violet had said. "And he will if you bid him," replied
the Earl. Violet expressed a great doubt as to this willingness of
obedience; but, nevertheless, she promised to do her best, and she
did her best. Lord Chiltern, when she spoke to him, knit his brows
with an apparent ferocity of anger which his countenance frequently
expressed without any intention of ferocity on his part. He was
annoyed, but was not savagely disposed to Violet. As he looked at
her, however, he seemed to be very savagely disposed. "What is it you
would have me do?" he said.

"I would have you choose some occupation, Oswald."

"What occupation? What is it that you mean? Ought I to be a
shoemaker?"

"Not that by preference, I should say; but that if you please." When
her lover had frowned at her, Violet had resolved,--had strongly
determined, with inward assertions of her own rights,--that she would
not be frightened by him.

"You are talking nonsense, Violet. You know that I cannot be a
shoemaker."

"You may go into Parliament."

"I neither can, nor would I if I could. I dislike the life."

"You might farm."

"I cannot afford it."

"You might,--might do anything. You ought to do something. You know
that you ought. You know that your father is right in what he says."

"That is easily asserted, Violet; but it would, I think, be better
that you should take my part than my father's, if it be that you
intend to be my wife."

"You know that I intend to be your wife; but would you wish that I
should respect my husband?"

"And will you not do so if you marry me?" he asked.

Then Violet looked into his face and saw that the frown was blacker
than ever. The great mark down his forehead was deeper and more
like an ugly wound than she had ever seen it; and his eyes sparkled
with anger; and his face was red as with fiery wrath. If it was so
with him when she was no more than engaged to him, how would it be
when they should be man and wife? At any rate, she would not fear
him,--not now at least. "No, Oswald," she said. "If you resolve upon
being an idle man, I shall not respect you. It is better that I
should tell you the truth."

"A great deal better," he said.

"How can I respect one whose whole life will be,--will be--?"

"Will be what?" he demanded with a loud shout.

"Oswald, you are very rough with me."

"What do you say that my life will be?"

Then she again resolved that she would not fear him. "It will be
discreditable," she said.

"It shall not discredit you," he replied. "I will not bring disgrace
on one I have loved so well. Violet, after what you have said, we had
better part." She was still proud, still determined, and they did
part. Though it nearly broke her heart to see him leave her, she bid
him go. She hated herself afterwards for her severity to him; but,
nevertheless, she would not submit to recall the words which she
had spoken. She had thought him to be wrong, and, so thinking, had
conceived it to be her duty and her privilege to tell him what she
thought. But she had no wish to lose him;--no wish not to be his wife
even, though he should be as idle as the wind. She was so constituted
that she had never allowed him or any other man to be master of her
heart,--till she had with a full purpose given her heart away. The
day before she had resolved to give it to one man, she might, I
think, have resolved to give it to another. Love had not conquered
her, but had been taken into her service. Nevertheless, she could
not now rid herself of her servant, when she found that his services
would stand her no longer in good stead. She parted from Lord
Chiltern with an assent, with an assured brow, and with much dignity
in her gait; but as soon as she was alone she was a prey to remorse.
She had declared to the man who was to have been her husband that
his life was discreditable,--and, of course, no man would bear such
language. Had Lord Chiltern borne it, he would not have been worthy
of her love.

She herself told Lady Laura and Lord Brentford what had
occurred,--and had told Lady Baldock also. Lady Baldock had, of
course, triumphed,--and Violet sought her revenge by swearing that
she would regret for ever the loss of so inestimable a gentleman.
"Then why have you given him up, my dear?" demanded Lady Baldock.
"Because I found that he was too good for me," said Violet. It may be
doubtful whether Lady Baldock was not justified, when she declared
that her niece was to her a care so harassing that no aunt known in
history had ever been so troubled before.

Lord Brentford had fussed and fumed, and had certainly made things
worse. He had quarrelled with his son, and then made it up, and then
quarrelled again,--swearing that the fault must all be attributed to
Chiltern's stubbornness and Chiltern's temper. Latterly, however, by
Lady Laura's intervention, Lord Brentford and his son had again been
reconciled, and the Earl endeavoured manfully to keep his tongue from
disagreeable words, and his face from evil looks, when his son was
present. "They will make it up," Lady Laura had said, "if you and I
do not attempt to make it up for them. If we do, they will never come
together." The Earl was convinced, and did his best. But the task
was very difficult to him. How was he to keep his tongue off his son
while his son was daily saying things of which any father,--any such
father as Lord Brentford,--could not but disapprove? Lord Chiltern
professed to disbelieve even in the wisdom of the House of Lords, and
on one occasion asserted that it must be a great comfort to any Prime
Minister to have three or four old women in the Cabinet. The father,
when he heard this, tried to rebuke his son tenderly, strove even to
be jocose. It was the one wish of his heart that Violet Effingham
should be his daughter-in-law. But even with this wish he found it
very hard to keep his tongue off Lord Chiltern.

When Lady Laura discussed the matter with Violet, Violet would always
declare that there was no hope. "The truth is," she said on the
morning of that day on which they both went to Mrs. Gresham's, "that
though we like each other,--love each other, if you choose to say
so,--we are not fit to be man and wife."

"And why not fit?"

"We are too much alike. Each is too violent, too headstrong, and too
masterful."

"You, as the woman, ought to give way," said Lady Laura.

"But we do not always do just what we ought."

"I know how difficult it is for me to advise, seeing to what a pass I
have brought myself."

"Do not say that, dear;--or rather do say it, for we have, both of
us, brought ourselves to what you call a pass,--to such a pass that
we are like to be able to live together and discuss it for the rest
of our lives. The difference is, I take it, that you have not to
accuse yourself, and that I have."

"I cannot say that I have not to accuse myself," said Lady Laura.
"I do not know that I have done much wrong to Mr. Kennedy since I
married him; but in marrying him I did him a grievous wrong."

"And he has avenged himself."

"We will not talk of vengeance. I believe he is wretched, and I know
that I am;--and that has come of the wrong that I have done."

"I will make no man wretched," said Violet.

"Do you mean that your mind is made up against Oswald?"

"I mean that, and I mean much more. I say that I will make no man
wretched. Your brother is not the only man who is so weak as to be
willing to run the hazard."

"There is Lord Fawn."

"Yes, there is Lord Fawn, certainly. Perhaps I should not do him much
harm; but then I should do him no good."

"And poor Phineas Finn."

"Yes;--there is Mr. Finn. I will tell you something, Laura. The only
man I ever saw in the world whom I have thought for a moment that
it was possible that I should like,--like enough to love as my
husband,--except your brother, was Mr. Finn."

"And now?"

"Oh;--now; of course that is over," said Violet.

"It is over?"

"Quite over. Is he not going to marry Madame Goesler? I suppose
all that is fixed by this time. I hope she will be good to him,
and gracious, and let him have his own way, and give him his tea
comfortably when he comes up tired from the House; for I confess that
my heart is a little tender towards Phineas still. I should not like
to think that he had fallen into the hands of a female Philistine."

"I do not think he will marry Madame Goesler."

"Why not?"

"I can hardly tell you;--but I do not think he will. And you loved
him once,--eh, Violet?"

"Not quite that, my dear. It has been difficult with me to love. The
difficulty with most girls, I fancy, is not to love. Mr. Finn, when I
came to measure him in my mind, was not small, but he was never quite
tall enough. One feels oneself to be a sort of recruiting sergeant,
going about with a standard of inches. Mr. Finn was just half an inch
too short. He lacks something in individuality. He is a little too
much a friend to everybody."

"Shall I tell you a secret, Violet?"

"If you please, dear; though I fancy it is one I know already."

"He is the only man whom I ever loved," said Lady Laura.

"But it was too late when you learned to love him," said Violet.

"It was too late, when I was so sure of it as to wish that I had
never seen Mr. Kennedy. I felt it coming on me, and I argued with
myself that such a marriage would be bad for us both. At that moment
there was trouble in the family, and I had not a shilling of my own."

"You had paid it for Oswald."

"At any rate, I had nothing;--and he had nothing. How could I have
dared to think even of such a marriage?"

"Did he think of it, Laura?"

"I suppose he did."

"You know he did. Did you not tell me before?"

"Well;--yes. He thought of it. I had come to some foolish,
half-sentimental resolution as to friendship, believing that he and I
could be knit together by some adhesion of fraternal affection that
should be void of offence to my husband; and in furtherance of this
he was asked to Loughlinter when I went there, just after I had
accepted Robert. He came down, and I measured him too, as you have
done. I measured him, and I found that he wanted nothing to come up
to the height required by my standard. I think I knew him better than
you did."

"Very possibly;--but why measure him at all, when such measurement
was useless?"

"Can one help such things? He came to me one day as I was sitting up
by the Linter. You remember the place, where it makes its first
leap."

"I remember it very well."

"So do I. Robert had shown it me as the fairest spot in all
Scotland."

"And there this lover of ours sang his song to you?"

"I do not know what he told me then; but I know that I told him that
I was engaged; and I felt when I told him so that my engagement was a
sorrow to me. And it has been a sorrow from that day to this."

"And the hero, Phineas,--he is still dear to you?"

"Dear to me?"

"Yes. You would have hated me, had he become my husband? And you will
hate Madame Goesler when she becomes his wife?"

"Not in the least. I am no dog in the manger. I have even gone so far
as almost to wish, at certain moments, that you should accept him."

"And why?"

"Because he has wished it so heartily."

"One can hardly forgive a man for such speedy changes," said Violet.

"Was I not to forgive him;--I, who had turned myself away from him
with a fixed purpose the moment that I found that he had made a mark
upon my heart? I could not wipe off the mark, and yet I married. Was
he not to try to wipe off his mark?"

"It seems that he wiped it off very quickly;--and since that he has
wiped off another mark. One doesn't know how many marks he has wiped
off. They are like the inn-keeper's score which he makes in chalk. A
damp cloth brings them all away, and leaves nothing behind."

"What would you have?"

"There should be a little notch on the stick,--to remember by," said
Violet. "Not that I complain, you know. I cannot complain, as I was
not notched myself."

"You are silly, Violet."

"In not having allowed myself to be notched by this great champion?"

"A man like Mr. Finn has his life to deal with,--to make the most
of it, and to divide it between work, pleasure, duty, ambition, and
the rest of it as best he may. If he have any softness of heart, it
will be necessary to him that love should bear a part in all these
interests. But a man will be a fool who will allow love to be the
master of them all. He will be one whose mind is so ill-balanced
as to allow him to be the victim of a single wish. Even in a woman
passion such as that is evidence of weakness, and not of strength."

"It seems, then, Laura, that you are weak."

"And if I am, does that condemn him? He is a man, if I judge him
rightly, who will be constant as the sun, when constancy can be of
service."

"You mean that the future Mrs. Finn will be secure?"

"That is what I mean;--and that you or I, had either of us chosen to
take his name, might have been quite secure. We have thought it right
to refuse to do so."

"And how many more, I wonder?"

"You are unjust, and unkind, Violet. So unjust and unkind that it is
clear to me he has just gratified your vanity, and has never touched
your heart. What would you have had him do, when I told him that I
was engaged?"

"I suppose that Mr. Kennedy would not have gone to Blankenberg with
him."

"Violet!"

"That seems to be the proper thing to do. But even that does not
adjust things finally;--does it?" Then some one came upon them, and
the conversation was brought to an end.




CHAPTER LXXII

Madame Goesler's Generosity


When Phineas Finn left Mr. Gresham's house he had quite resolved what
he would do. On the next morning he would tell Lord Cantrip that his
resignation was a necessity, and that he would take that nobleman's
advice as to resigning at once, or waiting till the day on which Mr.
Monk's Irish Bill would be read for the second time.

"My dear Finn, I can only say that I deeply regret it," said Lord
Cantrip.

"So do I. I regret to leave office, which I like,--and which indeed
I want. I regret specially to leave this office, as it has been a
thorough pleasure to me; and I regret, above all, to leave you. But
I am convinced that Monk is right, and I find it impossible not to
support him."

"I wish that Mr. Monk was at Bath," said Lord Cantrip.

Phineas could only smile, and shrug his shoulders, and say that
even though Mr. Monk were at Bath it would not probably make much
difference. When he tendered his letter of resignation, Lord Cantrip
begged him to withdraw it for a day or two. He would, he said, speak
to Mr. Gresham. The debate on the second reading of Mr. Monk's bill
would not take place till that day week, and the resignation would
be in time if it was tendered before Phineas either spoke or voted
against the Government. So Phineas went back to his room, and
endeavoured to make himself useful in some work appertaining to his
favourite Colonies.

That conversation had taken place on a Friday, and on the
following Sunday, early in the day, he left his rooms after a late
breakfast,--a prolonged breakfast, during which he had been studying
tenant-right statistics, preparing his own speech, and endeavouring
to look forward into the future which that speech was to do so much
to influence,--and turned his face towards Park Lane. There had been
a certain understanding between him and Madame Goesler that he was
to call in Park Lane on this Sunday morning, and then declare to her
what was his final resolve as to the office which he held. "It is
simply to bid her adieu," he said to himself, "for I shall hardly
see her again." And yet, as he took off his morning easy coat, and
dressed himself for the streets, and stood for a moment before his
looking-glass, and saw that his gloves were fresh and that his boots
were properly polished, I think there was a care about his person
which he would have hardly taken had he been quite assured that he
simply intended to say good-bye to the lady whom he was about to
visit. But if there were any such conscious feeling, he administered
to himself an antidote before he left the house. On returning to the
sitting-room he went to a little desk from which he took out the
letter from Mary which the reader has seen, and carefully perused
every word of it. "She is the best of them all," he said to himself,
as he refolded the letter and put it back into his desk. I am not
sure that it is well that a man should have any large number from
whom to select a best; as, in such circumstances, he is so very apt
to change his judgment from hour to hour. The qualities which are the
most attractive before dinner sometimes become the least so in the
evening.

The morning was warm, and he took a cab. It would not do that he
should speak even his last farewell to such a one as Madame Goesler
with all the heat and dust of a long walk upon him. Having been so
careful about his boots and gloves he might as well use his care to
the end. Madame Goesler was a very pretty woman, who spared herself
no trouble in making herself as pretty as Nature would allow, on
behalf of those whom she favoured with her smiles; and to such a lady
some special attention was due by one who had received so many of her
smiles as had Phineas. And he felt, too, that there was something
special in this very visit. It was to be made by appointment, and
there had come to be an understanding between them that Phineas
should tell her on this occasion what was his resolution with
reference to his future life. I think that he had been very wise in
fortifying himself with a further glance at our dear Mary's letter,
before he trusted himself within Madame Goesler's door.

Yes;--Madame Goesler was at home. The door was opened by Madame
Goesler's own maid, who, smiling, explained that the other servants
were all at church. Phineas had become sufficiently intimate at the
cottage in Park Lane to be on friendly terms with Madame Goesler's
own maid, and now made some little half-familiar remark as to the
propriety of his visit during church time. "Madame will not refuse to
see you, I am thinking," said the girl, who was a German. "And she
is alone?" asked Phineas. "Alone? Yes;--of course she is alone. Who
should be with her now?" Then she took him up into the drawing-room;
but, when there, he found that Madame Goesler was absent. "She shall
be down directly," said the girl. "I shall tell her who is here, and
she will come."

It was a very pretty room. It may almost be said that there could be
no prettier room in all London. It looked out across certain small
private gardens,--which were as bright and gay as money could make
them when brought into competition with London smoke,--right on to
the park. Outside and inside the window, flowers and green things
were so arranged that the room itself almost looked as though it
were a bower in a garden. And everything in that bower was rich and
rare; and there was nothing there which annoyed by its rarity or was
distasteful by its richness. The seats, though they were costly as
money could buy, were meant for sitting, and were comfortable as
seats. There were books for reading, and the means of reading them.
Two or three gems of English art were hung upon the walls, and
could be seen backwards and forwards in the mirrors. And there
were precious toys lying here and there about the room,--toys very
precious, but placed there not because of their price, but because of
their beauty. Phineas already knew enough of the art of living to be
aware that the woman who had made that room what it was, had charms
to add a beauty to everything she touched. What would such a life as
his want, if graced by such a companion,--such a life as his might
be, if the means which were hers were at his command? It would want
one thing, he thought,--the self-respect which he would lose if he
were false to the girl who was trusting him with such sweet trust at
home in Ireland.

In a very few minutes Madame Goesler was with him, and, though he did
not think about it, he perceived that she was bright in her apparel,
that her hair was as soft as care could make it, and that every charm
belonging to her had been brought into use for his gratification. He
almost told himself that he was there in order that he might ask to
have all those charms bestowed upon himself. He did not know who had
lately come to Park Lane and been a suppliant for the possession of
those rich endowments; but I wonder whether they would have been more
precious in his eyes had he known that they had so moved the heart
of the great Duke as to have induced him to lay his coronet at the
lady's feet. I think that had he known that the lady had refused the
coronet, that knowledge would have enhanced the value of the prize.

"I am so sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, as she gave him
her hand. "I was an owl not to be ready for you when you told me that
you would come."

"No;--but a bird of paradise to come to me so sweetly, and at an
hour when all the other birds refuse to show the feather of a single
wing."

"And you,--you feel like a naughty boy, do you not, in thus coming
out on a Sunday morning?"

"Do you feel like a naughty girl?"

"Yes;--just a little so. I do not know that I should care for
everybody to hear that I received visitors,--or worse still, a
visitor,--at this hour on this day. But then it is so pleasant to
feel oneself to be naughty! There is a Bohemian flavour of picnic
about it which, though it does not come up to the rich gusto of
real wickedness, makes one fancy that one is on the border of that
delightful region in which there is none of the constraint of
custom,--where men and women say what they like, and do what they
like."

"It is pleasant enough to be on the borders," said Phineas.

"That is just it. Of course decency, morality, and propriety, all
made to suit the eye of the public, are the things which are really
delightful. We all know that, and live accordingly,--as well as we
can. I do at least."

"And do not I, Madame Goesler?"

"I know nothing about that, Mr. Finn, and want to ask no questions.
But if you do, I am sure you agree with me that you often envy the
improper people,--the Bohemians,--the people who don't trouble
themselves about keeping any laws except those for breaking which
they would be put into nasty, unpleasant prisons. I envy them. Oh,
how I envy them!"

"But you are free as air."

"The most cabined, cribbed, and confined creature in the world! I
have been fighting my way up for the last four years, and have not
allowed myself the liberty of one flirtation;--not often even the
recreation of a natural laugh. And now I shouldn't wonder if I don't
find myself falling back a year or two, just because I have allowed
you to come and see me on a Sunday morning. When I told Lotta that
you were coming, she shook her head at me in dismay. But now that you
are here, tell me what you have done."

"Nothing as yet, Madame Goesler."

"I thought it was to have been settled on Friday?"

"It was settled,--before Friday. Indeed, as I look back at it all
now, I can hardly tell when it was not settled. It is impossible,
and has been impossible, that I should do otherwise. I still hold my
place, Madame Goesler, but I have declared that I shall give it up
before the debate comes on."

"It is quite fixed?"

"Quite fixed, my friend."

"And what next?" Madame Goesler, as she thus interrogated him, was
leaning across towards him from the sofa on which she was placed,
with both her elbows resting on a small table before her. We all know
that look of true interest which the countenance of a real friend
will bear when the welfare of his friend is in question. There are
doubtless some who can assume it without feeling,--as there are
actors who can personate all the passions. But in ordinary life we
think that we can trust such a face, and that we know the true look
when we see it. Phineas, as he gazed into Madame Goesler's eyes, was
sure that the lady opposite him was not acting. She at least was
anxious for his welfare, and was making his cares her own. "What
next?" said she, repeating her words in a tone that was somewhat
hurried.

"I do not know that there will be any next. As far as public life is
concerned, there will be no next for me, Madame Goesler."

"That is out of the question," she said. "You are made for public
life."

"Then I shall be untrue to my making, I fear. But to speak plainly--"

"Yes; speak plainly. I want to understand the reality."

"The reality is this. I shall keep my seat to the end of the session,
as I think I may be of use. After that I shall give it up."

"Resign that too?" she said in a tone of chagrin.

"The chances are, I think, that there will be another dissolution. If
they hold their own against Mr. Monk's motion, then they will pass an
Irish Reform Bill. After that I think they must dissolve."

"And you will not come forward again?"

"I cannot afford it."

"Psha! Some five hundred pounds or so!"

"And, besides that, I am well aware that my only chance at my old
profession is to give up all idea of Parliament. The two things are
not compatible for a beginner at the law. I know it now, and have
bought my knowledge by a bitter experience."

"And where will you live?"

"In Dublin, probably."

"And you will do,--will do what?"

"Anything honest in a barrister's way that may be brought to me. I
hope that I may never descend below that."

"You will stand up for all the blackguards, and try to make out that
the thieves did not steal?"

"It may be that that sort of work may come in my way."

"And you will wear a wig and try to look wise?"

"The wig is not universal in Ireland, Madame Goesler."

"And you will wrangle, as though your very soul were in it, for
somebody's twenty pounds?"

"Exactly."

"You have already made a name in the greatest senate in the world,
and have governed other countries larger than your own--"

"No;--I have not done that. I have governed no country.

"I tell you, my friend, that you cannot do it. It is out of the
question. Men may move forward from little work to big work; but they
cannot move back and do little work, when they have had tasks which
were really great. I tell you, Mr. Finn, that the House of Parliament
is the place for you to work in. It is the only place;--that and the
abodes of Ministers. Am not I your friend who tell you this?"

"I know that you are my friend."

"And will you not credit me when I tell you this? What do you fear,
that you should run away? You have no wife;--no children. What is the
coming misfortune that you dread?" She paused a moment as though for
an answer, and he felt that now had come the time in which it would
be well that he should tell her of his engagement with his own Mary.
She had received him very playfully; but now within the last few
minutes there had come upon her a seriousness of gesture, and almost
a solemnity of tone, which made him conscious that he should in no
way trifle with her. She was so earnest in her friendship that he
owed it to her to tell her everything. But before he could think of
the words in which his tale should be told, she had gone on with her
quick questions. "Is it solely about money that you fear?" she said.

"It is simply that I have no income on which to live."

"Have I not offered you money?"

"But, Madame Goesler, you who offer it would yourself despise me if I
took it."

"No;--I do deny it." As she said this,--not loudly but with much
emphasis,--she came and stood before him where he was sitting. And as
he looked at her he could perceive that there was a strength about
her of which he had not been aware. She was stronger, larger, more
robust physically than he had hitherto conceived. "I do deny it," she
said. "Money is neither god nor devil, that it should make one noble
and another vile. It is an accident, and, if honestly possessed, may
pass from you to me, or from me to you, without a stain. You may
take my dinner from me if I give it you, my flowers, my friendship,
my,--my,--my everything, but my money! Explain to me the cause of the
phenomenon. If I give to you a thousand pounds, now this moment, and
you take it, you are base;--but if I leave it you in my will,--and
die,--you take it, and are not base. Explain to me the cause of
that."

"You have not said it quite all," said Phineas hoarsely.

"What have I left unsaid? If I have left anything unsaid, do you say
the rest."

"It is because you are a woman, and young, and beautiful, that no man
may take wealth from your hands."

"Oh, it is that!"

"It is that partly,"

"If I were a man you might take it, though I were young and beautiful
as the morning?"

"No;--presents of money are always bad. They stain and load the
spirit, and break the heart."

"And specially when given by a woman's hand?"

"It seems so to me. But I cannot argue of it. Do not let us talk of
it any more."

"Nor can I argue. I cannot argue, but I can be generous,--very
generous. I can deny myself for my friend,--can even lower myself in
my own esteem for my friend. I can do more than a man can do for a
friend. You will not take money from my hand?"

"No, Madame Goesler;--I cannot do that."

"Take the hand then first. When it and all that it holds are your
own, you can help yourself as you list." So saying, she stood before
him with her right hand stretched out towards him.

What man will say that he would not have been tempted? Or what woman
will declare that such temptation should have had no force? The very
air of the room in which she dwelt was sweet in his nostrils, and
there hovered around her an halo of grace and beauty which greeted
all his senses. She invited him to join his lot to hers, in order
that she might give to him all that was needed to make his life rich
and glorious. How would the Ratlers and the Bonteens envy him when
they heard of the prize which had become his! The Cantrips and the
Greshams would feel that he was a friend doubly valuable, if he could
be won back; and Mr. Monk would greet him as a fitting ally,--an ally
strong with the strength which he had before wanted. With whom would
he not be equal? Whom need he fear? Who would not praise him? The
story of his poor Mary would be known only in a small village, out
beyond the Channel. The temptation certainly was very strong.

But he had not a moment in which to doubt. She was standing there
with her face turned from him, but with her hand still stretched
towards him. Of course he took it. What man so placed could do other
than take a woman's hand?

"My friend," he said.

"I will be called friend by you no more," she said. "You must call me
Marie, your own Marie, or you must never call me by any name again.
Which shall it be, sir?" He paused a moment, holding her hand, and
she let it lie there for an instant while she listened. But still she
did not look at him. "Speak to me! Tell me! Which shall it be?" Still
he paused. "Speak to me. Tell me!" she said again.

"It cannot be as you have hinted to me," he said at last. His words
did not come louder than a low whisper; but they were plainly heard,
and instantly the hand was withdrawn.

"Cannot be!" she exclaimed. "Then I have betrayed myself."

"No;--Madame Goesler."

"Sir; I say yes! If you will allow me I will leave you. You will, I
know, excuse me if I am abrupt to you." Then she strode out of the
room, and was no more seen of the eyes of Phineas Finn.

He never afterwards knew how he escaped out of that room and found
his way into Park Lane. In after days he had some memory that he
remained there, he knew not how long, standing on the very spot on
which she had left him; and that at last there grew upon him almost a
fear of moving, a dread lest he should be heard, an inordinate desire
to escape without the sound of a footfall, without the clicking of
a lock. Everything in that house had been offered to him. He had
refused it all, and then felt that of all human beings under the
sun none had so little right to be standing there as he. His very
presence in that drawing-room was an insult to the woman whom he had
driven from it.

But at length he was in the street, and had found his way across
Piccadilly into the Green Park. Then, as soon as he could find a spot
apart from the Sunday world, he threw himself upon the turf; and
tried to fix his thoughts upon the thing that he had done. His first
feeling, I think, was one of pure and unmixed disappointment;--of
disappointment so bitter, that even the vision of his own Mary did
not tend to comfort him. How great might have been his success, and
how terrible was his failure! Had he taken the woman's hand and her
money, had he clenched his grasp on the great prize offered to him,
his misery would have been ten times worse the first moment that he
would have been away from her. Then, indeed,--it being so that he
was a man with a heart within his breast,--there would have been no
comfort for him, in his outlooks on any side. But even now, when he
had done right,--knowing well that he had done right,--he found that
comfort did not come readily within his reach.




CHAPTER LXXIII

Amantium Iræ


Miss Effingham's life at this time was not the happiest in the world.
Her lines, as she once said to her friend Lady Laura, were not
laid for her in pleasant places. Her residence was still with her
aunt, and she had come to find that it was almost impossible any
longer to endure Lady Baldock, and quite impossible to escape from
Lady Baldock. In former days she had had a dream that she might
escape, and live alone if she chose to be alone; that she might be
independent in her life, as a man is independent, if she chose to
live after that fashion; that she might take her own fortune in her
own hand, as the law certainly allowed her to do, and act with it as
she might please. But latterly she had learned to understand that all
this was not possible for her. Though one law allowed it, another law
disallowed it, and the latter law was at least as powerful as the
former. And then her present misery was enhanced by the fact that
she was now banished from the second home which she had formerly
possessed. Hitherto she had always been able to escape from Lady
Baldock to the house of her friend, but now such escape was out of
the question. Lady Laura and Lord Chiltern lived in the same house,
and Violet could not live with them.

Lady Baldock understood all this, and tortured her niece accordingly.
It was not premeditated torture. The aunt did not mean to make her
niece's life a burden to her, and, so intending, systematically work
upon a principle to that effect. Lady Baldock, no doubt, desired
to do her duty conscientiously. But the result was torture to poor
Violet, and a strong conviction on the mind of each of the two ladies
that the other was the most unreasonable being in the world.

The aunt, in these days, had taken it into her head to talk of poor
Lord Chiltern. This arose partly from a belief that the quarrel was
final, and that, therefore, there would be no danger in aggravating
Violet by this expression of pity,--partly from a feeling that it
would be better that her niece should marry Lord Chiltern than that
she should not marry at all,--and partly, perhaps, from the general
principle that, as she thought it right to scold her niece on all
occasions, this might be best done by taking an opposite view of
all questions to that taken by the niece to be scolded. Violet was
supposed to regard Lord Chiltern as having sinned against her, and
therefore Lady Baldock talked of "poor Lord Chiltern." As to the
other lovers, she had begun to perceive that their conditions were
hopeless. Her daughter Augusta had explained to her that there was
no chance remaining either for Phineas, or for Lord Fawn, or for Mr.
Appledom. "I believe she will be an old maid, on purpose to bring me
to my grave," said Lady Baldock. When, therefore, Lady Baldock was
told one day that Lord Chiltern was in the house, and was asking to
see Miss Effingham, she did not at once faint away, and declare that
they would all be murdered,--as she would have done some months
since. She was perplexed by a double duty. If it were possible that
Violet should relent and be reconciled, then it would be her duty to
save Violet from the claws of the wild beast. But if there was no
such chance, then it would be her duty to poor Lord Chiltern to see
that he was not treated with contumely and ill-humour.

"Does she know that he is here?" Lady Baldock asked her daughter.

"Not yet, mamma."

"Oh dear, oh dear! I suppose she ought to see him. She has given him
so much encouragement!"

"I suppose she will do as she pleases, mamma."

"Augusta, how can you talk in that way? Am I to have no control in my
own house?" It was, however, soon apparent to her that in this matter
she was to have no control.

"Lord Chiltern is down-stairs," said Violet, coming into the room
abruptly.

"So Augusta tells me. Sit down, my dear."

"I cannot sit down, aunt,--not just now. I have sent down to say that
I would be with him in a minute. He is the most impatient soul alive,
and I must not keep him waiting."

"And you mean to see him?"

"Certainly I shall see him," said Violet, as she left the room.

"I wonder that any woman should ever take upon herself the charge of
a niece!" said Lady Baldock to her daughter in a despondent tone, as
she held up her hands in dismay. In the meantime, Violet had gone
down-stairs with a quick step, and had then boldly entered the room
in which her lover was waiting to receive her.

"I have to thank you for coming to me, Violet," said Lord Chiltern.
There was still in his face something of savagery,--an expression
partly of anger and partly of resolution to tame the thing with which
he was angry. Violet did not regard the anger half so keenly as she
did that resolution of taming. An angry lord, she thought, she could
endure, but she could not bear the idea of being tamed by any one.

"Why should I not come?" she said. "Of course I came when I was told
that you were here. I do not think that there need be a quarrel
between us, because we have changed our minds."

"Such changes make quarrels," said he.

"It shall not do so with me, unless you choose that it shall," said
Violet. "Why should we be enemies,--we who have known each other
since we were children? My dearest friends are your father and your
sister. Why should we be enemies?"

"I have come to ask you whether you think that I have ill-used you?"

"Ill-used me! Certainly not. Has any one told you that I have accused
you?"

"No one has told me so."

"Then why do you ask me?"

"Because I would not have you think so,--if I could help it. I did
not intend to be rough with you. When you told me that my life was
disreputable--"

"Oh, Oswald, do not let us go back to that. What good will it do?"

"But you said so."

"I think not."

"I believe that that was your word,--the harshest word that you could
use in all the language."

"I did not mean to be harsh. If I used it, I will beg your pardon.
Only let there be an end of it. As we think so differently about life
in general, it was better that we should not be married. But that
is settled, and why should we go back to words that were spoken in
haste, and which are simply disagreeable?"

"I have come to know whether it is settled."

"Certainly. You settled it yourself, Oswald. I told you what I
thought myself bound to tell you. Perhaps I used language which I
should not have used. Then you told me that I could not be your
wife;--and I thought you were right, quite right."

"I was wrong, quite wrong," he said impetuously. "So wrong, that I
can never forgive myself, if you do not relent. I was such a fool,
that I cannot forgive myself my folly. I had known before that I
could not live without you; and when you were mine, I threw you away
for an angry word."

"It was not an angry word," she said.

"Say it again, and let me have another chance to answer it."

"I think I said that idleness was not,--respectable, or something
like that, taken out of a copy-book probably. But you are a man who
do not like rebukes, even out of copy-books. A man so thin-skinned
as you are must choose for himself a wife with a softer tongue than
mine."

"I will choose none other!" he said. But still he was savage in his
tone and in his gestures. "I made my choice long since, as you know
well enough. I do not change easily. I cannot change in this. Violet,
say that you will be my wife once more, and I will swear to work for
you like a coal-heaver."

"My wish is that my husband,--should I ever have one,--should work,
not exactly as a coal-heaver."

"Come, Violet," he said,--and now the look of savagery departed from
him, and there came a smile over his face, which, however, had in it
more of sadness than of hope or joy,--"treat me fairly,--or rather,
treat me generously if you can. I do not know whether you ever loved
me much."

"Very much,--years ago, when you were a boy."

"But not since? If it be so, I had better go. Love on one side only
is a poor affair at best."

"A very poor affair."

"It is better to bear anything than to try and make out life with
that. Some of you women never want to love any one."

"That was what I was saying of myself to Laura but the other day.
With some women it is so easy. With others it is so difficult, that
perhaps it never comes to them."

"And with you?"

"Oh, with me--. But it is better in these matters to confine
oneself to generalities. If you please, I will not describe myself
personally. Were I to do so, doubtless I should do it falsely."

"You love no one else, Violet?"

"That is my affair, my lord."

"By heavens, and it is mine too. Tell me that you do, and I will
go away and leave you at once. I will not ask his name, and I will
trouble you no more. If it is not so, and if it is possible that you
should forgive me--"

"Forgive you! When have I been angry with you?"

"Answer me my question, Violet."

"I will not answer you your question,--not that one."

"What question will you answer?"

"Any that may concern yourself and myself. None that may concern
other people."

"You told me once that you loved me."

"This moment I told you that I did so,--years ago."

"But now?"

"That is another matter."

"Violet, do you love me now?"

"That is a point-blank question at any rate," she said.

"And you will answer it?"

"I must answer it,--I suppose."

"Well, then?"

"Oh, Oswald, what a fool you are! Love you! of course I love you.
If you can understand anything, you ought to know that I have never
loved any one else;--that after what has passed between us, I never
shall love any one else. I do love you. There. Whether you throw me
away from you, as you did the other day,--with great scorn, mind
you,--or come to me with sweet, beautiful promises, as you do now, I
shall love you all the same. I cannot be your wife, if you will not
have me; can I? When you run away in your tantrums because I quote
something out of the copy-book, I can't run after you. It would not
be pretty. But as for loving you, if you doubt that, I tell you, you
are a--fool." As she spoke the last words she pouted out her lips at
him, and when he looked into her face he saw that her eyes were full
of tears. He was standing now with his arm round her waist, so that
it was not easy for him to look into her face.

"I am a fool," he said.

"Yes;--you are; but I don't love you the less on that account."

"I will never doubt it again."

"No;--do not; and, for me, I will not say another word, whether you
choose to heave coals or not. You shall do as you please. I meant to
be very wise;--I did indeed."

"You are the grandest girl that ever was made."

"I do not want to be grand at all, and I never will be wise any more.
Only do not frown at me and look savage." Then she put up her hand
to smooth his brow. "I am half afraid of you still, you know. There.
That will do. Now let me go, that I may tell my aunt. During the last
two months she has been full of pity for poor Lord Chiltern."

"It has been poor Lord Chiltern with a vengeance!" said he.

"But now that we have made it up, she will be horrified again at all
your wickednesses. You have been a turtle dove lately;--now you will
be an ogre again. But, Oswald, you must not be an ogre to me."

As soon as she could get quit of her lover, she did tell her tale to
Lady Baldock. "You have accepted him again!" said her aunt, holding
up her hands. "Yes,--I have accepted him again," replied Violet.
"Then the responsibility must be on your own shoulders," said her
aunt; "I wash my hands of it." That evening, when she discussed the
matter with her daughter, Lady Baldock spoke of Violet and Lord
Chiltern, as though their intended marriage were the one thing in the
world which she most deplored.




CHAPTER LXXIV

The Beginning of the End


The day of the debate had come, and Phineas Finn was still sitting in
his room at the Colonial Office. But his resignation had been sent in
and accepted, and he was simply awaiting the coming of his successor.
About noon his successor came, and he had the gratification of
resigning his arm-chair to Mr. Bonteen. It is generally understood
that gentlemen leaving offices give up either seals or a portfolio.
Phineas had been put in possession of no seal and no portfolio; but
there was in the room which he had occupied a special arm-chair, and
this with much regret he surrendered to the use and comfort of Mr.
Bonteen. There was a glance of triumph in his enemy's eyes, and an
exultation in the tone of his enemy's voice, which were very bitter
to him. "So you are really going?" said Mr. Bonteen. "Well; I dare
say it is all very proper. I don't quite understand the thing myself,
but I have no doubt you are right." "It isn't easy to understand; is
it?" said Phineas, trying to laugh. But Mr. Bonteen did not feel the
intended satire, and poor Phineas found it useless to attempt to
punish the man he hated. He left him as quickly as he could, and went
to say a few words of farewell to his late chief.

"Good-bye, Finn," said Lord Cantrip. "It is a great trouble to me
that we should have to part in this way."

"And to me also, my lord. I wish it could have been avoided."

"You should not have gone to Ireland with so dangerous a man as Mr.
Monk. But it is too late to think of that now."

"The milk is spilt; is it not?"

"But these terrible rendings asunder never last very long," said
Lord Cantrip, "unless a man changes his opinions altogether. How
many quarrels and how many reconciliations we have lived to see! I
remember when Gresham went out of office, because he could not sit
in the same room with Mr. Mildmay, and yet they became the fastest
of political friends. There was a time when Plinlimmon and the Duke
could not stable their horses together at all; and don't you remember
when Palliser was obliged to give up his hopes of office because he
had some bee in his bonnet?" I think, however, that the bee in Mr.
Palliser's bonnet to which Lord Cantrip was alluding made its buzzing
audible on some subject that was not exactly political. "We shall
have you back again before long, I don't doubt. Men who can really do
their work are too rare to be left long in the comfort of the benches
below the gangway." This was very kindly said, and Phineas was
flattered and comforted. He could not, however, make Lord Cantrip
understand the whole truth. For him the dream of a life of politics
was over for ever. He had tried it, and had succeeded beyond his
utmost hopes; but, in spite of his success, the ground had crumbled
to pieces beneath his feet, and he knew that he could never recover
the niche in the world's gallery which he was now leaving.

That same afternoon he met Mr. Gresham in one of the passages leading
to the House, and the Prime Minister put his arm through that of our
hero as they walked together into the lobby. "I am sorry that we are
losing you," said Mr. Gresham.

"You may be sure that I am sorry to be so lost," said Phineas.

"These things will occur in political life," said the leader; "but
I think that they seldom leave rancour behind them when the purpose
is declared, and when the subject of disagreement is marked and
understood. The defalcation which creates angry feeling is that which
has to be endured without previous warning,--when a man votes against
his party,--or a set of men, from private pique or from some cause
which is never clear." Phineas, when he heard this, knew well how
terribly this very man had been harassed, and driven nearly wild,
by defalcation, exactly of that nature which he was attempting to
describe. "No doubt you and Mr. Monk think you are right," continued
Mr. Gresham.

"We have given strong evidence that we think so," said Phineas. "We
give up our places, and we are, both of us, very poor men."

"I think you are wrong, you know, not so much in your views on the
question itself--which, to tell the truth, I hardly understand as
yet."

"We will endeavour to explain them."

"And will do so very clearly, no doubt. But I think that Mr. Monk was
wrong in desiring, as a member of a Government, to force a measure
which, whether good or bad, the Government as a body does not desire
to initiate,--at any rate, just now."

"And therefore he resigned," said Phineas.

"Of course. But it seems to me that he failed to comprehend the only
way in which a great party can act together, if it is to do any
service in this country. Don't for a moment think that I am blaming
him or you."

"I am nobody in this matter," said Phineas.

"I can assure you, Mr. Finn, that we have not regarded you in that
light, and I hope that the time may come when we may be sitting
together again on the same bench."

Neither on the Treasury bench nor on any other in that House was
he to sit again after this fashion! That was the trouble which was
crushing his spirit at this moment, and not the loss of his office!
He knew that he could not venture to think of remaining in London
as a member of Parliament with no other income than that which his
father could allow him, even if he could again secure a seat in
Parliament. When he had first been returned for Loughshane he had
assured his friends that his duty as a member of the House of Commons
would not be a bar to his practice in the Courts. He had now been
five years a member, and had never once made an attempt at doing any
part of a barrister's work. He had gone altogether into a different
line of life, and had been most successful;--so successful that men
told him, and women more frequently than men, that his career had
been a miracle of success. But there had been, as he had well known
from the first, this drawback in the new profession which he had
chosen, that nothing in it could be permanent. They who succeed in
it, may probably succeed again; but then the success is intermittent,
and there may be years of hard work in opposition, to which,
unfortunately, no pay is assigned. It is almost imperative, as he now
found, that they who devote themselves to such a profession should
be men of fortune. When he had commenced his work,--at the period of
his first return for Loughshane,--he had had no thought of mending
his deficiency in this respect by a rich marriage. Nor had it ever
occurred to him that he would seek a marriage for that purpose. Such
an idea would have been thoroughly distasteful to him. There had been
no stain of premeditated mercenary arrangement upon him at any time.
But circumstances had so fallen out with him, that as he won his
spurs in Parliament, as he became known, and was placed first in one
office and then in another, prospects of love and money together were
opened to him, and he ventured on, leaving Mr. Low and the law behind
him,--because these prospects were so alluring. Then had come Mr.
Monk and Mary Flood Jones,--and everything around him had collapsed.

Everything around him had collapsed,--with, however, a terrible
temptation to him to inflate his sails again, at the cost of his
truth and his honour. The temptation would have affected him
not at all, had Madame Goesler been ugly, stupid, or personally
disagreeable. But she was, he thought, the most beautiful woman
he had ever seen, the most witty, and in many respects the most
charming. She had offered to give him everything that she had, so to
place him in the world that opposition would be more pleasant to him
than office, to supply every want, and had done so in a manner that
had gratified all his vanity. But he had refused it all, because he
was bound to the girl at Floodborough. My readers will probably say
that he was not a true man unless he could do this without a regret.
When Phineas thought of it all, there were many regrets.

But there was at the same time a resolve on his part, that if any man
had ever loved the girl he promised to love, he would love Mary Flood
Jones. A thousand times he had told himself that she had not the
spirit of Lady Laura, or the bright wit of Violet Effingham, or the
beauty of Madame Goesler. But Mary had charms of her own that were
more valuable than them all. Was there one among the three who had
trusted him as she trusted him,--or loved him with the same satisfied
devotion? There were regrets, regrets that were heavy on his
heart;--for London, and Parliament, and the clubs, and Downing
Street, had become dear to him. He liked to think of himself as he
rode in the park, and was greeted by all those whose greeting was
the most worth having. There were regrets,--sad regrets. But the
girl whom he loved better than the parks and the clubs,--better even
than Westminster and Downing Street, should never know that they had
existed.

These thoughts were running through his mind even while he was
listening to Mr. Monk, as he propounded his theory of doing justice
to Ireland. This might probably be the last great debate in which
Phineas would be able to take a part, and he was determined that he
would do his best in it. He did not intend to speak on this day, if,
as was generally supposed, the House would be adjourned before a
division could be obtained. But he would remain on the alert and see
how the thing went. He had come to understand the forms of the place,
and was as well-trained a young member of Parliament as any there. He
had been quick at learning a lesson that is not easily learned, and
knew how things were going, and what were the proper moments for this
question or that form of motion. He could anticipate a count-out,
understood the tone of men's minds, and could read the gestures of
the House. It was very little likely that the debate should be over
to-night. He knew that; and as the present time was the evening of
Tuesday, he resolved at once that he would speak as early as he could
on the following Thursday. What a pity it was, that with one who had
learned so much, all his learning should be in vain!

At about two o'clock, he himself succeeded in moving the adjournment
of the debate. This he did from a seat below the gangway, to which he
had removed himself from the Treasury bench. Then the House was up,
and he walked home with Mr. Monk. Mr. Monk, since he had been told
positively by Phineas that he had resolved upon resigning his office,
had said nothing more of his sorrow at his friend's resolve, but had
used him as one political friend uses another, telling him all his
thoughts and all his hopes as to this new measure of his, and taking
counsel with him as to the way in which the fight should be fought.
Together they had counted over the list of members, marking these
men as supporters, those as opponents, and another set, now more
important than either, as being doubtful. From day to day those who
had been written down as doubtful were struck off that third list,
and put in either the one or the other of those who were either
supporters or opponents. And their different modes of argument were
settled between these two allied orators, how one should take this
line and the other that. To Mr. Monk this was very pleasant. He was
quite assured now that opposition was more congenial to his spirit,
and more fitting for him than office. There was no doubt to him as
to his future sitting in Parliament, let the result of this contest
be what it might. The work which he was now doing, was the work for
which he had been training himself all his life. While he had been
forced to attend Cabinet Councils from week to week, he had been
depressed. Now he was exultant. Phineas seeing and understanding all
this, said but little to his friend of his own prospects. As long as
this pleasant battle was raging, he could fight in it shoulder to
shoulder with the man he loved. After that there would be a blank.

"I do not see how we are to fail to have a majority after Daubeny's
speech to-night," said Mr. Monk, as they walked together down
Parliament Street through the bright moonlight.

"He expressly said that he only spoke for himself," said Phineas.

"But we know what that means. He is bidding for office, and of course
those who want office with him will vote as he votes. We have already
counted those who would go into office, but they will not carry the
whole party."

"It will carry enough of them."

"There are forty or fifty men on his side of the House, and as many
perhaps on ours," said Mr. Monk, "who have no idea of any kind on
any bill, and who simply follow the bell, whether into this lobby
or that. Argument never touches them. They do not even look to the
result of a division on their own interests, as the making of any
calculation would be laborious to them. Their party leader is to them
a Pope whom they do not dream of doubting. I never can quite make up
my mind whether it is good or bad that there should be such men in
Parliament."

"Men who think much want to speak often," said Phineas.

"Exactly so,--and of speaking members, God knows that we have enough.
And I suppose that these purblind sheep do have some occult weight
that is salutary. They enable a leader to be a leader, and even in
that way they are useful. We shall get a division on Thursday."

"I understand that Gresham has consented to that."

"So Ratler told me. Palliser is to speak, and Barrington Erle. And
they say that Robson is going to make an onslaught specially on me.
We shall get it over by one o'clock."

"And if we beat them?" asked Phineas.

"It will depend on the numbers. Everybody who has spoken to me about
it, seems to think that they will dissolve if there be a respectable
majority against them."

"Of course he will dissolve," said Phineas, speaking of Mr. Gresham;
"what else can he do?"

"He is very anxious to carry his Irish Reform Bill first, if he can
do so. Good-night, Phineas. I shall not be down to-morrow as there
is nothing to be done. Come to me on Thursday, and we will go to the
House together."

On the Wednesday Phineas was engaged to dine with Mr. Low. There
was a dinner party in Bedford Square, and Phineas met half-a-dozen
barristers and their wives,--men to whom he had looked up as
successful pundits in the law some five or six years ago, but who
since that time had almost learned to look up to him. And now they
treated him with that courteousness of manner which success in life
always begets. There was a judge there who was very civil to him; and
the judge's wife whom he had taken down to dinner was very gracious
to him. The judge had got his prize in life, and was therefore
personally indifferent to the fate of ministers; but the judge's wife
had a brother who wanted a County Court from Lord De Terrier, and it
was known that Phineas was giving valuable assistance towards the
attainment of this object. "I do think that you and Mr. Monk are so
right," said the judge's wife. Phineas, who understood how it came to
pass that the judge's wife should so cordially approve his conduct,
could not help thinking how grand a thing it would be for him to have
a County Court for himself.

When the guests were gone he was left alone with Mr. and Mrs. Low,
and remained awhile with them, there having been an understanding
that they should have a last chat together over the affairs of our
hero. "Do you really mean that you will not stand again?" asked Mrs.
Low.

"I do mean it. I may say that I cannot do so. My father is hardly
so well able to help me as he was when I began this game, and I
certainly shall not ask him for money to support a canvass."

"It's a thousand pities," said Mrs. Low.

"I really had begun to think that you would make it answer," said Mr.
Low.

"In one way I have made it answer. For the last three years I have
lived upon what I have earned, and I am not in debt. But now I must
begin the world again. I am afraid I shall find the drudgery very
hard."

"It is hard no doubt," said the barrister, who had gone through it
all, and was now reaping the fruits of it. "But I suppose you have
not forgotten what you learned?"

"Who can say? I dare say I have. But I did not mean the drudgery
of learning, so much as the drudgery of looking after work;--of
expecting briefs which perhaps will never come. I am thirty years old
now, you know."

"Are you indeed?" said Mrs. Low,--who knew his age to a day. "How the
time passes. I'm sure I hope you'll get on, Mr. Finn. I do indeed."

"I am sure he will, if he puts his shoulder to it," said Mr. Low.

Neither the lawyer nor his wife repeated any of those sententious
admonitions, which had almost become rebukes, and which had been
so common in their mouths. The fall with which they had threatened
Phineas Finn had come upon him, and they were too generous to remind
him of their wisdom and sagacity. Indeed, when he got up to take his
leave, Mrs. Low, who probably might not see him again for years, was
quite affectionate in her manners to him, and looked as if she were
almost minded to kiss him as she pressed his hand. "We will come and
see you," she said, "when you are Master of the Rolls in Dublin."

"We shall see him before then thundering at us poor Tories in the
House," said Mr. Low. "He will be back again sooner or later." And
so they parted.




CHAPTER LXXV

P. P. C.


On the Thursday morning before Phineas went to Mr. Monk, a gentleman
called upon him at his lodgings. Phineas requested the servant to
bring up the gentleman's name, but tempted perhaps by a shilling the
girl brought up the gentleman instead. It was Mr. Quintus Slide from
the office of the "Banner of the People."

"Mr. Finn," said Quintus, with his hand extended, "I have come to
offer you the calumet of peace." Phineas certainly desired no such
calumet. But to refuse a man's hand is to declare active war after a
fashion which men do not like to adopt except on deliberation. He had
never cared a straw for the abuse which Mr. Slide had poured upon
him, and now he gave his hand to the man of letters. But he did not
sit down, nor did he offer a seat to Mr. Slide. "I know that as a man
of sense who knows the world, you will accept the calumet of peace,"
continued Mr. Slide.

"I don't know why I should be asked particularly to accept war or
peace," said Phineas.

"Well, Mr. Finn,--I don't often quote the Bible; but those who are
not for us must be against us. You will agree to that. Now that
you've freed yourself from the iniquities of that sink of abomination
in Downing Street, I look upon you as a man again."

"Upon my word you are very kind."

"As a man and also a brother. I suppose you know that I've got the
_Banner_ into my own 'ands now." Phineas was obliged to explain that
he had not hitherto been made acquainted with this great literary
and political secret. "Oh dear, yes, altogether so. We've got rid of
old Rusty as I used to call him. He wouldn't go the pace, and so we
stripped him. He's doing the _West of England Art Journal_ now, and
he 'angs out down at Bristol."

"I hope he'll succeed, Mr. Slide."

"He'll earn his wages. He's a man who will always earn his wages, but
nothing more. Well, now, Mr. Finn, I will just offer you one word of
apology for our little severities."

"Pray do nothing of the kind."

"Indeed I shall. Dooty is dooty. There was some things printed which
were a little rough, but if one isn't a little rough there ain't no
flavour. Of course I wrote 'em. You know my 'and, I dare say."

"I only remember that there was some throwing of mud."

"Just so. But mud don't break any bones; does it? When you turned
against us I had to be down on you, and I was down upon you;--that's
just about all of it. Now you're coming among us again, and so I come
to you with a calumet of peace."

"But I am not coming among you."

"Yes you are, Finn, and bringing Monk with you." It was now becoming
very disagreeable, and Phineas was beginning to perceive that it
would soon be his turn to say something rough. "Now I'll tell you
what my proposition is. If you'll do us two leaders a week through
the session, you shall have a cheque for £16 on the last day of every
month. If that's not honester money than what you got in Downing
Street, my name is not Quintus Slide."

"Mr. Slide," said Phineas,--and then he paused.

"If we are to come to business, drop the Mister. It makes things go
so much easier."

"We are not to come to business, and I do not want things to go easy.
I believe you said some things of me in your newspaper that were very
scurrilous."

"What of that? If you mind that sort of thing--"

"I did not regard it in the least. You are quite welcome to continue
it. I don't doubt but you will continue it. But you are not welcome
to come here afterwards."

"Do you mean to turn me out?"

"Just that. You printed a heap of lies--"

"Lies, Mr. Finn! Did you say lies, sir?"

"I said lies;--lies;--lies!" And Phineas walked over at him as though
he were going to pitch him instantly out of the window. "You may go
and write as many more as you like. It is your trade, and you must do
it or starve. But do not come to me again." Then he opened the door
and stood with it in his hand.

"Very well, sir. I shall know how to punish this."

"Exactly. But if you please you'll go and do your punishment at the
office of the _Banner_,--unless you like to try it here. You want to
kick me and spit at me, but you will prefer to do it in print."

"Yes, sir," said Quintus Slide. "I shall prefer to do it in
print,--though I must own that the temptation to adopt the manual
violence of a ruffian is great, very great, very great indeed." But
he resisted the temptation and walked down the stairs, concocting his
article as he went.

Mr. Quintus Slide did not so much impede the business of his day but
what Phineas was with Mr. Monk by two, and in his place in the House
when prayers were read at four. As he sat in his place, conscious
of the work that was before him, listening to the presentation of
petitions, and to the formal reading of certain notices of motions,
which with the asking of sundry questions occupied over half an
hour, he looked back and remembered accurately his own feelings on
a certain night on which he had intended to get up and address the
House. The ordeal before him had then been so terrible, that it had
almost obliterated for the moment his senses of hearing and of sight.
He had hardly been able to perceive what had been going on around
him, and had vainly endeavoured to occupy himself in recalling to
his memory the words which he wished to pronounce. When the time for
pronouncing them had come, he had found himself unable to stand upon
his legs. He smiled as he recalled all this in his memory, waiting
impatiently for the moment in which he might rise. His audience was
assured to him now, and he did not fear it. His opportunity for
utterance was his own, and even the Speaker could not deprive him of
it. During these minutes he thought not at all of the words that he
was to say. He had prepared his matter but had prepared no words. He
knew that words would come readily enough to him, and that he had
learned the task of turning his thoughts quickly into language while
standing with a crowd of listeners around him,--as a practised writer
does when seated in his chair. There was no violent beating at his
heart now, no dimness of the eyes, no feeling that the ground was
turning round under his feet. If only those weary vain questions
would get themselves all asked, so that he might rise and begin the
work of the night. Then there came the last thought as the House was
hushed for his rising. What was the good of it all, when he would
never have an opportunity of speaking there again?

But not on that account would he be slack in his endeavour now.
He would be listened to once at least, not as a subaltern of the
Government but as the owner of a voice prominent in opposition to
the Government. He had been taught by Mr. Monk that that was the one
place in the House in which a man with a power of speaking could
really enjoy pleasure without alloy. He would make the trial,--once,
if never again. Things had so gone with him that the rostrum was his
own, and a House crammed to overflowing was there to listen to him.
He had given up his place in order that he might be able to speak his
mind, and had become aware that many intended to listen to him while
he spoke. He had observed that the rows of strangers were thick in
the galleries, that peers were standing in the passages, and that
over the reporter's head, the ribbons of many ladies were to be seen
through the bars of their cage. Yes;--for this once he would have an
audience.

He spoke for about an hour, and while he was speaking he knew nothing
about himself, whether he was doing it well or ill. Something of
himself he did say soon after he had commenced,--not quite beginning
with it, as though his mind had been laden with the matter. He had,
he said, found himself compelled to renounce his happy allegiance to
the First Lord of the Treasury, and to quit the pleasant company in
which, humble as had been his place, he had been allowed to sit and
act, by his unfortunate conviction in this great subject. He had been
told, he said, that it was a misfortune in itself for one so young as
he to have convictions. But his Irish birth and Irish connection had
brought this misfortune of his country so closely home to him that he
had found the task of extricating himself from it to be impossible.
Of what further he said, speaking on that terribly unintelligible
subject, a tenant-right proposed for Irish farmers, no English reader
will desire to know much. Irish subjects in the House of Commons
are interesting or are dull, are debated before a crowded audience
composed of all who are leaders in the great world of London, or
before empty benches, in accordance with the importance of the moment
and the character of the debate. For us now it is enough to know that
to our hero was accorded that attention which orators love,--which
will almost make an orator if it can be assured. A full House with a
promise of big type on the next morning would wake to eloquence the
propounder of a Canadian grievance, or the mover of an Indian budget.

Phineas did not stir out of the House till the division was over,
having agreed with Mr. Monk that they two would remain through it
all and hear everything that was to be said. Mr. Gresham had already
spoken, and to Mr. Palliser was confided the task of winding up
the argument for the Government. Mr. Robson spoke also, greatly
enlivening the tedium of the evening, and to Mr. Monk was permitted
the privilege of a final reply. At two o'clock the division came, and
the Ministry were beaten by a majority of twenty-three. "And now,"
said Mr. Monk, as he again walked home with Phineas, "the pity is
that we are not a bit nearer tenant-right than we were before."

"But we are nearer to it."

"In one sense, yes. Such a debate and such a majority will make men
think. But no;--think is too high a word; as a rule men don't think.
But it will make them believe that there is something in it. Many who
before regarded legislation on the subject as chimerical, will now
fancy that it is only dangerous, or perhaps not more than difficult.
And so in time it will come to be looked on as among the things
possible, then among the things probable;--and so at last it will be
ranged in the list of those few measures which the country requires
as being absolutely needed. That is the way in which public opinion
is made."

"It is no loss of time," said Phineas, "to have taken the first great
step in making it."

"The first great step was taken long ago," said Mr. Monk,--"taken
by men who were looked upon as revolutionary demagogues, almost as
traitors, because they took it. But it is a great thing to take any
step that leads us onwards."

Two days after this Mr. Gresham declared his intention of dissolving
the House because of the adverse division which had been produced by
Mr. Monk's motion, but expressed a wish to be allowed to carry an
Irish Reform Bill through Parliament before he did so. He explained
how expedient this would be, but declared at the same time that if
any strong opposition were made, he would abandon the project. His
intention simply was to pass with regard to Ireland a measure which
must be passed soon, and which ought to be passed before a new
election took place. The bill was ready, and should be read for the
first time on the next night, if the House were willing. The House
was willing, though there were very many recalcitrant Irish members.
The Irish members made loud opposition, and then twitted Mr. Gresham
with his promise that he would not go on with his bill, if opposition
were made. But, nevertheless, he did go on, and the measure was
hurried through the two Houses in a week. Our hero who still sat for
Loughshane, but who was never to sit for Loughshane again, gave what
assistance he could to the Government, and voted for the measure
which deprived Loughshane for ever of its parliamentary honours.

"And very dirty conduct I think it was," said Lord Tulla, when he
discussed the subject with his agent. "After being put in for the
borough twice, almost free of expense, it was very dirty." It never
occurred to Lord Tulla that a member of Parliament might feel himself
obliged to vote on such a subject in accordance with his judgment.

This Irish Reform Bill was scrambled through the two Houses, and
then the session was over. The session was over, and they who knew
anything of the private concerns of Mr. Phineas Finn were aware that
he was about to return to Ireland, and did not intend to reappear on
the scene which had known him so well for the last five years. "I
cannot tell you how sad it makes me," said Mr. Monk.

"And it makes me sad too," said Phineas. "I try to shake off the
melancholy, and tell myself from day to day that it is unmanly. But
it gets the better of me just at present."

"I feel quite certain that you will come back among us again," said
Mr. Monk.

"Everybody tells me so; and yet I feel quite certain that I shall
never come back,--never come back with a seat in Parliament. As my
old tutor, Low, has told me scores of times, I began at the wrong
end. Here I am, thirty years of age, and I have not a shilling in the
world, and I do not know how to earn one."

"Only for me you would still be receiving ever so much a year, and
all would be pleasant," said Mr. Monk.

"But how long would it have lasted? The first moment that Daubeny got
the upper hand I should have fallen lower than I have fallen now. If
not this year, it would have been the next. My only comfort is in
this,--that I have done the thing myself, and have not been turned
out." To the very last, however, Mr. Monk continued to express his
opinion that Phineas would come back, declaring that he had known no
instance of a young man who had made himself useful in Parliament,
and then had been allowed to leave it in early life.

Among those of whom he was bound to take a special leave, the members
of the family of Lord Brentford were, of course, the foremost. He
had already heard of the reconciliation of Miss Effingham and Lord
Chiltern, and was anxious to offer his congratulation to both of
them. And it was essential to him that he should see Lady Laura. To
her he wrote a line, saying how much he hoped that he should be able
to bid her adieu, and a time was fixed for his coming at which she
knew that she would meet him alone. But, as chance ruled it, he came
upon the two lovers together, and then remembered that he had hardly
ever before been in the same room with both of them at the same time.

"Oh, Mr. Finn, what a beautiful speech you made. I read every word of
it," said Violet.

"And I didn't even look at it, old fellow," said Chiltern, getting up
and putting his arm on the other's shoulder in a way that was common
with him when he was quite intimate with the friend near him.

"Laura went down and heard it," said Violet. "I could not do that,
because I was tied to my aunt. You can't conceive how dutiful I am
during this last month."

"And is it to be in a month, Chiltern?" said Phineas.

"She says so. She arranges everything,--in concert with my father.
When I threw up the sponge, I simply asked for a long day. 'A long
day, my lord,' I said. But my father and Violet between them refused
me any mercy."

"You do not believe him," said Violet.

"Not a word. If I did he would want to see me on the coast of
Flanders again, I don't doubt. I have come to congratulate you both."

"Thank you, Mr. Finn," said Violet, taking his hand with hearty
kindness. "I should not have been quite happy without one nice word
from you."

"I shall try and make the best of it," said Chiltern. "But, I say,
you'll come over and ride Bonebreaker again. He's down there at
the Bull, and I've taken a little box close by. I can't stand the
governor's county for hunting."

"And will your wife go down to Willingford?"

"Of course she will, and ride to hounds a great deal closer than I
can ever do. Mind you come, and if there's anything in the stable fit
to carry you, you shall have it."

Then Phineas had to explain that he had come to bid them farewell,
and that it was not at all probable that he should ever be able to
see Willingford again in the hunting season. "I don't suppose that I
shall make either of you quite understand it, but I have got to begin
again. The chances are that I shall never see another foxhound all my
life."

"Not in Ireland!" exclaimed Lord Chiltern.

"Not unless I should have to examine one as a witness. I have nothing
before me but downright hard work; and a great deal of that must be
done before I can hope to earn a shilling."

"But you are so clever," said Violet. "Of course it will come
quickly."

"I do not mean to be impatient about it, nor yet unhappy," said
Phineas. "Only hunting won't be much in my line."

"And will you leave London altogether?" Violet asked.

"Altogether. I shall stick to one club,--Brooks's; but I shall take
my name off all the others."

"What a deuce of a nuisance!" said Lord Chiltern.

"I have no doubt you will be very happy," said Violet; "and you'll be
a Lord Chancellor in no time. But you won't go quite yet."

"Next Sunday."

"You will return. You must be here for our wedding;--indeed you must.
I will not be married unless you do."

Even this, however, was impossible. He must go on Sunday, and must
return no more. Then he made his little farewell speech, which he
could not deliver without some awkward stuttering. He would think of
her on the day of her marriage, and pray that she might be happy. And
he would send her a little trifle before he went, which he hoped she
would wear in remembrance of their old friendship.

"She shall wear it, whatever it is, or I'll know the reason why,"
said Chiltern.

"Hold your tongue, you rough bear!" said Violet. "Of course I'll
wear it. And of course I'll think of the giver. I shall have many
presents, but few that I will think of so much." Then Phineas left
the room, with his throat so full that he could not speak another
word.

"He is still broken-hearted about you," said the favoured lover as
soon as his rival had left the room.

"It is not that," said Violet. "He is broken-hearted about
everything. The whole world is vanishing away from him. I wish he
could have made up his mind to marry that German woman with all the
money." It must be understood, however, that Phineas had never spoken
a word to any one as to the offer which the German woman had made to
him.

It was on the morning of the Sunday on which he was to leave London
that he saw Lady Laura. He had asked that it might be so, in order
that he might then have nothing more upon his mind. He found her
quite alone, and he could see by her eyes that she had been weeping.
As he looked at her, remembering that it was not yet six years since
he had first been allowed to enter that room, he could not but
perceive how very much she was altered in appearance. Then she had
been three-and-twenty, and had not looked to be a day older. Now she
might have been taken to be nearly forty, so much had her troubles
preyed upon her spirit, and eaten into the vitality of her youth. "So
you have come to say good-bye," she said, smiling as she rose to meet
him.

"Yes, Lady Laura;--to say good-bye. Not for ever, I hope, but
probably for long."

"No, not for ever. At any rate, we will not think so." Then she
paused; but he was silent, sitting with his hat dangling in his two
hands, and his eyes fixed upon the floor. "Do you know, Mr. Finn,"
she continued, "that sometimes I am very angry with myself about
you."

"Then it must be because you have been too kind to me."

"It is because I fear that I have done much to injure you. From
the first day that I knew you,--do you remember, when we were
talking here, in this very room, about the beginning of the Reform
Bill;--from that day I wished that you should come among us and be
one of us."

"I have been with you, to my infinite satisfaction,--while it
lasted."

"But it has not lasted, and now I fear that it has done you harm."

"Who can say whether it has been for good or evil? But of this I am
sure you will be certain,--that I am very grateful to you for all the
goodness you have shown me." Then again he was silent.

She did not know what it was that she wanted, but she did desire some
expression from his lips that should be warmer than an expression of
gratitude. An expression of love,--of existing love,--she would have
felt to be an insult, and would have treated it as such. Indeed, she
knew that from him no such insult could come. But she was in that
morbid, melancholy state of mind which requires the excitement
of more than ordinary sympathy, even though that sympathy be all
painful; and I think that she would have been pleased had he referred
to the passion for herself which he had once expressed. If he would
have spoken of his love, and of her mistake, and have made some
half-suggestion as to what might have been their lives had things
gone differently,--though she would have rebuked him even for
that,--still it would have comforted her. But at this moment, though
he remembered much that had passed between them, he was not even
thinking of the Braes of Linter. All that had taken place four years
ago;--and there had been so many other things since which had moved
him even more than that! "You have heard what I have arranged for
myself?" she said at last.

"Your father has told me that you are going to Dresden."

"Yes;--he will accompany me,--coming home of course for Parliament.
It is a sad break-up, is it not? But the lawyer says that if I remain
here I may be subject to very disagreeable attempts from Mr. Kennedy
to force me to go back again. It is odd, is it not, that he should
not understand how impossible it is?"

"He means to do his duty."

"I believe so. But he becomes more stern every day to those who are
with him. And then, why should I remain here? What is there to tempt
me? As a woman separated from her husband I cannot take an interest
in those things which used to charm me. I feel that I am crushed and
quelled by my position, even though there is no disgrace in it."

"No disgrace, certainly," said Phineas.

"But I am nobody,--or worse than nobody."

"And I also am going to be a nobody," said Phineas, laughing.

"Ah; you are a man and will get over it, and you have many years
before you will begin to be growing old. I am growing old already.
Yes, I am. I feel it, and know it, and see it. A woman has a fine
game to play; but then she is so easily bowled out, and the term
allowed to her is so short."

"A man's allowance of time may be short too," said Phineas.

"But he can try his hand again." Then there was another pause. "I had
thought, Mr. Finn, that you would have married," she said in her very
lowest voice.

"You knew all my hopes and fears about that."

"I mean that you would have married Madame Goesler."

"What made you think that, Lady Laura?"

"Because I saw that she liked you, and because such a marriage would
have been so suitable. She has all that you want. You know what they
say of her now?"

"What do they say?"

"That the Duke of Omnium offered to make her his wife, and that she
refused him for your sake."

"There is nothing that people won't say;--nothing on earth," said
Phineas. Then he got up and took his leave of her. He also wanted to
part from her with some special expression of affection, but he did
not know how to choose his words. He had wished that some allusion
should be made, not to the Braes of Linter, but to the close
confidence which had so long existed between them; but he found
that the language to do this properly was wanting to him. Had the
opportunity arisen he would have told her now the whole story of
Mary Flood Jones; but the opportunity did not come, and he left her,
never having mentioned the name of his Mary or having hinted at his
engagement to any one of his friends in London. "It is better so,"
he said to himself. "My life in Ireland is to be a new life, and why
should I mix two things together that will be so different?"

He was to dine at his lodgings, and then leave them for good at
eight o'clock. He had packed up everything before he went to Portman
Square, and he returned home only just in time to sit down to his
solitary mutton chop. But as he sat down he saw a small note
addressed to himself lying on the table among the crowd of books,
letters, and papers, of which he had still to make disposal. It was
a very small note in an envelope of a peculiar tint of pink, and he
knew the handwriting well. The blood mounted all over his face as he
took it up, and he hesitated for a moment before he opened it. It
could not be that the offer should be repeated to him. Slowly, hardly
venturing at first to look at the enclosure, he opened it, and the
words which it contained were as follows:--


   I learn that you are going to-day, and I write a word
   which you will receive just as you are departing. It is to
   say merely this,--that when I left you the other day I was
   angry, not with you, but with myself. Let me wish you all
   good wishes and that prosperity which I know you will
   deserve, and which I think you will win.

   Yours very truly,

   M. M. G.

   Sunday morning.


Should he put off his journey and go to her this very evening and
claim her as his friend? The question was asked and answered in a
moment. Of course he would not go to her. Were he to do so there
would be only one possible word for him to say, and that word should
certainly never be spoken. But he wrote to her a reply, shorter even
than her own short note.


   Thanks, dear friend. I do not doubt but that you and I
   understand each other thoroughly, and that each trusts the
   other for good wishes and honest intentions.

   Always yours,

   P. F.

   I write these as I am starting.


When he had written this, he kept it till the last moment in his
hand, thinking that he would not send it. But as he slipped into the
cab, he gave the note to his late landlady to post.

At the station Bunce came to him to say a word of farewell, and Mrs.
Bunce was on his arm.

"Well done, Mr. Finn, well done," said Bunce. "I always knew there
was a good drop in you."

"You always told me I should ruin myself in Parliament, and so I
have," said Phineas.

"Not at all. It takes a deal to ruin a man if he's got the right
sperrit. I've better hopes of you now than ever I had in the old
days when you used to be looking out for Government place;--and Mr.
Monk has tried that too. I thought he would find the iron too heavy
for him." "God bless you, Mr. Finn," said Mrs. Bunce with her
handkerchief up to her eyes. "There's not one of 'em I ever had as
lodgers I've cared about half as much as I did for you." Then they
shook hands with him through the window, and the train was off.




CHAPTER LXXVI

Conclusion


We are told that it is a bitter moment with the Lord Mayor when he
leaves the Mansion House and becomes once more Alderman Jones, of No.
75, Bucklersbury. Lord Chancellors going out of office have a great
fall though they take pensions with them for their consolation. And
the President of the United States when he leaves the glory of the
White House and once more becomes a simple citizen must feel the
change severely. But our hero, Phineas Finn, as he turned his back
upon the scene of his many successes, and prepared himself for
permanent residence in his own country, was, I think, in a worse
plight than any of the reduced divinities to whom I have alluded.
They at any rate had known that their fall would come. He, like
Icarus, had flown up towards the sun, hoping that his wings of wax
would bear him steadily aloft among the gods. Seeing that his wings
were wings of wax, we must acknowledge that they were very good. But
the celestial lights had been too strong for them, and now, having
lived for five years with lords and countesses, with Ministers and
orators, with beautiful women and men of fashion, he must start again
in a little lodging in Dublin, and hope that the attorneys of that
litigious city might be good to him. On his journey home he made but
one resolution. He would make the change, or attempt to make it,
with manly strength. During his last month in London he had allowed
himself to be sad, depressed, and melancholy. There should be an end
of all that now. Nobody at home should see that he was depressed.
And Mary, his own Mary, should at any rate have no cause to think
that her love and his own engagement had ever been the cause to him
of depression. Did he not value her love more than anything in the
world? A thousand times he told himself that he did.

She was there in the old house at Killaloe to greet him. Her
engagement was an affair known to all the county, and she had no
idea that it would become her to be coy in her love. She was in his
arms before he had spoken to his father and mother, and had made her
little speech to him,--very inaudibly indeed,--while he was covering
her sweet face with kisses. "Oh, Phineas, I am so proud of you; and
I think you are so right, and I am so glad you have done it." Again
he covered her face with kisses. Could he ever have had such
satisfaction as this had he allowed Madame Goesler's hand to remain
in his?

On the first night of his arrival he sat for an hour downstairs
with his father talking over his plans. He felt,--he could not but
feel,--that he was not the hero now that he had been when he was last
at Killaloe,--when he had come thither with a Cabinet Minister under
his wing. And yet his father did his best to prevent the growth of
any such feeling. The old doctor was not quite as well off as he had
been when Phineas first started with his high hopes for London. Since
that day he had abandoned his profession and was now living on the
fruits of his life's labour. For the last two years he had been
absolved from the necessity of providing an income for his son, and
had probably allowed himself to feel that no such demand upon him
would again be made. Now, however, it was necessary that he should do
so. Could his son manage to live on two hundred a-year? There would
then be four hundred a-year left for the wants of the family at home.
Phineas swore that he could fight his battle on a hundred and fifty,
and they ended the argument by splitting the difference. He had been
paying exactly the same sum of money for the rooms he had just left
in London; but then, while he held those rooms, his income had been
two thousand a-year. Tenant-right was a very fine thing, but could it
be worth such a fall as this?

"And about dear Mary?" said the father.

"I hope it may not be very long," said Phineas.

"I have not spoken to her about it, but your mother says that Mrs.
Flood Jones is very averse to a long engagement."

"What can I do? She would not wish me to marry her daughter with no
other income than an allowance made by you."

"Your mother says that she has some idea that you and she might live
together;--that if they let Floodborough you might take a small house
in Dublin. Remember, Phineas, I am not proposing it myself."

Then Phineas bethought himself that he was not even yet so low in the
world that he need submit himself to terms dictated to him by Mrs.
Flood Jones. "I am glad that you do not propose it, sir."

"Why so, Phineas?"

"Because I should have been obliged to oppose the plan even if it had
come from you. Mothers-in-law are never a comfort in a house."

"I never tried it myself," said the doctor.

"And I never will try it. I am quite sure that Mary does not expect
any such thing, and that she is willing to wait. If I can shorten the
term of waiting by hard work, I will do so." The decision to which
Phineas had come on this matter was probably made known to Mrs. Flood
Jones after some mild fashion by old Mrs. Finn. Nothing more was
said to Phineas about a joint household; but he was quite able to
perceive from the manner of the lady towards him that his proposed
mother-in-law wished him to understand that he was treating her
daughter very badly. What did it signify? None of them knew the story
of Madame Goesler, and of course none of them would know it. None of
them would ever hear how well he had behaved to his little Mary.

But Mary did know it all before he left her to go up to Dublin. The
two lovers allowed themselves,--or were allowed by their elders, one
week of exquisite bliss together; and during this week, Phineas told
her, I think, everything. He told her everything as far as he could
do so without seeming to boast of his own successes. How is a man
not to tell such tales when he has on his arm, close to him, a girl
who tells him her little everything of life, and only asks for his
confidence in return? And then his secrets are so precious to her and
so sacred, that he feels as sure of her fidelity as though she were
a very goddess of faith and trust. And the temptation to tell is so
great. For all that he has to tell she loves him the better and still
the better. A man desires to win a virgin heart, and is happy to
know,--or at least to believe,--that he has won it. With a woman
every former rival is an added victim to the wheels of the triumphant
chariot in which she is sitting. "All these has he known and loved,
culling sweets from each of them. But now he has come to me, and I am
the sweetest of them all." And so Mary was taught to believe of Laura
and of Violet and of Madame Goesler,--that though they had had charms
to please, her lover had never been so charmed as he was now while
she was hanging to his breast. And I think that she was right in her
belief. During those lovely summer evening walks along the shores of
Lough Derg, Phineas was as happy as he had ever been at any moment of
his life.

"I shall never be impatient,--never," she said to him on the last
evening. "All I want is that you should write to me."

"I shall want more than that, Mary."

"Then you must come down and see me. When you do come they will be
happy, happy days for me. But of course we cannot be married for the
next twenty years."

"Say forty, Mary."

"I will say anything that you like;--you will know what I mean just
as well. And, Phineas, I must tell you one thing,--though it makes me
sad to think of it, and will make me sad to speak of it."

"I will not have you sad on our last night, Mary."

"I must say it. I am beginning to understand how much you have given
up for me."

"I have given up nothing for you."

"If I had not been at Killaloe when Mr. Monk was here, and if we had
not,--had not,--oh dear, if I had not loved you so very much, you
might have remained in London, and that lady would have been your
wife."

"Never!" said Phineas stoutly.

"Would she not? She must not be your wife now, Phineas. I am not
going to pretend that I will give you up."

"That is unkind, Mary."

"Oh, well; you may say what you please. If that is unkind, I am
unkind. It would kill me to lose you."

Had he done right? How could there be a doubt about it? How could
there be a question about it? Which of them had loved him, or was
capable of loving him as Mary loved him? What girl was ever so sweet,
so gracious, so angelic, as his own Mary? He swore to her that he was
prouder of winning her than of anything he had ever done in all his
life, and that of all the treasures that had ever come in his way she
was the most precious. She went to bed that night the happiest girl
in all Connaught, although when she parted from him she understood
that she was not to see him again till Christmas-Eve.

But she did see him again before the summer was over, and the manner
of their meeting was in this wise. Immediately after the passing of
that scrambled Irish Reform Bill, Parliament, as the reader knows,
was dissolved. This was in the early days of June, and before the end
of July the new members were again assembled at Westminster. This
session, late in summer, was very terrible; but it was not very long,
and then it was essentially necessary. There was something of the
year's business which must yet be done, and the country would require
to know who were to be the Ministers of the Government. It is not
needed that the reader should be troubled any further with the
strategy of one political leader or of another, or that more should
be said of Mr. Monk and his tenant-right. The House of Commons had
offended Mr. Gresham by voting in a majority against him, and Mr.
Gresham had punished the House of Commons by subjecting it to the
expense and nuisance of a new election. All this is constitutional,
and rational enough to Englishmen, though it may be unintelligible to
strangers. The upshot on the present occasion was that the Ministers
remained in their places and that Mr. Monk's bill, though it had
received the substantial honour of a second reading, passed away for
the present into the limbo of abortive legislation.

All this would not concern us at all, nor our poor hero much, were
it not that the great men with whom he had been for two years so
pleasant a colleague, remembered him with something of affectionate
regret. Whether it began with Mr. Gresham or with Lord Cantrip, I
will not say;--or whether Mr. Monk, though now a political enemy,
may have said a word that brought about the good deed. Be that as it
may, just before the summer session was brought to a close Phineas
received the following letter from Lord Cantrip:--


   Downing Street, August 4, 186--.

   MY DEAR MR. FINN,--

   Mr. Gresham has been talking to me, and we both think
   that possibly a permanent Government appointment may be
   acceptable to you. We have no doubt, that should this be
   the case, your services would be very valuable to the
   country. There is a vacancy for a poor-law inspector at
   present in Ireland, whose residence I believe should be
   in Cork. The salary is a thousand a-year. Should the
   appointment suit you, Mr. Gresham will be most happy to
   nominate you to the office. Let me have a line at your
   early convenience.

   Believe me,

   Most sincerely yours,

   CANTRIP.


He received the letter one morning in Dublin, and within three hours
he was on his route to Killaloe. Of course he would accept the
appointment, but he would not even do that without telling Mary of
his new prospect. Of course he would accept the appointment. Though
he had been as yet barely two months in Dublin, though he had hardly
been long enough settled to his work to have hoped to be able to see
in which way there might be a vista open leading to success, still he
had fancied that he had seen that success was impossible. He did not
know how to begin,--and men were afraid of him, thinking that he was
unsteady, arrogant, and prone to failure. He had not seen his way to
the possibility of a guinea.

"A thousand a-year!" said Mary Flood Jones, opening her eyes wide
with wonder at the golden future before them.

"It is nothing very great for a perpetuity," said Phineas.

"Oh, Phineas; surely a thousand a-year will be very nice."

"It will be certain," said Phineas, "and then we can be married
to-morrow."

"But I have been making up my mind to wait ever so long," said Mary.

"Then your mind must be unmade," said Phineas.

What was the nature of the reply to Lord Cantrip the reader may
imagine, and thus we will leave our hero an Inspector of Poor Houses
in the County of Cork.




4xxxxxxxxx

THE WARDEN

by

Anthony Trollope







CONTENTS

       I.  Hiram's Hospital
      II.  The Barchester Reformer
     III.  The Bishop of Barchester
      IV.  Hiram's Bedesmen
       V.  Dr Grantly Visits the Hospital
      VI.  The Warden's Tea Party
     VII.  _The Jupiter_
    VIII.  Plumstead Episcopi
      IX.  The Conference
       X.  Tribulation
      XI.  Iphigenia
     XII.  Mr Bold's Visit to Plumstead
    XIII.  The Warden's Decision
     XIV.  Mount Olympus
      XV.  Tom Towers, Dr Anticant, and Mr Sentiment
     XVI.  A Long Day in London
    XVII.  Sir Abraham Haphazard
   XVIII.  The Warden Is Very Obstinate
     XIX.  The Warden Resigns
      XX.  Farewell
     XXI.  Conclusion





Chapter I

HIRAM'S HOSPITAL


The Rev. Septimus Harding was, a few years since, a beneficed
clergyman residing in the cathedral town of ----; let us call it
Barchester.  Were we to name Wells or Salisbury, Exeter, Hereford, or
Gloucester, it might be presumed that something personal was intended;
and as this tale will refer mainly to the cathedral dignitaries of the
town in question, we are anxious that no personality may be suspected.
Let us presume that Barchester is a quiet town in the West of England,
more remarkable for the beauty of its cathedral and the antiquity of
its monuments than for any commercial prosperity; that the west end
of Barchester is the cathedral close, and that the aristocracy of
Barchester are the bishop, dean, and canons, with their respective
wives and daughters.

Early in life Mr Harding found himself located at Barchester.  A fine
voice and a taste for sacred music had decided the position in which
he was to exercise his calling, and for many years he performed the
easy but not highly paid duties of a minor canon.  At the age of forty
a small living in the close vicinity of the town increased both his
work and his income, and at the age of fifty he became precentor of
the cathedral.

Mr Harding had married early in life, and was the father of two
daughters.  The eldest, Susan, was born soon after his marriage; the
other, Eleanor, not till ten years later.

At the time at which we introduce him to our readers he was living as
precentor at Barchester with his youngest daughter, then twenty-four
years of age; having been many years a widower, and having married his
eldest daughter to a son of the bishop a very short time before his
installation to the office of precentor.

Scandal at Barchester affirmed that had it not been for the beauty of
his daughter, Mr Harding would have remained a minor canon; but here
probably Scandal lied, as she so often does; for even as a minor canon
no one had been more popular among his reverend brethren in the close
than Mr Harding; and Scandal, before she had reprobated Mr Harding for
being made precentor by his friend the bishop, had loudly blamed the
bishop for having so long omitted to do something for his friend Mr
Harding.  Be this as it may, Susan Harding, some twelve years since,
had married the Rev. Dr Theophilus Grantly, son of the bishop,
archdeacon of Barchester, and rector of Plumstead Episcopi, and her
father became, a few months later, precentor of Barchester Cathedral,
that office being, as is not unusual, in the bishop's gift.

Now there are peculiar circumstances connected with the precentorship
which must be explained.  In the year 1434 there died at Barchester
one John Hiram, who had made money in the town as a wool-stapler, and
in his will he left the house in which he died and certain meadows and
closes near the town, still called Hiram's Butts, and Hiram's Patch,
for the support of twelve superannuated wool-carders, all of whom
should have been born and bred and spent their days in Barchester; he
also appointed that an alms-house should be built for their abode,
with a fitting residence for a warden, which warden was also to
receive a certain sum annually out of the rents of the said butts and
patches.  He, moreover, willed, having had a soul alive to harmony,
that the precentor of the cathedral should have the option of being
also warden of the almshouses, if the bishop in each case approved.

From that day to this the charity had gone on and prospered--at least,
the charity had gone on, and the estates had prospered.  Wool-carding
in Barchester there was no longer any; so the bishop, dean, and
warden, who took it in turn to put in the old men, generally
appointed some hangers-on of their own; worn-out gardeners, decrepit
grave-diggers, or octogenarian sextons, who thankfully received a
comfortable lodging and one shilling and fourpence a day, such being
the stipend to which, under the will of John Hiram, they were declared
to be entitled.  Formerly, indeed,--that is, till within some fifty
years of the present time,--they received but sixpence a day, and
their breakfast and dinner was found them at a common table by the
warden, such an arrangement being in stricter conformity with the
absolute wording of old Hiram's will: but this was thought to be
inconvenient, and to suit the tastes of neither warden nor bedesmen,
and the daily one shilling and fourpence was substituted with the
common consent of all parties, including the bishop and the
corporation of Barchester.

Such was the condition of Hiram's twelve old men when Mr Harding was
appointed warden; but if they may be considered as well-to-do in the
world according to their condition, the happy warden was much more so.
The patches and butts which, in John Hiram's time, produced hay or fed
cows, were now covered with rows of houses; the value of the property
had gradually increased from year to year and century to century, and
was now presumed by those who knew anything about it, to bring in
a very nice income; and by some who knew nothing about it, to have
increased to an almost fabulous extent.

The property was farmed by a gentleman in Barchester, who also acted
as the bishop's steward,--a man whose father and grandfather had been
stewards to the bishops of Barchester, and farmers of John Hiram's
estate.  The Chadwicks had earned a good name in Barchester; they
had lived respected by bishops, deans, canons, and precentors; they
had been buried in the precincts of the cathedral; they had never
been known as griping, hard men, but had always lived comfortably,
maintained a good house, and held a high position in Barchester
society.  The present Mr Chadwick was a worthy scion of a worthy
stock, and the tenants living on the butts and patches, as well as
those on the wide episcopal domains of the see, were well pleased to
have to do with so worthy and liberal a steward.

For many, many years,--records hardly tell how many, probably from
the time when Hiram's wishes had been first fully carried out,--the
proceeds of the estate had been paid by the steward or farmer to the
warden, and by him divided among the bedesmen; after which division
he paid himself such sums as became his due.  Times had been when the
poor warden got nothing but his bare house, for the patches had been
subject to floods, and the land of Barchester butts was said to be
unproductive; and in these hard times the warden was hardly able to
make out the daily dole for his twelve dependents.  But by degrees
things mended; the patches were drained, and cottages began to
rise upon the butts, and the wardens, with fairness enough, repaid
themselves for the evil days gone by.  In bad times the poor men had
had their due, and therefore in good times they could expect no more.
In this manner the income of the warden had increased; the picturesque
house attached to the hospital had been enlarged and adorned, and
the office had become one of the most coveted of the snug clerical
sinecures attached to our church.  It was now wholly in the bishop's
gift, and though the dean and chapter, in former days, made a stand
on the subject, they had thought it more conducive to their honour
to have a rich precentor appointed by the bishop, than a poor one
appointed by themselves.  The stipend of the precentor of Barchester
was eighty pounds a year.  The income arising from the wardenship of
the hospital was eight hundred, besides the value of the house.

Murmurs, very slight murmurs, had been heard in Barchester,--few
indeed, and far between,--that the proceeds of John Hiram's property
had not been fairly divided: but they can hardly be said to have been
of such a nature as to have caused uneasiness to anyone: still the
thing had been whispered, and Mr Harding had heard it.  Such was his
character in Barchester, so universal was his popularity, that the
very fact of his appointment would have quieted louder whispers
than those which had been heard; but Mr Harding was an open-handed,
just-minded man, and feeling that there might be truth in what had
been said, he had, on his instalment, declared his intention of adding
twopence a day to each man's pittance, making a sum of sixty-two
pounds eleven shillings and fourpence, which he was to pay out of
his own pocket.  In doing so, however, he distinctly and repeatedly
observed to the men, that though he promised for himself, he could not
promise for his successors, and that the extra twopence could only
be looked on as a gift from himself, and not from the trust.  The
bedesmen, however, were most of them older than Mr Harding, and were
quite satisfied with the security on which their extra income was
based.

This munificence on the part of Mr Harding had not been unopposed.
Mr Chadwick had mildly but seriously dissuaded him from it; and his
strong-minded son-in-law, the archdeacon, the man of whom alone Mr
Harding stood in awe, had urgently, nay, vehemently, opposed so
impolitic a concession: but the warden had made known his intention
to the hospital before the archdeacon had been able to interfere,
and the deed was done.

Hiram's Hospital, as the retreat is called, is a picturesque building
enough, and shows the correct taste with which the ecclesiastical
architects of those days were imbued.  It stands on the banks of the
little river, which flows nearly round the cathedral close, being on
the side furthest from the town.  The London road crosses the river
by a pretty one-arched bridge, and, looking from this bridge, the
stranger will see the windows of the old men's rooms, each pair of
windows separated by a small buttress.  A broad gravel walk runs
between the building and the river, which is always trim and cared
for; and at the end of the walk, under the parapet of the approach to
the bridge, is a large and well-worn seat, on which, in mild weather,
three or four of Hiram's bedesmen are sure to be seen seated.  Beyond
this row of buttresses, and further from the bridge, and also further
from the water which here suddenly bends, are the pretty oriel windows
of Mr Harding's house, and his well-mown lawn.  The entrance to the
hospital is from the London road, and is made through a ponderous
gateway under a heavy stone arch, unnecessary, one would suppose, at
any time, for the protection of twelve old men, but greatly conducive
to the good appearance of Hiram's charity.  On passing through this
portal, never closed to anyone from 6 A.M. till 10 P.M., and never
open afterwards, except on application to a huge, intricately hung
mediæval bell, the handle of which no uninitiated intruder can
possibly find, the six doors of the old men's abodes are seen, and
beyond them is a slight iron screen, through which the more happy
portion of the Barchester elite pass into the Elysium of Mr Harding's
dwelling.

Mr Harding is a small man, now verging on sixty years, but bearing few
of the signs of age; his hair is rather grizzled, though not gray;
his eye is very mild, but clear and bright, though the double glasses
which are held swinging from his hand, unless when fixed upon his
nose, show that time has told upon his sight; his hands are delicately
white, and both hands and feet are small; he always wears a black
frock coat, black knee-breeches, and black gaiters, and somewhat
scandalises some of his more hyperclerical brethren by a black
neck-handkerchief.

Mr Harding's warmest admirers cannot say that he was ever an
industrious man; the circumstances of his life have not called on
him to be so; and yet he can hardly be called an idler.  Since his
appointment to his precentorship, he has published, with all possible
additions of vellum, typography, and gilding, a collection of our
ancient church music, with some correct dissertations on Purcell,
Crotch, and Nares.  He has greatly improved the choir of Barchester,
which, under his dominion, now rivals that of any cathedral in
England.  He has taken something more than his fair share in the
cathedral services, and has played the violoncello daily to such
audiences as he could collect, or, _faute de mieux_, to no audience
at all.

We must mention one other peculiarity of Mr Harding.  As we have
before stated, he has an income of eight hundred a year, and has no
family but his one daughter; and yet he is never quite at ease in
money matters.  The vellum and gilding of "Harding's Church Music"
cost more than any one knows, except the author, the publisher, and
the Rev. Theophilus Grantly, who allows none of his father-in-law's
extravagances to escape him.  Then he is generous to his daughter, for
whose service he keeps a small carriage and pair of ponies.  He is,
indeed, generous to all, but especially to the twelve old men who are
in a peculiar manner under his care.  No doubt with such an income Mr
Harding should be above the world, as the saying is; but, at any rate,
he is not above Archdeacon Theophilus Grantly, for he is always more
or less in debt to his son-in-law, who has, to a certain extent,
assumed the arrangement of the precentor's pecuniary affairs.




Chapter II

THE BARCHESTER REFORMER


Mr Harding has been now precentor of Barchester for ten years; and,
alas, the murmurs respecting the proceeds of Hiram's estate are again
becoming audible.  It is not that any one begrudges to Mr Harding
the income which he enjoys, and the comfortable place which so well
becomes him; but such matters have begun to be talked of in various
parts of England.  Eager pushing politicians have asserted in the
House of Commons, with very telling indignation, that the grasping
priests of the Church of England are gorged with the wealth which the
charity of former times has left for the solace of the aged, or the
education of the young.  The well-known case of the Hospital of St
Cross has even come before the law courts of the country, and the
struggles of Mr Whiston, at Rochester, have met with sympathy and
support.  Men are beginning to say that these things must be looked
into.

Mr Harding, whose conscience in the matter is clear, and who has never
felt that he had received a pound from Hiram's will to which he was
not entitled, has naturally taken the part of the church in talking
over these matters with his friend, the bishop, and his son-in-law,
the archdeacon.  The archdeacon, indeed, Dr Grantly, has been somewhat
loud in the matter.  He is a personal friend of the dignitaries of the
Rochester Chapter, and has written letters in the public press on the
subject of that turbulent Dr Whiston, which, his admirers think, must
well nigh set the question at rest.  It is also known at Oxford that
he is the author of the pamphlet signed "Sacerdos" on the subject of
the Earl of Guildford and St Cross, in which it is so clearly argued
that the manners of the present times do not admit of a literal
adhesion to the very words of the founder's will, but that the
interests of the church for which the founder was so deeply concerned
are best consulted in enabling its bishops to reward those shining
lights whose services have been most signally serviceable to
Christianity.  In answer to this, it is asserted that Henry de Blois,
founder of St Cross, was not greatly interested in the welfare of the
reformed church, and that the masters of St Cross, for many years
past, cannot be called shining lights in the service of Christianity;
it is, however, stoutly maintained, and no doubt felt, by all the
archdeacon's friends, that his logic is conclusive, and has not, in
fact, been answered.

With such a tower of strength to back both his arguments and his
conscience, it may be imagined that Mr Harding has never felt any
compunction as to receiving his quarterly sum of two hundred pounds.
Indeed, the subject has never presented itself to his mind in that
shape.  He has talked not unfrequently, and heard very much about the
wills of old founders and the incomes arising from their estates,
during the last year or two; he did even, at one moment, feel a
doubt (since expelled by his son-in-law's logic) as to whether Lord
Guildford was clearly entitled to receive so enormous an income
as he does from the revenues of St Cross; but that he himself was
overpaid with his modest eight hundred pounds,--he who, out of that,
voluntarily gave up sixty-two pounds eleven shillings and fourpence a
year to his twelve old neighbours,--he who, for the money, does his
precentor's work as no precentor has done it before, since Barchester
Cathedral was built,--such an idea has never sullied his quiet, or
disturbed his conscience.

Nevertheless, Mr Harding is becoming uneasy at the rumour which he
knows to prevail in Barchester on the subject.  He is aware that, at
any rate, two of his old men have been heard to say, that if everyone
had his own, they might each have their hundred pounds a year, and
live like gentlemen, instead of a beggarly one shilling and sixpence
a day; and that they had slender cause to be thankful for a miserable
dole of twopence, when Mr Harding and Mr Chadwick, between them, ran
away with thousands of pounds which good old John Hiram never intended
for the like of them.  It is the ingratitude of this which stings Mr
Harding.  One of this discontented pair, Abel Handy, was put into the
hospital by himself; he had been a stone-mason in Barchester, and had
broken his thigh by a fall from a scaffolding, while employed about
the cathedral; and Mr Harding had given him the first vacancy in the
hospital after the occurrence, although Dr Grantly had been very
anxious to put into it an insufferable clerk of his at Plumstead
Episcopi, who had lost all his teeth, and whom the archdeacon hardly
knew how to get rid of by other means.  Dr Grantly has not forgotten
to remind Mr Harding how well satisfied with his one-and-sixpence a
day old Joe Mutters would have been, and how injudicious it was on the
part of Mr Harding to allow a radical from the town to get into the
concern. Probably Dr Grantly forgot, at the moment, that the charity
was intended for broken-down journeymen of Barchester.

There is living at Barchester, a young man, a surgeon, named John
Bold, and both Mr Harding and Dr Grantly are well aware that to him
is owing the pestilent rebellious feeling which has shown itself in
the hospital; yes, and the renewal, too, of that disagreeable talk
about Hiram's estates which is now again prevalent in Barchester.
Nevertheless, Mr Harding and Mr Bold are acquainted with each other;
we may say, are friends, considering the great disparity in their
years.  Dr Grantly, however, has a holy horror of the impious
demagogue, as on one occasion he called Bold, when speaking of him
to the precentor; and being a more prudent far-seeing man than Mr
Harding, and possessed of a stronger head, he already perceives that
this John Bold will work great trouble in Barchester.  He considers
that he is to be regarded as an enemy, and thinks that he should not
be admitted into the camp on anything like friendly terms.  As John
Bold will occupy much of our attention, we must endeavour to explain
who he is, and why he takes the part of John Hiram's bedesmen.

John Bold is a young surgeon, who passed many of his boyish years at
Barchester.  His father was a physician in the city of London, where
he made a moderate fortune, which he invested in houses in that city.
The Dragon of Wantly inn and posting-house belonged to him, also four
shops in the High Street, and a moiety of the new row of genteel
villas (so called in the advertisements), built outside the town just
beyond Hiram's Hospital.  To one of these Dr Bold retired to spend
the evening of his life, and to die; and here his son John spent his
holidays, and afterwards his Christmas vacation when he went from
school to study surgery in the London hospitals.  Just as John Bold
was entitled to write himself surgeon and apothecary, old Dr Bold
died, leaving his Barchester property to his son, and a certain sum in
the three per cents. to his daughter Mary, who is some four or five
years older than her brother.

John Bold determined to settle himself at Barchester, and look after
his own property, as well as the bones and bodies of such of his
neighbours as would call upon him for assistance in their troubles.
He therefore put up a large brass plate with "John Bold, Surgeon" on
it, to the great disgust of the nine practitioners who were already
trying to get a living out of the bishop, dean, and canons; and began
house-keeping with the aid of his sister.  At this time he was not
more than twenty-four years old; and though he has now been three
years in Barchester, we have not heard that he has done much harm to
the nine worthy practitioners.  Indeed, their dread of him has died
away; for in three years he has not taken three fees.

Nevertheless, John Bold is a clever man, and would, with practice,
be a clever surgeon; but he has got quite into another line of life.
Having enough to live on, he has not been forced to work for bread;
he has declined to subject himself to what he calls the drudgery of
the profession, by which, I believe, he means the general work of a
practising surgeon; and has found other employment.  He frequently
binds up the bruises and sets the limbs of such of the poorer classes
as profess his way of thinking,--but this he does for love.  Now I
will not say that the archdeacon is strictly correct in stigmatising
John Bold as a demagogue, for I hardly know how extreme must be a
man's opinions before he can be justly so called; but Bold is a strong
reformer.  His passion is the reform of all abuses; state abuses,
church abuses, corporation abuses (he has got himself elected a town
councillor of Barchester, and has so worried three consecutive mayors,
that it became somewhat difficult to find a fourth), abuses in
medical practice, and general abuses in the world at large.  Bold is
thoroughly sincere in his patriotic endeavours to mend mankind, and
there is something to be admired in the energy with which he devotes
himself to remedying evil and stopping injustice; but I fear that
he is too much imbued with the idea that he has a special mission
for reforming.  It would be well if one so young had a little
more diffidence himself, and more trust in the honest purposes of
others,--if he could be brought to believe that old customs need not
necessarily be evil, and that changes may possibly be dangerous; but
no, Bold has all the ardour and all the self-assurance of a Danton,
and hurls his anathemas against time-honoured practices with the
violence of a French Jacobin.

No wonder that Dr Grantly should regard Bold as a firebrand, falling,
as he has done, almost in the centre of the quiet ancient close of
Barchester Cathedral.  Dr Grantly would have him avoided as the
plague; but the old Doctor and Mr Harding were fast friends.  Young
Johnny Bold used to play as a boy on Mr Harding's lawn; he has many a
time won the precentor's heart by listening with rapt attention to his
sacred strains; and since those days, to tell the truth at once, he
has nearly won another heart within the same walls.

Eleanor Harding has not plighted her troth to John Bold, nor has she,
perhaps, owned to herself how dear to her the young reformer is; but
she cannot endure that anyone should speak harshly of him.  She does
not dare to defend him when her brother-in-law is so loud against him;
for she, like her father, is somewhat afraid of Dr Grantly; but she is
beginning greatly to dislike the archdeacon.  She persuades her father
that it would be both unjust and injudicious to banish his young
friend because of his politics; she cares little to go to houses where
she will not meet him, and, in fact, she is in love.

Nor is there any good reason why Eleanor Harding should not love John
Bold.  He has all those qualities which are likely to touch a girl's
heart.  He is brave, eager, and amusing; well-made and good-looking;
young and enterprising; his character is in all respects good; he has
sufficient income to support a wife; he is her father's friend; and,
above all, he is in love with her: then why should not Eleanor Harding
be attached to John Bold?

Dr Grantly, who has as many eyes as Argus, and has long seen how the
wind blows in that direction, thinks there are various strong reasons
why this should not be so.  He has not thought it wise as yet to
speak to his father-in-law on the subject, for he knows how foolishly
indulgent is Mr Harding in everything that concerns his daughter; but
he has discussed the matter with his all-trusted helpmate, within
that sacred recess formed by the clerical bed-curtains at Plumstead
Episcopi.

How much sweet solace, how much valued counsel has our archdeacon
received within that sainted enclosure!  'Tis there alone that he
unbends, and comes down from his high church pedestal to the level of
a mortal man.  In the world Dr Grantly never lays aside that demeanour
which so well becomes him.  He has all the dignity of an ancient saint
with the sleekness of a modern bishop; he is always the same; he is
always the archdeacon; unlike Homer, he never nods.  Even with his
father-in-law, even with the bishop and dean, he maintains that
sonorous tone and lofty deportment which strikes awe into the
young hearts of Barchester, and absolutely cows the whole parish of
Plumstead Episcopi.  'Tis only when he has exchanged that ever-new
shovel hat for a tasselled nightcap, and those shining black
habiliments for his accustomed _robe de nuit_, that Dr Grantly talks,
and looks, and thinks like an ordinary man.

Many of us have often thought how severe a trial of faith must this
be to the wives of our great church dignitaries.  To us these men are
personifications of St Paul; their very gait is a speaking sermon;
their clean and sombre apparel exacts from us faith and submission,
and the cardinal virtues seem to hover round their sacred hats.
A dean or archbishop, in the garb of his order, is sure of our
reverence, and a well-got-up bishop fills our very souls with awe.
But how can this feeling be perpetuated in the bosoms of those who see
the bishops without their aprons, and the archdeacons even in a lower
state of dishabille?

Do we not all know some reverend, all but sacred, personage before
whom our tongue ceases to be loud and our step to be elastic?  But
were we once to see him stretch himself beneath the bed-clothes, yawn
widely, and bury his face upon his pillow, we could chatter before
him as glibly as before a doctor or a lawyer.  From some such cause,
doubtless, it arose that our archdeacon listened to the counsels of
his wife, though he considered himself entitled to give counsel to
every other being whom he met.

"My dear," he said, as he adjusted the copious folds of his nightcap,
"there was that John Bold at your father's again to-day.  I must say
your father is very imprudent."

"He is imprudent;--he always was," replied Mrs Grantly, speaking from
under the comfortable bed-clothes.  "There's nothing new in that."

"No, my dear, there's nothing new;--I know that; but, at the present
juncture of affairs, such imprudence is--is--I'll tell you what, my
dear, if he does not take care what he's about, John Bold will be off
with Eleanor."

"I think he will, whether papa takes care or no; and why not?"

"Why not!" almost screamed the archdeacon, giving so rough a pull at
his nightcap as almost to bring it over his nose; "why not!--that
pestilent, interfering upstart, John Bold;--the most vulgar young
person I ever met!  Do you know that he is meddling with your father's
affairs in a most uncalled-for--most--"  And being at a loss for an
epithet sufficiently injurious, he finished his expressions of horror
by muttering, "Good heavens!" in a manner that had been found very
efficacious in clerical meetings of the diocese.  He must for the
moment have forgotten where he was.

"As to his vulgarity, archdeacon" (Mrs Grantly had never assumed a
more familiar term than this in addressing her husband), "I don't
agree with you.  Not that I like Mr Bold;--he is a great deal too
conceited for me; but then Eleanor does, and it would be the best
thing in the world for papa if they were to marry.  Bold would never
trouble himself about Hiram's Hospital if he were papa's son-in-law."
And the lady turned herself round under the bed-clothes, in a manner
to which the doctor was well accustomed, and which told him, as
plainly as words, that as far as she was concerned the subject was
over for that night.

"Good heavens!" murmured the doctor again;--he was evidently much put
beside himself.

Dr Grantly is by no means a bad man; he is exactly the man which such
an education as his was most likely to form; his intellect being
sufficient for such a place in the world, but not sufficient to put
him in advance of it.  He performs with a rigid constancy such of the
duties of a parish clergyman as are, to his thinking, above the sphere
of his curate, but it is as an archdeacon that he shines.

We believe, as a general rule, that either a bishop or his archdeacons
have sinecures: where a bishop works, archdeacons have but little to
do, and _vice versa_.  In the diocese of Barchester the Archdeacon
of Barchester does the work.  In that capacity he is diligent,
authoritative, and, as his friends particularly boast, judicious.  His
great fault is an overbearing assurance of the virtues and claims of
his order, and his great foible is an equally strong confidence in the
dignity of his own manner and the eloquence of his own words.  He is a
moral man, believing the precepts which he teaches, and believing also
that he acts up to them; though we cannot say that he would give his
coat to the man who took his cloak, or that he is prepared to forgive
his brother even seven times.  He is severe enough in exacting his
dues, considering that any laxity in this respect would endanger the
security of the church; and, could he have his way, he would consign
to darkness and perdition, not only every individual reformer, but
every committee and every commission that would even dare to ask a
question respecting the appropriation of church revenues.

"They are church revenues: the laity admit it.  Surely the church is
able to administer her own revenues."  'Twas thus he was accustomed to
argue, when the sacrilegious doings of Lord John Russell and others
were discussed either at Barchester or at Oxford.

It was no wonder that Dr Grantly did not like John Bold, and that his
wife's suggestion that he should become closely connected with such a
man dismayed him.  To give him his due, the archdeacon never wanted
courage; he was quite willing to meet his enemy on any field and with
any weapon.  He had that belief in his own arguments that he felt sure
of success, could he only be sure of a fair fight on the part of his
adversary.  He had no idea that John Bold could really prove that the
income of the hospital was malappropriated; why, then, should peace be
sought for on such base terms?  What! bribe an unbelieving enemy of
the church with the sister-in-law of one dignitary and the daughter
of another--with a young lady whose connections with the diocese and
chapter of Barchester were so close as to give her an undeniable claim
to a husband endowed with some of its sacred wealth!  When Dr Grantly
talks of unbelieving enemies, he does not mean to imply want of belief
in the doctrines of the church, but an equally dangerous scepticism as
to its purity in money matters.

Mrs Grantly is not usually deaf to the claims of the high order to
which she belongs.  She and her husband rarely disagree as to the tone
with which the church should be defended; how singular, then, that in
such a case as this she should be willing to succumb!  The archdeacon
again murmurs "Good heavens!" as he lays himself beside her, but he
does so in a voice audible only to himself, and he repeats it till
sleep relieves him from deep thought.

Mr Harding himself has seen no reason why his daughter should not love
John Bold.  He has not been unobservant of her feelings, and perhaps
his deepest regret at the part which he fears Bold is about to take
regarding the hospital arises from the dread that he may be separated
from his daughter, or that she may be separated from the man she
loves.  He has never spoken to Eleanor about her lover; he is the
last man in the world to allude to such a subject unconsulted, even
with his own daughter; and had he considered that he had ground to
disapprove of Bold, he would have removed her, or forbidden him his
house; but he saw no such ground.  He would probably have preferred a
second clerical son-in-law, for Mr Harding, also, is attached to his
order; and, failing in that, he would at any rate have wished that
so near a connection should have thought alike with him on church
matters.  He would not, however, reject the man his daughter loved
because he differed on such subjects with himself.

Hitherto Bold had taken no steps in the matter in any way annoying
to Mr Harding personally.  Some months since, after a severe battle,
which cost him not a little money, he gained a victory over a certain
old turnpike woman in the neighbourhood, of whose charges another old
woman had complained to him.  He got the Act of Parliament relating
to the trust, found that his _protégée_ had been wrongly taxed,
rode through the gate himself, paying the toll, then brought an
action against the gate-keeper, and proved that all people coming
up a certain by-lane, and going down a certain other by-lane, were
toll-free.  The fame of his success spread widely abroad, and he
began to be looked on as the upholder of the rights of the poor of
Barchester.  Not long after this success, he heard from different
quarters that Hiram's bedesmen were treated as paupers, whereas the
property to which they were, in effect, heirs was very large; and he
was instigated by the lawyer whom he had employed in the case of the
turnpike to call upon Mr Chadwick for a statement as to the funds of
the estate.

Bold had often expressed his indignation at the malappropriation of
church funds in general, in the hearing of his friend the precentor;
but the conversation had never referred to anything at Barchester; and
when Finney, the attorney, induced him to interfere with the affairs
of the hospital, it was against Mr Chadwick that his efforts were to
be directed.  Bold soon found that if he interfered with Mr Chadwick
as steward, he must also interfere with Mr Harding as warden; and
though he regretted the situation in which this would place him, he
was not the man to flinch from his undertaking from personal motives.

As soon as he had determined to take the matter in hand, he set
about his work with his usual energy.  He got a copy of John Hiram's
will, of the wording of which he made himself perfectly master.  He
ascertained the extent of the property, and as nearly as he could the
value of it; and made out a schedule of what he was informed was the
present distribution of its income.  Armed with these particulars,
he called on Mr Chadwick, having given that gentleman notice of his
visit; and asked him for a statement of the income and expenditure of
the hospital for the last twenty-five years.

This was of course refused, Mr Chadwick alleging that he had no
authority for making public the concerns of a property in managing
which he was only a paid servant.

"And who is competent to give you that authority, Mr Chadwick?" asked
Bold.

"Only those who employ me, Mr Bold," said the steward.

"And who are those, Mr Chadwick?" demanded Bold.

Mr Chadwick begged to say that if these inquiries were made merely
out of curiosity, he must decline answering them: if Mr Bold had any
ulterior proceeding in view, perhaps it would be desirable that any
necessary information should be sought for in a professional way by
a professional man.  Mr Chadwick's attorneys were Messrs Cox and
Cummins, of Lincoln's Inn.  Mr Bold took down the address of Cox and
Cummins, remarked that the weather was cold for the time of the year,
and wished Mr Chadwick good-morning.  Mr Chadwick said it was cold
for June, and bowed him out.

He at once went to his lawyer, Finney.  Now, Bold was not very fond
of his attorney, but, as he said, he merely wanted a man who knew the
forms of law, and who would do what he was told for his money.  He
had no idea of putting himself in the hands of a lawyer.  He wanted
law from a lawyer as he did a coat from a tailor, because he could
not make it so well himself; and he thought Finney the fittest man
in Barchester for his purpose.  In one respect, at any rate, he was
right: Finney was humility itself.

Finney advised an instant letter to Cox and Cummins, mindful of
his six-and-eightpence.  "Slap at them at once, Mr Bold.  Demand
categorically and explicitly a full statement of the affairs of the
hospital."

"Suppose I were to see Mr Harding first," suggested Bold.

"Yes, yes, by all means," said the acquiescing Finney; "though,
perhaps, as Mr Harding is no man of business, it may lead--lead
to some little difficulties; but perhaps you're right.  Mr Bold, I
don't think seeing Mr Harding can do any harm."  Finney saw from the
expression of his client's face that he intended to have his own way.




Chapter III

THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER


Bold at once repaired to the hospital.  The day was now far advanced,
but he knew that Mr Harding dined in the summer at four, that Eleanor
was accustomed to drive in the evening, and that he might therefore
probably find Mr Harding alone.  It was between seven and eight when
he reached the slight iron gate leading into the precentor's garden,
and though, as Mr Chadwick observed, the day had been cold for June,
the evening was mild, and soft, and sweet.  The little gate was open.
As he raised the latch he heard the notes of Mr Harding's violoncello
from the far end of the garden, and, advancing before the house
and across the lawn, he found him playing;--and not without an
audience. The musician was seated in a garden-chair just within the
summer-house, so as to allow the violoncello which he held between his
knees to rest upon the dry stone flooring; before him stood a rough
music desk, on which was open a page of that dear sacred book, that
much-laboured and much-loved volume of church music, which had cost so
many guineas; and around sat, and lay, and stood, and leaned, ten of
the twelve old men who dwelt with him beneath old John Hiram's roof.
The two reformers were not there.  I will not say that in their hearts
they were conscious of any wrong done or to be done to their mild
warden, but latterly they had kept aloof from him, and his music was
no longer to their taste.

It was amusing to see the positions, and eager listening faces of
these well-to-do old men.  I will not say that they all appreciated
the music which they heard, but they were intent on appearing to
do so; pleased at being where they were, they were determined, as
far as in them lay, to give pleasure in return; and they were not
unsuccessful.  It gladdened the precentor's heart to think that the
old bedesmen whom he loved so well admired the strains which were to
him so full of almost ecstatic joy; and he used to boast that such was
the air of the hospital, as to make it a precinct specially fit for
the worship of St Cecilia.

Immediately before him, on the extreme corner of the bench which
ran round the summer-house, sat one old man, with his handkerchief
smoothly lain upon his knees, who did enjoy the moment, or acted
enjoyment well.  He was one on whose large frame many years, for he
was over eighty, had made small havoc;--he was still an upright,
burly, handsome figure, with an open, ponderous brow, round which
clung a few, though very few, thin gray locks.  The coarse black gown
of the hospital, the breeches, and buckled shoes became him well; and
as he sat with his hands folded on his staff, and his chin resting on
his hands, he was such a listener as most musicians would be glad to
welcome.

This man was certainly the pride of the hospital.  It had always been
the custom that one should be selected as being to some extent in
authority over the others; and though Mr Bunce, for such was his name,
and so he was always designated by his inferior brethren, had no
greater emoluments than they, he had assumed, and well knew how to
maintain, the dignity of his elevation.  The precentor delighted to
call him his sub-warden, and was not ashamed, occasionally, when no
other guest was there, to bid him sit down by the same parlour fire,
and drink the full glass of port which was placed near him.  Bunce
never went without the second glass, but no entreaty ever made him
take a third.

"Well, well, Mr Harding; you're too good, much too good," he'd always
say, as the second glass was filled; but when that was drunk, and the
half hour over, Bunce stood erect, and with a benediction which his
patron valued, retired to his own abode.  He knew the world too well
to risk the comfort of such halcyon moments, by prolonging them till
they were disagreeable.

Mr Bunce, as may be imagined, was most strongly opposed to innovation.
Not even Dr Grantly had a more holy horror of those who would
interfere in the affairs of the hospital; he was every inch a
churchman, and though he was not very fond of Dr Grantly personally,
that arose from there not being room in the hospital for two people
so much alike as the doctor and himself, rather than from any
dissimilarity in feeling.  Mr Bunce was inclined to think that
the warden and himself could manage the hospital without further
assistance; and that, though the bishop was the constitutional
visitor, and as such entitled to special reverence from all connected
with John Hiram's will, John Hiram never intended that his affairs
should be interfered with by an archdeacon.

At the present moment, however, these cares were off his mind, and he
was looking at his warden, as though he thought the music heavenly,
and the musician hardly less so.

As Bold walked silently over the lawn, Mr Harding did not at first
perceive him, and continued to draw his bow slowly across the
plaintive wires; but he soon found from his audience that some
stranger was there, and looking up, began to welcome his young friend
with frank hospitality.

"Pray, Mr Harding--pray don't let me disturb you," said Bold; "you
know how fond I am of sacred music."

"Oh! it's nothing," said the precentor, shutting up the book and then
opening it again as he saw the delightfully imploring look of his old
friend Bunce.  Oh, Bunce, Bunce, Bunce, I fear that after all thou art
but a flatterer.  "Well, I'll just finish it then; it's a favourite
little bit of Bishop's; and then, Mr Bold, we'll have a stroll and
a chat till Eleanor comes in and gives us tea."  And so Bold sat
down on the soft turf to listen, or rather to think how, after such
sweet harmony, he might best introduce a theme of so much discord, to
disturb the peace of him who was so ready to welcome him kindly.

Bold thought that the performance was soon over, for he felt that
he had a somewhat difficult task, and he almost regretted the final
leave-taking of the last of the old men, slow as they were in going
through their adieux.

Bold's heart was in his mouth, as the precentor made some ordinary but
kind remark as to the friendliness of the visit.

"One evening call," said he, "is worth ten in the morning.  It's all
formality in the morning; real social talk never begins till after
dinner.  That's why I dine early, so as to get as much as I can of
it."

"Quite true, Mr Harding," said the other; "but I fear I've reversed
the order of things, and I owe you much apology for troubling you on
business at such an hour; but it is on business that I have called
just now."

Mr Harding looked blank and annoyed; there was something in the
tone of the young man's voice which told him that the interview was
intended to be disagreeable, and he shrank back at finding his kindly
greeting so repulsed.

"I wish to speak to you about the hospital," continued Bold.

"Well, well, anything I can tell you I shall be most happy--"

"It's about the accounts."

"Then, my dear fellow, I can tell you nothing, for I'm as ignorant
as a child.  All I know is, that they pay me £800 a year.  Go to
Chadwick, he knows all about the accounts; and now tell me, will poor
Mary Jones ever get the use of her limb again?"

"Well, I think she will, if she's careful; but, Mr Harding, I hope
you won't object to discuss with me what I have to say about the
hospital."

Mr Harding gave a deep, long-drawn sigh.  He did object, very strongly
object, to discuss any such subject with John Bold; but he had not the
business tact of Mr Chadwick, and did not know how to relieve himself
from the coming evil; he sighed sadly, but made no answer.

"I have the greatest regard for you, Mr Harding," continued Bold; "the
truest respect, the most sincere--"

"Thank ye, thank ye, Mr Bold," interjaculated the precentor somewhat
impatiently; "I'm much obliged, but never mind that; I'm as likely to
be in the wrong as another man,--quite as likely."

"But, Mr Harding, I must express what I feel, lest you should think
there is personal enmity in what I'm going to do."

"Personal enmity!  Going to do!  Why, you're not going to cut my
throat, nor put me into the Ecclesiastical Court!"

Bold tried to laugh, but he couldn't.  He was quite in earnest, and
determined in his course, and couldn't make a joke of it.  He walked
on awhile in silence before he recommenced his attack, during which
Mr Harding, who had still the bow in his hand, played rapidly on an
imaginary violoncello.  "I fear there is reason to think that John
Hiram's will is not carried out to the letter, Mr Harding," said the
young man at last; "and I have been asked to see into it."

"Very well, I've no objection on earth; and now we need not say
another word about it."

"Only one word more, Mr Harding.  Chadwick has referred me to Cox and
Cummins, and I think it my duty to apply to them for some statement
about the hospital.  In what I do I may appear to be interfering with
you, and I hope you will forgive me for doing so."

"Mr Bold," said the other, stopping, and speaking with some solemnity,
"if you act justly, say nothing in this matter but the truth, and use
no unfair weapons in carrying out your purposes, I shall have nothing
to forgive.  I presume you think I am not entitled to the income
I receive from the hospital, and that others are entitled to it.
Whatever some may do, I shall never attribute to you base motives
because you hold an opinion opposed to my own and adverse to my
interests: pray do what you consider to be your duty; I can give
you no assistance, neither will I offer you any obstacle.  Let me,
however, suggest to you, that you can in no wise forward your views
nor I mine, by any discussion between us.  Here comes Eleanor and the
ponies, and we'll go in to tea."

Bold, however, felt that he could not sit down at ease with Mr Harding
and his daughter after what had passed, and therefore excused himself
with much awkward apology; and merely raising his hat and bowing as he
passed Eleanor and the pony chair, left her in disappointed amazement
at his departure.

Mr Harding's demeanour certainly impressed Bold with a full conviction
that the warden felt that he stood on strong grounds, and almost made
him think that he was about to interfere without due warrant in the
private affairs of a just and honourable man; but Mr Harding himself
was anything but satisfied with his own view of the case.

In the first place, he wished for Eleanor's sake to think well of
Bold and to like him, and yet he could not but feel disgusted at the
arrogance of his conduct.  What right had he to say that John Hiram's
will was not fairly carried out?  But then the question would arise
within his heart,--Was that will fairly acted on?  Did John Hiram mean
that the warden of his hospital should receive considerably more out
of the legacy than all the twelve old men together for whose behoof
the hospital was built?  Could it be possible that John Bold was
right, and that the reverend warden of the hospital had been for the
last ten years and more the unjust recipient of an income legally and
equitably belonging to others?  What if it should be proved before
the light of day that he, whose life had been so happy, so quiet,
so respected, had absorbed eight thousand pounds to which he had no
title, and which he could never repay?  I do not say that he feared
that such was really the case; but the first shade of doubt now fell
across his mind, and from this evening, for many a long, long day,
our good, kind loving warden was neither happy nor at ease.

Thoughts of this kind, these first moments of much misery, oppressed
Mr Harding as he sat sipping his tea, absent and ill at ease.  Poor
Eleanor felt that all was not right, but her ideas as to the cause of
the evening's discomfort did not go beyond her lover, and his sudden
and uncivil departure.  She thought there must have been some quarrel
between Bold and her father, and she was half angry with both, though
she did not attempt to explain to herself why she was so.

Mr Harding thought long and deeply over these things, both before he
went to bed and after it, as he lay awake, questioning within himself
the validity of his claim to the income which he enjoyed.  It seemed
clear at any rate that, however unfortunate he might be at having been
placed in such a position, no one could say that he ought either to
have refused the appointment first, or to have rejected the income
afterwards.  All the world,--meaning the ecclesiastical world as
confined to the English church,--knew that the wardenship of the
Barchester Hospital was a snug sinecure, but no one had ever been
blamed for accepting it.  To how much blame, however, would he have
been open had he rejected it!  How mad would he have been thought had
he declared, when the situation was vacant and offered to him, that he
had scruples as to receiving £800 a year from John Hiram's property,
and that he had rather some stranger should possess it!  How would Dr
Grantly have shaken his wise head, and have consulted with his friends
in the close as to some decent retreat for the coming insanity of the
poor minor canon!  If he was right in accepting the place, it was
clear to him also that he would be wrong in rejecting any part of the
income attached to it.  The patronage was a valuable appanage of the
bishopric; and surely it would not be his duty to lessen the value
of that preferment which had been bestowed on himself; surely he was
bound to stand by his order.

But somehow these arguments, though they seemed logical, were not
satisfactory.  Was John Hiram's will fairly carried out? that was the
true question: and if not, was it not his especial duty to see that
this was done,--his especial duty, whatever injury it might do to
his order,--however ill such duty might be received by his patron and
his friends?  At the idea of his friends, his mind turned unhappily
to his son-in-law.  He knew well how strongly he would be supported
by Dr Grantly, if he could bring himself to put his case into the
archdeacon's hands and to allow him to fight the battle; but he knew
also that he would find no sympathy there for his doubts, no friendly
feeling, no inward comfort.  Dr Grantly would be ready enough to take
up his cudgel against all comers on behalf of the church militant,
but he would do so on the distasteful ground of the church's
infallibility.  Such a contest would give no comfort to Mr Harding's
doubts.  He was not so anxious to prove himself right, as to be so.

I have said before that Dr Grantly was the working man of the diocese,
and that his father the bishop was somewhat inclined to an idle life.
So it was; but the bishop, though he had never been an active man, was
one whose qualities had rendered him dear to all who knew him.  He
was the very opposite to his son; he was a bland and a kind old man,
opposed by every feeling to authoritative demonstrations and episcopal
ostentation.  It was perhaps well for him, in his situation, that his
son had early in life been able to do that which he could not well do
when he was younger, and which he could not have done at all now that
he was over seventy.  The bishop knew how to entertain the clergy
of his diocese, to talk easy small-talk with the rectors' wives,
and put curates at their ease; but it required the strong hand of
the archdeacon to deal with such as were refractory either in their
doctrines or their lives.

The bishop and Mr Harding loved each other warmly.  They had grown old
together, and had together spent many, many years in clerical pursuits
and clerical conversation.  When one of them was a bishop and the
other only a minor canon they were even then much together; but since
their children had married, and Mr Harding had become warden and
precentor, they were all in all to each other.  I will not say that
they managed the diocese between them, but they spent much time in
discussing the man who did, and in forming little plans to mitigate
his wrath against church delinquents, and soften his aspirations for
church dominion.

Mr Harding determined to open his mind and confess his doubts to
his old friend; and to him he went on the morning after John Bold's
uncourteous visit.

Up to this period no rumour of these cruel proceedings against the
hospital had reached the bishop's ears.  He had doubtless heard that
men existed who questioned his right to present to a sinecure of £800
a year, as he had heard from time to time of some special immorality
or disgraceful disturbance in the usually decent and quiet city of
Barchester: but all he did, and all he was called on to do, on such
occasions, was to shake his head, and to beg his son, the great
dictator, to see that no harm happened to the church.

It was a long story that Mr Harding had to tell before he made the
bishop comprehend his own view of the case; but we need not follow
him through the tale.  At first the bishop counselled but one step,
recommended but one remedy, had but one medicine in his whole
pharmacopoeia strong enough to touch so grave a disorder;--he
prescribed the archdeacon.  "Refer him to the archdeacon," he
repeated, as Mr Harding spoke of Bold and his visit.  "The archdeacon
will set you quite right about that," he kindly said, when his friend
spoke with hesitation of the justness of his cause.  "No man has got
up all that so well as the archdeacon;" but the dose, though large,
failed to quiet the patient; indeed it almost produced nausea.

"But, bishop," said he, "did you ever read John Hiram's will?"

The bishop thought probably he had, thirty-five years ago, when
first instituted to his see, but could not state positively: however,
he very well knew that he had the absolute right to present to the
wardenship, and that the income of the warden had been regularly
settled.

"But, bishop, the question is, who has the power to settle it?
If, as this young man says, the will provides that the proceeds of
the property are to be divided into shares, who has the power to
alter these provisions?"  The bishop had an indistinct idea that
they altered themselves by the lapse of years; that a kind of
ecclesiastical statute of limitation barred the rights of the twelve
bedesmen to any increase of income arising from the increased value of
property.  He said something about tradition; more of the many learned
men who by their practice had confirmed the present arrangement;
then went at some length into the propriety of maintaining the due
difference in rank and income between a beneficed clergyman and
certain poor old men who were dependent on charity; and concluded his
argument by another reference to the archdeacon.

The precentor sat thoughtfully gazing at the fire, and listening to
the good-natured reasoning of his friend.  What the bishop said had a
sort of comfort in it, but it was not a sustaining comfort.  It made
Mr Harding feel that many others,--indeed, all others of his own
order,--would think him right; but it failed to prove to him that he
truly was so.

"Bishop," said he, at last, after both had sat silent for a while, "I
should deceive you and myself too, if I did not tell you that I am
very unhappy about this.  Suppose that I cannot bring myself to agree
with Dr Grantly!--that I find, after inquiry, that the young man is
right, and that I am wrong,--what then?"

The two old men were sitting near each other,--so near that the bishop
was able to lay his hand upon the other's knee, and he did so with a
gentle pressure.  Mr Harding well knew what that pressure meant.  The
bishop had no further argument to adduce; he could not fight for the
cause as his son would do; he could not prove all the precentor's
doubts to be groundless; but he could sympathise with his friend, and
he did so; and Mr Harding felt that he had received that for which he
came.  There was another period of silence, after which the bishop
asked, with a degree of irritable energy, very unusual with him,
whether this "pestilent intruder" (meaning John Bold) had any friends
in Barchester.

Mr Harding had fully made up his mind to tell the bishop everything;
to speak of his daughter's love, as well as his own troubles; to talk
of John Bold in his double capacity of future son-in-law and present
enemy; and though he felt it to be sufficiently disagreeable, now was
his time to do it.

"He is very intimate at my own house, bishop."  The bishop stared.  He
was not so far gone in orthodoxy and church militancy as his son, but
still he could not bring himself to understand how so declared an
enemy of the establishment could be admitted on terms of intimacy into
the house, not only of so firm a pillar as Mr Harding, but one so much
injured as the warden of the hospital.

"Indeed, I like Mr Bold much, personally," continued the disinterested
victim; "and to tell you the 'truth,'"--he hesitated as he brought out
the dreadful tidings,--"I have sometimes thought it not improbable
that he would be my second son-in-law."  The bishop did not whistle:
we believe that they lose the power of doing so on being consecrated;
and that in these days one might as easily meet a corrupt judge as a
whistling bishop; but he looked as though he would have done so, but
for his apron.

What a brother-in-law for the archdeacon! what an alliance for
Barchester close! what a connection for even the episcopal palace!
The bishop, in his simple mind, felt no doubt that John Bold, had he
so much power, would shut up all cathedrals, and probably all parish
churches; distribute all tithes among Methodists, Baptists, and other
savage tribes; utterly annihilate the sacred bench, and make shovel
hats and lawn sleeves as illegal as cowls, sandals, and sackcloth!
Here was a nice man to be initiated into the comfortable arcana of
ecclesiastical snuggeries; one who doubted the integrity of parsons,
and probably disbelieved the Trinity!

Mr Harding saw what an effect his communication had made, and almost
repented the openness of his disclosure; he, however, did what he
could to moderate the grief of his friend and patron.  "I do not say
that there is any engagement between them.  Had there been, Eleanor
would have told me; I know her well enough to be assured that she
would have done so; but I see that they are fond of each other; and
as a man and a father, I have had no objection to urge against their
intimacy."

"But, Mr Harding," said the bishop, "how are you to oppose him, if he
is your son-in-law?"

"I don't mean to oppose him; it is he who opposes me; if anything is
to be done in defence, I suppose Chadwick will do it.  I suppose--"

"Oh, the archdeacon will see to that: were the young man twice his
brother-in-law, the archdeacon will never be deterred from doing what
he feels to be right."

Mr Harding reminded the bishop that the archdeacon and the reformer
were not yet brothers, and very probably never would be; exacted from
him a promise that Eleanor's name should not be mentioned in any
discussion between the father bishop and son archdeacon respecting the
hospital; and then took his departure, leaving his poor old friend
bewildered, amazed, and confounded.




Chapter IV

HIRAM'S BEDESMEN


The parties most interested in the movement which is about to set
Barchester by the ears were not the foremost to discuss the merit
of the question, as is often the case; but when the bishop, the
archdeacon, the warden, the steward, and Messrs Cox and Cummins,
were all busy with the matter, each in his own way, it is not to be
supposed that Hiram's bedesmen themselves were altogether passive
spectators.  Finney, the attorney, had been among them, asking sly
questions, and raising immoderate hopes, creating a party hostile
to the warden, and establishing a corps in the enemy's camp, as he
figuratively calls it to himself.  Poor old men: whoever may be
righted or wronged by this inquiry, they at any rate will assuredly
be only injured: to them it can only be an unmixed evil.  How can
their lot be improved? all their wants are supplied; every comfort is
administered; they have warm houses, good clothes, plentiful diet,
and rest after a life of labour; and above all, that treasure so
inestimable in declining years, a true and kind friend to listen to
their sorrows, watch over their sickness, and administer comfort as
regards this world, and the world to come!

John Bold sometimes thinks of this, when he is talking loudly of the
rights of the bedesmen, whom he has taken under his protection; but he
quiets the suggestion within his breast with the high-sounding name
of justice: "_Fiat justitia, ruat coelum_."  These old men should,
by rights, have one hundred pounds a year instead of one shilling
and sixpence a day, and the warden should have two hundred or three
hundred pounds instead of eight hundred pounds.  What is unjust must
be wrong; what is wrong should be righted; and if he declined the
task, who else would do it?

"Each one of you is clearly entitled to one hundred pounds a year by
common law": such had been the important whisper made by Finney into
the ears of Abel Handy, and by him retailed to his eleven brethren.

Too much must not be expected from the flesh and blood even of John
Hiram's bedesmen, and the positive promise of one hundred a year to
each of the twelve old men had its way with most of them.  The great
Bunce was not to be wiled away, and was upheld in his orthodoxy by
two adherents.  Abel Handy, who was the leader of the aspirants after
wealth, had, alas, a stronger following.  No less than five of the
twelve soon believed that his views were just, making with their
leader a moiety of the hospital.  The other three, volatile unstable
minds, vacillated between the two chieftains, now led away by the hope
of gold, now anxious to propitiate the powers that still existed.

It had been proposed to address a petition to the bishop as visitor,
praying his lordship to see justice done to the legal recipients of
John Hiram's Charity, and to send copies of this petition and of the
reply it would elicit to all the leading London papers, and thereby
to obtain notoriety for the subject.  This it was thought would pave
the way for ulterior legal proceedings.  It would have been a great
thing to have had the signatures and marks of all the twelve injured
legatees; but this was impossible: Bunce would have cut his hand off
sooner than have signed it.  It was then suggested by Finney that
if even eleven could be induced to sanction the document, the one
obstinate recusant might have been represented as unfit to judge on
such a question,--in fact, as being _non compos mentis_,--and the
petition would have been taken as representing the feeling of the men.
But this could not be done: Bunce's friends were as firm as himself,
and as yet only six crosses adorned the document.  It was the more
provoking, as Bunce himself could write his name legibly, and one of
those three doubting souls had for years boasted of like power, and
possessed, indeed, a Bible, in which he was proud to show his name
written by himself some thirty years ago--"Job Skulpit;" but it was
thought that Job Skulpit, having forgotten his scholarship, on that
account recoiled from the petition, and that the other doubters would
follow as he led them.  A petition signed by half the hospital would
have but a poor effect.

It was in Skulpit's room that the petition was now lying, waiting such
additional signatures as Abel Handy, by his eloquence, could obtain
for it.  The six marks it bore were duly attested, thus:


         his            his             his
     Abel X Handy, Gregy X Moody, Mathew X Spriggs,
         mark           mark            mark


&c., and places were duly designated in pencil for those brethren who
were now expected to join: for Skulpit alone was left a spot on which
his genuine signature might be written in fair clerk-like style.
Handy had brought in the document, and spread it out on the small deal
table, and was now standing by it persuasive and eager.  Moody had
followed with an inkhorn, carefully left behind by Finney; and Spriggs
bore aloft, as though it were a sword, a well-worn ink-black pen,
which from time to time he endeavoured to thrust into Skulpit's
unwilling hand.

With the learned man were his two abettors in indecision, William Gazy
and Jonathan Crumple.  If ever the petition were to be forwarded, now
was the time,--so said Mr Finney; and great was the anxiety on the
part of those whose one hundred pounds a year, as they believed,
mainly depended on the document in question.

"To be kept out of all that money," as the avaricious Moody had
muttered to his friend Handy, "by an old fool saying that he can
write his own name like his betters!"

"Well, Job," said Handy, trying to impart to his own sour,
ill-omened visage a smile of approbation, in which he greatly
failed; "so you're ready now, Mr Finney says; here's the
place, d'ye see;"--and he put his huge brown finger down on
the dirty paper;--"name or mark, it's all one.  Come along,
old boy; if so be we're to have the spending of this money,
why the sooner the better,--that's my maxim."

"To be sure," said Moody.  "We a'n't none of us so young; we can't
stay waiting for old Catgut no longer."

It was thus these miscreants named our excellent friend.  The nickname
he could easily have forgiven, but the allusion to the divine source
of all his melodious joy would have irritated even him.  Let us hope
he never knew the insult.

"Only think, old Billy Gazy," said Spriggs, who rejoiced in greater
youth than his brethren, but having fallen into a fire when drunk, had
had one eye burnt out, one cheek burnt through, and one arm nearly
burnt off, and who, therefore, in regard to personal appearance, was
not the most prepossessing of men, "a hundred a year, and all to
spend; only think, old Billy Gazy;" and he gave a hideous grin that
showed off his misfortunes to their full extent.

Old Billy Gazy was not alive to much enthusiasm.  Even these golden
prospects did not arouse him to do more than rub his poor old bleared
eyes with the cuff of his bedesman's gown, and gently mutter: "he
didn't know, not he; he didn't know."

"But you'd know, Jonathan," continued Spriggs, turning to the other
friend of Skulpit's, who was sitting on a stool by the table, gazing
vacantly at the petition.  Jonathan Crumple was a meek, mild man, who
had known better days; his means had been wasted by bad children,
who had made his life wretched till he had been received into the
hospital, of which he had not long been a member.  Since that day he
had known neither sorrow nor trouble, and this attempt to fill him
with new hopes was, indeed, a cruelty.

"A hundred a year's a nice thing, for sartain, neighbour Spriggs,"
said he.  "I once had nigh to that myself, but it didn't do me no
good."  And he gave a low sigh, as he thought of the children of his
own loins who had robbed him.

"And shall have again, Joe," said Handy; "and will have someone to
keep it right and tight for you this time."

Crumple sighed again;--he had learned the impotency of worldly wealth,
and would have been satisfied, if left untempted, to have remained
happy with one and sixpence a day.

"Come, Skulpit," repeated Handy, getting impatient, "you're not going
to go along with old Bunce in helping that parson to rob us all.
Take the pen, man, and right yourself.  Well," he added, seeing that
Skulpit still doubted, "to see a man as is afraid to stand by hisself
is, to my thinking, the meanest thing as is."

"Sink them all for parsons, says I," growled Moody; "hungry beggars,
as never thinks their bellies full till they have robbed all and
everything!"

"Who's to harm you, man?" argued Spriggs.  "Let them look never so
black at you, they can't get you put out when you're once in;--no,
not old Catgut, with Calves to help him!"  I am sorry to say the
archdeacon himself was designated by this scurrilous allusion to his
nether person.

"A hundred a year to win, and nothing to lose," continued Handy.  "My
eyes!  Well, how a man's to doubt about sich a bit of cheese as that
passes me;--but some men is timorous;--some men is born with no pluck
in them;--some men is cowed at the very first sight of a gentleman's
coat and waistcoat."

Oh, Mr Harding, if you had but taken the archdeacon's advice in that
disputed case, when Joe Mutters was this ungrateful demagogue's rival
candidate!

"Afraid of a parson," growled Moody, with a look of ineffable scorn.
"I tell ye what I'd be afraid of--I'd be afraid of not getting nothing
from 'em but just what I could take by might and right;--that's the
most I'd be afraid on of any parson of 'em all."

"But," said Skulpit, apologetically, "Mr Harding's not so bad;--he did
give us twopence a day, didn't he now?"

"Twopence a day!" exclaimed Spriggs with scorn, opening awfully the
red cavern of his lost eye.

"Twopence a day!" muttered Moody with a curse; "sink his twopence!"

"Twopence a day!" exclaimed Handy; "and I'm to go, hat in hand, and
thank a chap for twopence a day, when he owes me a hundred pounds a
year; no, thank ye; that may do for you, but it won't for me.  Come,
I say, Skulpit, are you a going to put your mark to this here paper,
or are you not?"

Skulpit looked round in wretched indecision to his two friends.  "What
d'ye think, Bill Gazy?" said he.

But Bill Gazy couldn't think.  He made a noise like the bleating of an
old sheep, which was intended to express the agony of his doubt, and
again muttered that "he didn't know."

"Take hold, you old cripple," said Handy, thrusting the pen into poor
Billy's hand: "there, so--ugh! you old fool, you've been and smeared
it all,--there,--that'll do for you;--that's as good as the best
name as ever was written": and a big blotch of ink was presumed to
represent Billy Gazy's acquiescence.

"Now, Jonathan," said Handy, turning to Crumple.

"A hundred a year's a nice thing, for sartain," again argued Crumple.
"Well, neighbour Skulpit, how's it to be?"

"Oh, please yourself," said Skulpit: "please yourself, and you'll
please me."

The pen was thrust into Crumple's hand, and a faint, wandering,
meaningless sign was made, betokening such sanction and authority as
Jonathan Crumple was able to convey.

"Come, Job," said Handy, softened by success, "don't let 'em have to
say that old Bunce has a man like you under his thumb,--a man that
always holds his head in the hospital as high as Bunce himself, though
you're never axed to drink wine, and sneak, and tell lies about your
betters as he does."

Skulpit held the pen, and made little flourishes with it in the air,
but still hesitated.

"And if you'll be said by me," continued Handy, "you'll not write your
name to it at all, but just put your mark like the others;"--the cloud
began to clear from Skulpit's brow;--"we all know you can do it if you
like, but maybe you wouldn't like to seem uppish, you know."

"Well, the mark would be best," said Skulpit.  "One name and the rest
marks wouldn't look well, would it?"

"The worst in the world," said Handy; "there--there": and stooping
over the petition, the learned clerk made a huge cross on the place
left for his signature.

"That's the game," said Handy, triumphantly pocketing the petition;
"we're all in a boat now, that is, the nine of us; and as for old
Bunce, and his cronies, they may--"  But as he was hobbling off to the
door, with a crutch on one side and a stick on the other, he was met
by Bunce himself.

"Well Handy, and what may old Bunce do?" said the gray-haired, upright
senior.

Handy muttered something, and was departing; but he was stopped in the
doorway by the huge frame of the newcomer.

"You've been doing no good here, Abel Handy," said he, "'tis plain to
see that; and 'tisn't much good, I'm thinking, you ever do."

"I mind my own business, Master Bunce," muttered the other, "and do
you do the same.  It ain't nothing to you what I does;--and your
spying and poking here won't do no good nor yet no harm."

"I suppose then, Job," continued Bunce, not noticing his opponent, "if
the truth must out, you've stuck your name to that petition of theirs
at last."

Skulpit looked as though he were about to sink into the ground with
shame.

"What is it to you what he signs?" said Handy.  "I suppose if we all
wants to ax for our own, we needn't ax leave of you first, Mr Bunce,
big a man as you are; and as to your sneaking in here, into Job's room
when he's busy, and where you're not wanted--"

"I've knowed Job Skulpit, man and boy, sixty years," said Bunce,
looking at the man of whom he spoke, "and that's ever since the day
he was born.  I knowed the mother that bore him, when she and I were
little wee things, picking daisies together in the close yonder; and
I've lived under the same roof with him more nor ten years; and after
that I may come into his room without axing leave, and yet no sneaking
neither."

"So you can, Mr Bunce," said Skulpit; "so you can, any hour, day or
night."

"And I'm free also to tell him my mind," continued Bunce, looking at
the one man and addressing the other; "and I tell him now that he's
done a foolish and a wrong thing.  He's turned his back upon one
who is his best friend; and is playing the game of others, who care
nothing for him, whether he be poor or rich, well or ill, alive or
dead.  A hundred a year?  Are the lot of you soft enough to think that
if a hundred a year be to be given, it's the likes of you that will
get it?"--and he pointed to Billy Gazy, Spriggs, and Crumple.  "Did
any of us ever do anything worth half the money?  Was it to make
gentlemen of us we were brought in here, when all the world turned
against us, and we couldn't longer earn our daily bread?  A'n't you
all as rich in your ways as he in his?"--and the orator pointed to
the side on which the warden lived.  "A'n't you getting all you hoped
for, ay, and more than you hoped for?  Wouldn't each of you have given
the dearest limb of his body to secure that which now makes you so
unthankful?"

"We wants what John Hiram left us," said Handy.  "We wants what's ourn
by law; it don't matter what we expected.  What's ourn by law should
be ourn, and by goles we'll have it."

"Law!" said Bunce, with all the scorn he knew how to command--"law!
Did ye ever know a poor man yet was the better for law, or for a
lawyer?  Will Mr Finney ever be as good to you, Job, as that man has
been?  Will he see to you when you're sick, and comfort you when
you're wretched? Will he--"

"No, nor give you port wine, old boy, on cold winter nights! he won't
do that, will he?" asked Handy; and laughing at the severity of his
own wit, he and his colleagues retired, carrying with them, however,
the now powerful petition.

There is no help for spilt milk; and Mr Bunce could only retire to
his own room, disgusted at the frailty of human nature.  Job Skulpit
scratched his head;--Jonathan Crumple again remarked, that, "for
sartain, sure a hundred a year was very nice;"--and Billy Gazy again
rubbed his eyes, and lowly muttered that "he didn't know."




Chapter V

DR GRANTLY VISITS THE HOSPITAL


Though doubt and hesitation disturbed the rest of our poor warden, no
such weakness perplexed the nobler breast of his son-in-law.  As the
indomitable cock preparing for the combat sharpens his spurs, shakes
his feathers, and erects his comb, so did the archdeacon arrange his
weapons for the coming war, without misgiving and without fear.  That
he was fully confident of the justice of his cause let no one doubt.
Many a man can fight his battle with good courage, but with a doubting
conscience.  Such was not the case with Dr Grantly.  He did not
believe in the Gospel with more assurance than he did in the sacred
justice of all ecclesiastical revenues.  When he put his shoulder to
the wheel to defend the income of the present and future precentors
of Barchester, he was animated by as strong a sense of a holy cause,
as that which gives courage to a missionary in Africa, or enables a
sister of mercy to give up the pleasures of the world for the wards
of a hospital.  He was about to defend the holy of holies from the
touch of the profane; to guard the citadel of his church from the
most rampant of its enemies; to put on his good armour in the best of
fights, and secure, if possible, the comforts of his creed for coming
generations of ecclesiastical dignitaries.  Such a work required no
ordinary vigour; and the archdeacon was, therefore, extraordinarily
vigorous.  It demanded a buoyant courage, and a heart happy in its
toil; and the archdeacon's heart was happy, and his courage was
buoyant.

He knew that he would not be able to animate his father-in-law
with feelings like his own, but this did not much disturb him.  He
preferred to bear the brunt of the battle alone, and did not doubt
that the warden would resign himself into his hands with passive
submission.

"Well, Mr Chadwick," he said, walking into the steward's office a day
or two after the signing of the petition as commemorated in the last
chapter: "anything from Cox and Cummins this morning?"  Mr Chadwick
handed him a letter; which he read, stroking the tight-gaitered calf
of his right leg as he did so.  Messrs Cox and Cummins merely said
that they had as yet received no notice from their adversaries;
that they could recommend no preliminary steps; but that should any
proceeding really be taken by the bedesmen, it would be expedient to
consult that very eminent Queen's Counsel, Sir Abraham Haphazard.

"I quite agree with them," said Dr Grantly, refolding the letter.
"I perfectly agree with them.  Haphazard is no doubt the best man; a
thorough churchman, a sound conservative, and in every respect the
best man we could get;--he's in the House, too, which is a great
thing."

Mr Chadwick quite agreed.

"You remember how completely he put down that scoundrel Horseman about
the Bishop of Beverley's income; how completely he set them all adrift
in the earl's case."  Since the question of St Cross had been mooted
by the public, one noble lord had become "the earl," _par excellence_,
in the doctor's estimation.  "How he silenced that fellow at
Rochester.  Of course we must have Haphazard; and I'll tell you what,
Mr Chadwick, we must take care to be in time, or the other party will
forestall us."

With all his admiration for Sir Abraham, the doctor seemed to think
it not impossible that that great man might be induced to lend his
gigantic powers to the side of the church's enemies.

Having settled this point to his satisfaction, the doctor stepped down
to the hospital, to learn how matters were going on there; and as he
walked across the hallowed close, and looked up at the ravens who
cawed with a peculiar reverence as he wended his way, he thought with
increased acerbity of those whose impiety would venture to disturb the
goodly grace of cathedral institutions.

And who has not felt the same?  We believe that Mr Horseman himself
would relent, and the spirit of Sir Benjamin Hall give way, were those
great reformers to allow themselves to stroll by moonlight round the
towers of some of our ancient churches.  Who would not feel charity
for a prebendary when walking the quiet length of that long aisle at
Winchester, looking at those decent houses, that trim grass-plat, and
feeling, as one must, the solemn, orderly comfort of the spot!  Who
could be hard upon a dean while wandering round the sweet close of
Hereford, and owning that in that precinct, tone and colour, design
and form, solemn tower and storied window, are all in unison, and all
perfect!  Who could lie basking in the cloisters of Salisbury, and
gaze on Jewel's library and that unequalled spire, without feeling
that bishops should sometimes be rich!

The tone of our archdeacon's mind must not astonish us; it has been
the growth of centuries of church ascendancy; and though some fungi
now disfigure the tree, though there be much dead wood, for how much
good fruit have not we to be thankful?  Who, without remorse, can
batter down the dead branches of an old oak, now useless, but, ah!
still so beautiful, or drag out the fragments of the ancient forest,
without feeling that they sheltered the younger plants, to which they
are now summoned to give way in a tone so peremptory and so harsh?

The archdeacon, with all his virtues, was not a man of delicate
feeling; and after having made his morning salutations in the warden's
drawing-room, he did not scruple to commence an attack on "pestilent"
John Bold in the presence of Miss Harding, though he rightly guessed
that that lady was not indifferent to the name of his enemy.

"Nelly, my dear, fetch me my spectacles from the back room," said her
father, anxious to save both her blushes and her feelings.

Eleanor brought the spectacles, while her father was trying, in
ambiguous phrases, to explain to her too-practical brother-in-law that
it might be as well not to say anything about Bold before her, and
then retreated.  Nothing had been explained to her about Bold and the
hospital; but, with a woman's instinct she knew that things were going
wrong.

"We must soon be doing something," commenced the archdeacon, wiping
his brows with a large, bright-coloured handkerchief, for he had felt
busy, and had walked quick, and it was a broiling summer's day.  "Of
course you have heard of the petition?"

Mr Harding owned, somewhat unwillingly, that he had heard of it.

"Well!"--the archdeacon looked for some expressions of opinion, but
none coming, he continued,--"We must be doing something, you know; we
mustn't allow these people to cut the ground from under us while we
sit looking on."  The archdeacon, who was a practical man, allowed
himself the use of everyday expressive modes of speech when among his
closest intimates, though no one could soar into a more intricate
labyrinth of refined phraseology when the church was the subject, and
his lower brethren were his auditors.

The warden still looked mutely in his face, making the slightest
possible passes with an imaginary fiddle bow, and stopping, as he
did so, sundry imaginary strings with the fingers of his other hand.
'Twas his constant consolation in conversational troubles.  While
these vexed him sorely, the passes would be short and slow, and the
upper hand would not be seen to work; nay, the strings on which it
operated would sometimes lie concealed in the musician's pocket, and
the instrument on which he played would be beneath his chair;--but as
his spirit warmed to the subject,--as his trusting heart looking to
the bottom of that which vexed him, would see its clear way out,--he
would rise to a higher melody, sweep the unseen strings with a bolder
hand, and swiftly fingering the cords from his neck, down along his
waistcoat, and up again to his very ear, create an ecstatic strain of
perfect music, audible to himself and to St Cecilia, and not without
effect.

"I quite agree with Cox and Cummins," continued the archdeacon.
"They say we must secure Sir Abraham Haphazard.  I shall not have
the slightest fear in leaving the case in Sir Abraham's hands."

The warden played the slowest and saddest of tunes.  It was but a
dirge on one string.

"I think Sir Abraham will not be long in letting Master Bold know what
he's about.  I fancy I hear Sir Abraham cross-questioning him at the
Common Pleas."

The warden thought of his income being thus discussed, his modest
life, his daily habits, and his easy work; and nothing issued from
that single cord, but a low wail of sorrow.  "I suppose they've sent
this petition up to my father."  The warden didn't know; he imagined
they would do so this very day.

"What I can't understand is, how you let them do it, with such a
command as you have in the place, or should have with such a man as
Bunce.  I cannot understand why you let them do it."

"Do what?" asked the warden.

"Why, listen to this fellow Bold, and that other low pettifogger,
Finney;--and get up this petition too.  Why didn't you tell Bunce to
destroy the petition?"

"That would have been hardly wise," said the warden.

"Wise;--yes, it would have been very wise if they'd done it among
themselves.  I must go up to the palace and answer it now, I suppose.
It's a very short answer they'll get, I can tell you."

"But why shouldn't they petition, doctor?"

"Why shouldn't they!" responded the archdeacon, in a loud brazen
voice, as though all the men in the hospital were expected to hear him
through the walls; "why shouldn't they?  I'll let them know why they
shouldn't; by the bye, warden, I'd like to say a few words to them all
together."

The warden's mind misgave him, and even for a moment he forgot to
play.  He by no means wished to delegate to his son-in-law his place
and authority of warden; he had expressly determined not to interfere
in any step which the men might wish to take in the matter under
dispute; he was most anxious neither to accuse them nor to defend
himself.  All these things he was aware the archdeacon would do in his
behalf, and that not in the mildest manner; and yet he knew not how to
refuse the permission requested.

"I'd so much sooner remain quiet in the matter," said he, in an
apologetic voice.

"Quiet!" said the archdeacon, still speaking with his brazen trumpet;
"do you wish to be ruined in quiet?"

"Why, if I am to be ruined, certainly."

"Nonsense, warden; I tell you something must be done;--we must act;
just let me ring the bell, and send the men word that I'll speak to
them in the quad."

Mr Harding knew not how to resist, and the disagreeable order was
given.  The quad, as it was familiarly called, was a small quadrangle,
open on one side to the river, and surrounded on the others by the
high wall of Mr Harding's garden, by one gable end of Mr Harding's
house, and by the end of the row of buildings which formed the
residences of the bedesmen.  It was flagged all round, and the centre
was stoned; small stone gutters ran from the four corners of the
square to a grating in the centre; and attached to the end of Mr
Harding's house was a conduit with four cocks covered over from the
weather, at which the old men got their water, and very generally
performed their morning toilet.  It was a quiet, sombre place, shaded
over by the trees of the warden's garden.  On the side towards the
river, there stood a row of stone seats, on which the old men would
sit and gaze at the little fish, as they flitted by in the running
stream.  On the other side of the river was a rich, green meadow,
running up to and joining the deanery, and as little open to the
public as the garden of the dean itself.  Nothing, therefore, could be
more private than the quad of the hospital; and it was there that the
archdeacon determined to convey to them his sense of their refractory
proceedings.

The servant soon brought in word that the men were assembled in the
quad, and the archdeacon, big with his purpose, rose to address them.

"Well, warden, of course you're coming," said he, seeing that Mr
Harding did not prepare to follow him.

"I wish you'd excuse me," said Mr Harding.

"For heaven's sake, don't let us have division in the camp," replied
the archdeacon: "let us have a long pull and a strong pull, but above
all a pull all together; come, warden, come; don't be afraid of your
duty."

Mr Harding was afraid; he was afraid that he was being led to do that
which was not his duty; he was not, however, strong enough to resist,
so he got up and followed his son-in-law.

The old men were assembled in groups in the quadrangle--eleven of them
at least, for poor old Johnny Bell was bed-ridden, and couldn't come;
he had, however, put his mark to the petition, as one of Handy's
earliest followers.  'Tis true he could not move from the bed where
he lay; 'tis true he had no friend on earth, but those whom the
hospital contained; and of those the warden and his daughter were
the most constant and most appreciated; 'tis true that everything was
administered to him which his failing body could require, or which his
faint appetite could enjoy; but still his dull eye had glistened for a
moment at the idea of possessing a hundred pounds a year "to his own
cheek," as Abel Handy had eloquently expressed it; and poor old Johnny
Bell had greedily put his mark to the petition.

When the two clergymen appeared, they all uncovered their heads.
Handy was slow to do it, and hesitated; but the black coat and
waistcoat of which he had spoken so irreverently in Skulpit's room,
had its effect even on him, and he too doffed his hat.  Bunce,
advancing before the others, bowed lowly to the archdeacon, and with
affectionate reverence expressed his wish, that the warden and Miss
Eleanor were quite well; "and the doctor's lady," he added, turning
to the archdeacon, "and the children at Plumstead, and my lord;" and
having made his speech, he also retired among the others, and took
his place with the rest upon the stone benches.

As the archdeacon stood up to make his speech, erect in the middle of
that little square, he looked like an ecclesiastical statue placed
there, as a fitting impersonation of the church militant here on
earth; his shovel hat, large, new, and well-pronounced, a churchman's
hat in every inch, declared the profession as plainly as does the
Quaker's broad brim; his heavy eyebrows, large open eyes, and full
mouth and chin expressed the solidity of his order; the broad chest,
amply covered with fine cloth, told how well to do was its estate; one
hand ensconced within his pocket, evinced the practical hold which our
mother church keeps on her temporal possessions; and the other, loose
for action, was ready to fight if need be in her defence; and, below
these, the decorous breeches, and neat black gaiters showing so
admirably that well-turned leg, betokened the decency, the outward
beauty and grace of our church establishment.

"Now, my men," he began, when he had settled himself well in his
position, "I want to say a few words to you.  Your good friend, the
warden here, and myself, and my lord the bishop, on whose behalf I
wish to speak to you, would all be very sorry, very sorry indeed,
that you should have any just ground of complaint.  Any just ground
of complaint on your part would be removed at once by the warden, or
by his lordship, or by me on his behalf, without the necessity of
any petition on your part."  Here the orator stopped for a moment,
expecting that some little murmurs of applause would show that
the weakest of the men were beginning to give way; but no such
murmurs came.  Bunce, himself, even sat with closed lips, mute and
unsatisfactory.  "Without the necessity of any petition at all," he
repeated.  "I'm told you have addressed a petition to my lord."  He
paused for a reply from the men, and after a while, Handy plucked up
courage and said, "Yes, we has."

"You have addressed a petition to my lord, in which, as I am informed,
you express an opinion that you do not receive from Hiram's estate all
that is your due."  Here most of the men expressed their assent.  "Now
what is it you ask for?  What is it you want that you hav'n't got
here?  What is it--"

"A hundred a year," muttered old Moody, with a voice as if it came out
of the ground.

"A hundred a year!" ejaculated the archdeacon militant, defying the
impudence of these claimants with one hand stretched out and closed,
while with the other he tightly grasped, and secured within his
breeches pocket, that symbol of the church's wealth which his own
loose half-crowns not unaptly represented.  "A hundred a year!
Why, my men, you must be mad; and you talk about John Hiram's will!
When John Hiram built a hospital for worn-out old men, worn-out old
labouring men, infirm old men past their work, cripples, blind,
bed-ridden, and such like, do you think he meant to make gentlemen of
them?  Do you think John Hiram intended to give a hundred a year to
old single men, who earned perhaps two shillings or half-a-crown a day
for themselves and families in the best of their time?  No, my men,
I'll tell you what John Hiram meant: he meant that twelve poor old
worn-out labourers, men who could no longer support themselves, who
had no friends to support them, who must starve and perish miserably
if not protected by the hand of charity;--he meant that twelve such
men as these should come in here in their poverty and wretchedness,
and find within these walls shelter and food before their death, and a
little leisure to make their peace with God.  That was what John Hiram
meant: you have not read John Hiram's will, and I doubt whether those
wicked men who are advising you have done so.  I have; I know what his
will was; and I tell you that that was his will, and that that was his
intention."

Not a sound came from the eleven bedesmen, as they sat listening to
what, according to the archdeacon, was their intended estate.  They
grimly stared upon his burly figure, but did not then express, by word
or sign, the anger and disgust to which such language was sure to give
rise.

"Now let me ask you," he continued: "do you think you are worse off
than John Hiram intended to make you?  Have you not shelter, and food,
and leisure?  Have you not much more?  Have you not every indulgence
which you are capable of enjoying?  Have you not twice better food,
twice a better bed, ten times more money in your pocket than you were
ever able to earn for yourselves before you were lucky enough to get
into this place?  And now you send a petition to the bishop, asking
for a hundred pounds a year!  I tell you what, my friends; you are
deluded, and made fools of by wicked men who are acting for their
own ends.  You will never get a hundred pence a year more than what
you have now: it is very possible that you may get less; it is very
possible that my lord the bishop, and your warden, may make changes--"

"No, no, no," interrupted Mr Harding, who had been listening with
indescribable misery to the tirade of his son-in-law; "no, my friends.
I want no changes,--at least no changes that shall make you worse off
than you now are, as long as you and I live together."

"God bless you, Mr Harding," said Bunce; and "God bless you, Mr
Harding, God bless you, sir: we know you was always our friend," was
exclaimed by enough of the men to make it appear that the sentiment
was general.

The archdeacon had been interrupted in his speech before he had quite
finished it; but he felt that he could not recommence with dignity
after this little ebullition, and he led the way back into the garden,
followed by his father-in-law.

"Well," said he, as soon as he found himself within the cool retreat
of the warden's garden; "I think I spoke to them plainly."  And he
wiped the perspiration from his brow; for making a speech under a
broiling mid-day sun in summer, in a full suit of thick black cloth,
is warm work.

"Yes, you were plain enough," replied the warden, in a tone which did
not express approbation.

"And that's everything," said the other, who was clearly well
satisfied with himself; "that's everything: with those sort of people
one must be plain, or one will not be understood.  Now, I think they
did understand me;--I think they knew what I meant."

The warden agreed.  He certainly thought they had understood to the
full what had been said to them.

"They know pretty well what they have to expect from us; they know how
we shall meet any refractory spirit on their part; they know that we
are not afraid of them.  And now I'll just step into Chadwick's, and
tell him what I've done; and then I'll go up to the palace, and answer
this petition of theirs."

The warden's mind was very full,--full nearly to overcharging itself;
and had it done so,--had he allowed himself to speak the thoughts
which were working within him, he would indeed have astonished the
archdeacon by the reprobation he would have expressed as to the
proceeding of which he had been so unwilling a witness.  But different
feelings kept him silent; he was as yet afraid of differing from his
son-in-law;--he was anxious beyond measure to avoid even a semblance
of rupture with any of his order, and was painfully fearful of having
to come to an open quarrel with any person on any subject.  His life
had hitherto been so quiet, so free from strife; his little early
troubles had required nothing but passive fortitude; his subsequent
prosperity had never forced upon him any active cares,--had never
brought him into disagreeable contact with anyone.  He felt that
he would give almost anything,--much more than he knew he ought to
do,--to relieve himself from the storm which he feared was coming.
It was so hard that the pleasant waters of his little stream should be
disturbed and muddied by rough hands; that his quiet paths should be
made a battlefield; that the unobtrusive corner of the world which had
been allotted to him, as though by Providence, should be invaded and
desecrated, and all within it made miserable and unsound.

Money he had none to give; the knack of putting guineas together
had never belonged to him; but how willingly, with what a foolish
easiness, with what happy alacrity, would he have abandoned the half
of his income for all time to come, could he by so doing have quietly
dispelled the clouds that were gathering over him,--could he have thus
compromised the matter between the reformer and the conservative,
between his possible son-in-law, Bold, and his positive son-in-law,
the archdeacon.

And this compromise would not have been made from any prudential
motive of saving what would yet remain, for Mr Harding still felt
little doubt but he should be left for life in quiet possession of the
good things he had, if he chose to retain them.  No; he would have
done so from the sheer love of quiet, and from a horror of being made
the subject of public talk.  He had very often been moved to pity.--to
that inward weeping of the heart for others' woes; but none had he
ever pitied more than that old lord, whose almost fabulous wealth,
drawn from his church preferments, had become the subject of so much
opprobrium, of such public scorn; that wretched clerical octogenarian
Croesus, whom men would not allow to die in peace,--whom all the world
united to decry and to abhor.

Was he to suffer such a fate?  Was his humble name to be bandied in
men's mouths, as the gormandiser of the resources of the poor, as
of one who had filched from the charity of other ages wealth which
had been intended to relieve the old and the infirm?  Was he to be
gibbeted in the press, to become a byword for oppression, to be named
as an example of the greed of the English church?  Should it ever
be said that he had robbed those old men, whom he so truly and so
tenderly loved in his heart of hearts?  As he slowly paced, hour after
hour, under those noble lime-trees, turning these sad thoughts within
him, he became all but fixed in his resolve that some great step must
be taken to relieve him from the risk of so terrible a fate.

In the meanwhile, the archdeacon, with contented mind and unruffled
spirit, went about his business.  He said a word or two to Mr
Chadwick, and then finding, as he expected, the petition lying in his
father's library, he wrote a short answer to the men, in which he told
them that they had no evils to redress, but rather great mercies for
which to be thankful; and having seen the bishop sign it, he got into
his brougham and returned home to Mrs Grantly, and Plumstead Episcopi.




Chapter VI

THE WARDEN'S TEA PARTY


After much painful doubting, on one thing only could Mr Harding
resolve.  He determined that at any rate he would take no offence, and
that he would make this question no cause of quarrel either with Bold
or with the bedesmen.  In furtherance of this resolution, he himself
wrote a note to Mr Bold, the same afternoon, inviting him to meet a
few friends and hear some music on an evening named in the next week.
Had not this little party been promised to Eleanor, in his present
state of mind he would probably have avoided such gaiety; but the
promise had been given, the invitations were to be written, and when
Eleanor consulted her father on the subject, she was not ill pleased
to hear him say, "Oh, I was thinking of Bold, so I took it into my
head to write to him myself, but you must write to his sister."

Mary Bold was older than her brother, and, at the time of our story,
was just over thirty.  She was not an unattractive young woman, though
by no means beautiful.  Her great merit was the kindliness of her
disposition.  She was not very clever, nor very animated, nor had she
apparently the energy of her brother; but she was guided by a high
principle of right and wrong; her temper was sweet, and her faults
were fewer in number than her virtues.  Those who casually met Mary
Bold thought little of her; but those who knew her well loved her
well, and the longer they knew her the more they loved her.  Among
those who were fondest of her was Eleanor Harding; and though Eleanor
had never openly talked to her of her brother, each understood the
other's feelings about him.  The brother and sister were sitting
together when the two notes were brought in.

"How odd," said Mary, "that they should send two notes.  Well, if Mr
Harding becomes fashionable, the world is going to change."

Her brother understood immediately the nature and intention of the
peace-offering; but it was not so easy for him to behave well in the
matter, as it was for Mr Harding.  It is much less difficult for the
sufferer to be generous than for the oppressor.  John Bold felt that
he could not go to the warden's party: he never loved Eleanor better
than he did now; he had never so strongly felt how anxious he was
to make her his wife as now, when so many obstacles to his doing
so appeared in view.  Yet here was her father himself, as it were,
clearing away those very obstacles, and still he felt that he could
not go to the house any more as an open friend.

As he sat thinking of these things with the note in his hand, his
sister was waiting for his decision.

"Well," said she, "I suppose we must write separate answers, and both
say we shall be very happy."

"You'll go, of course, Mary," said he; to which she readily assented.
"I cannot," he continued, looking serious and gloomy.  "I wish I
could, with all my heart."

"And why not, John?" said she.  She had as yet heard nothing of the
new-found abuse which her brother was about to reform;--at least
nothing which connected it with her brother's name.

He sat thinking for a while till he determined that it would be best
to tell her at once what it was that he was about: it must be done
sooner or later.

"I fear I cannot go to Mr Harding's house any more as a friend, just
at present."

"Oh, John!  Why not?  Ah, you've quarrelled with Eleanor!"

"No, indeed," said he; "I've no quarrel with her as yet."

"What is it, John?" said she, looking at him with an anxious, loving
face, for she knew well how much of his heart was there in that house
which he said he could no longer enter.

"Why," said he at last, "I've taken up the case of these twelve
old men of Hiram's Hospital, and of course that brings me into
contact with Mr Harding.  I may have to oppose him, interfere with
him,--perhaps injure him."

Mary looked at him steadily for some time before she committed
herself to reply, and then merely asked him what he meant to do
for the old men.

"Why, it's a long story, and I don't know that I can make you
understand it.  John Hiram made a will, and left his property in
charity for certain poor old men, and the proceeds, instead of going
to the benefit of these men, go chiefly into the pocket of the warden
and the bishop's steward."

"And you mean to take away from Mr Harding his share of it?"

"I don't know what I mean yet.  I mean to inquire about it. I mean to
see who is entitled to this property.  I mean to see, if I can, that
justice be done to the poor of the city of Barchester generally, who
are, in fact, the legatees under the will.  I mean, in short, to put
the matter right, if I can."

"And why are you to do this, John?"

"You might ask the same question of anybody else," said he; "and
according to that the duty of righting these poor men would belong to
nobody.  If we are to act on that principle, the weak are never to be
protected, injustice is never to be opposed, and no one is to struggle
for the poor!"  And Bold began to comfort himself in the warmth of his
own virtue.

"But is there no one to do this but you, who have known Mr Harding so
long?  Surely, John, as a friend, as a young friend, so much younger
than Mr Harding--"

"That's woman's logic, all over, Mary.  What has age to do with it?
Another man might plead that he was too old; and as to his friendship,
if the thing itself be right, private motives should never be allowed
to interfere.  Because I esteem Mr Harding, is that a reason that I
should neglect a duty which I owe to these old men? or should I give
up a work which my conscience tells me is a good one, because I regret
the loss of his society?"

"And Eleanor, John?" said the sister, looking timidly into her
brother's face.

"Eleanor, that is, Miss Harding, if she thinks fit,--that is, if
her father--or, rather, if she--or, indeed, he,--if they find it
necessary--but there is no necessity now to talk about Eleanor
Harding; but this I will say, that if she has the kind of spirit for
which I give her credit, she will not condemn me for doing what I
think to be a duty."  And Bold consoled himself with the consolation
of a Roman.

Mary sat silent for a while, till at last her brother reminded her
that the notes must be answered, and she got up, and placed her desk
before her, took out her pen and paper, wrote on it slowly:


                              PAKENHAM VILLAS
                              Tuesday morning
   MY DEAR ELEANOR,

   I--


and then stopped, and looked at her brother.

"Well, Mary, why don't you write it?"

"Oh, John," said she, "dear John, pray think better of this."

"Think better of what?" said he.

"Of this about the hospital,--of all this about Mr Harding,--of what
you say about those old men.  Nothing can call upon you,--no duty can
require you to set yourself against your oldest, your best friend.
Oh, John, think of Eleanor.  You'll break her heart, and your own."

"Nonsense, Mary; Miss Harding's heart is as safe as yours."

"Pray, pray, for my sake, John, give it up.  You know how dearly you
love her."  And she came and knelt before him on the rug.  "Pray
give it up.  You are going to make yourself, and her, and her father
miserable: you are going to make us all miserable.  And for what?  For
a dream of justice.  You will never make those twelve men happier than
they now are."

"You don't understand it, my dear girl," said he, smoothing her hair
with his hand.

"I do understand it, John.  I understand that this is a chimera,--a
dream that you have got.  I know well that no duty can require you to
do this mad--this suicidal thing.  I know you love Eleanor Harding
with all your heart, and I tell you now that she loves you as well.
If there was a plain, a positive duty before you, I would be the last
to bid you neglect it for any woman's love; but this--; oh, think
again, before you do anything to make it necessary that you and Mr
Harding should be at variance."  He did not answer, as she knelt
there, leaning on his knees, but by his face she thought that he was
inclined to yield.  "At any rate let me say that you will go to this
party.  At any rate do not break with them while your mind is in
doubt."  And she got up, hoping to conclude her note in the way she
desired.

"My mind is not in doubt," at last he said, rising.  "I could never
respect myself again were I to give way now, because Eleanor Harding
is beautiful.  I do love her: I would give a hand to hear her tell
me what you have said, speaking on her behalf; but I cannot for her
sake go back from the task which I have commenced.  I hope she may
hereafter acknowledge and respect my motives, but I cannot now go as
a guest to her father's house."  And the Barchester Brutus went out
to fortify his own resolution by meditations on his own virtue.

Poor Mary Bold sat down, and sadly finished her note, saying that she
would herself attend the party, but that her brother was unavoidably
prevented from doing so.  I fear that she did not admire as she should
have done the self-devotion of his singular virtue.

The party went off as such parties do.  There were fat old ladies, in
fine silk dresses, and slim young ladies, in gauzy muslin frocks; old
gentlemen stood up with their backs to the empty fire-place, looking
by no means so comfortable as they would have done in their own
arm-chairs at home; and young gentlemen, rather stiff about the neck,
clustered near the door, not as yet sufficiently in courage to attack
the muslin frocks, who awaited the battle, drawn up in a semicircular
array.  The warden endeavoured to induce a charge, but failed
signally, not having the tact of a general; his daughter did what she
could to comfort the forces under her command, who took in refreshing
rations of cake and tea, and patiently looked for the coming
engagement: but she herself, Eleanor, had no spirit for the work; the
only enemy whose lance she cared to encounter was not there, and she
and others were somewhat dull.

Loud above all voices was heard the clear sonorous tones of the
archdeacon as he dilated to brother parsons of the danger of the
church, of the fearful rumours of mad reforms even at Oxford, and of
the damnable heresies of Dr Whiston.

Soon, however, sweeter sounds began timidly to make themselves
audible.  Little movements were made in a quarter notable for round
stools and music stands.  Wax candles were arranged in sconces, big
books were brought from hidden recesses, and the work of the evening
commenced.

How often were those pegs twisted and re-twisted before our friend
found that he had twisted them enough; how many discordant scrapes
gave promise of the coming harmony.  How much the muslin fluttered
and crumpled before Eleanor and another nymph were duly seated at the
piano; how closely did that tall Apollo pack himself against the wall,
with his flute, long as himself, extending high over the heads of his
pretty neighbours; into how small a corner crept that round and florid
little minor canon, and there with skill amazing found room to tune
his accustomed fiddle!

And now the crash begins: away they go in full flow of harmony
together,--up hill and down dale,--now louder and louder, then
lower and lower; now loud, as though stirring the battle; then low,
as though mourning the slain.  In all, through all, and above all,
is heard the violoncello.  Ah, not for nothing were those pegs so
twisted and re-twisted;--listen, listen!  Now alone that saddest
of instruments tells its touching tale.  Silent, and in awe, stand
fiddle, flute, and piano, to hear the sorrows of their wailing
brother.  'Tis but for a moment: before the melancholy of those low
notes has been fully realised, again comes the full force of all the
band;--down go the pedals, away rush twenty fingers scouring over the
bass notes with all the impetus of passion.  Apollo blows till his
stiff neckcloth is no better than a rope, and the minor canon works
with both arms till he falls in a syncope of exhaustion against the
wall.

How comes it that now, when all should be silent, when courtesy, if
not taste, should make men listen,--how is it at this moment the
black-coated corps leave their retreat and begin skirmishing?  One by
one they creep forth, and fire off little guns timidly, and without
precision.  Ah, my men, efforts such as these will take no cities,
even though the enemy should be never so open to assault.  At length a
more deadly artillery is brought to bear; slowly, but with effect, the
advance is made; the muslin ranks are broken, and fall into confusion;
the formidable array of chairs gives way; the battle is no longer
between opposing regiments, but hand to hand, and foot to foot with
single combatants, as in the glorious days of old, when fighting was
really noble.  In corners, and under the shadow of curtains, behind
sofas and half hidden by doors, in retiring windows, and sheltered
by hanging tapestry, are blows given and returned, fatal, incurable,
dealing death.

Apart from this another combat arises, more sober and more serious.
The archdeacon is engaged against two prebendaries, a pursy full-blown
rector assisting him, in all the perils and all the enjoyments of
short whist.  With solemn energy do they watch the shuffled pack, and,
all-expectant, eye the coming trump.  With what anxious nicety do they
arrange their cards, jealous of each other's eyes!  Why is that lean
doctor so slow,--cadaverous man with hollow jaw and sunken eye, ill
beseeming the richness of his mother church!  Ah, why so slow, thou
meagre doctor?  See how the archdeacon, speechless in his agony,
deposits on the board his cards, and looks to heaven or to the ceiling
for support.  Hark, how he sighs, as with thumbs in his waistcoat
pocket he seems to signify that the end of such torment is not yet
even nigh at hand!  Vain is the hope, if hope there be, to disturb
that meagre doctor.  With care precise he places every card,
weighs well the value of each mighty ace, each guarded king, and
comfort-giving queen; speculates on knave and ten, counts all his
suits, and sets his price upon the whole.  At length a card is led,
and quick three others fall upon the board.  The little doctor leads
again, while with lustrous eye his partner absorbs the trick.  Now
thrice has this been done,--thrice has constant fortune favoured
the brace of prebendaries, ere the archdeacon rouses himself to the
battle; but at the fourth assault he pins to the earth a prostrate
king, laying low his crown and sceptre, bushy beard, and lowering
brow, with a poor deuce.

"As David did Goliath," says the archdeacon, pushing over the four
cards to his partner.  And then a trump is led, then another trump;
then a king,--and then an ace,--and then a long ten, which brings
down from the meagre doctor his only remaining tower of strength--his
cherished queen of trumps.

"What, no second club?" says the archdeacon to his partner.

"Only one club," mutters from his inmost stomach the pursy rector, who
sits there red-faced, silent, impervious, careful, a safe but not a
brilliant ally.

But the archdeacon cares not for many clubs, or for none.  He dashes
out his remaining cards with a speed most annoying to his antagonists,
pushes over to them some four cards as their allotted portion, shoves
the remainder across the table to the red-faced rector; calls out "two
by cards and two by honours, and the odd trick last time," marks a
treble under the candle-stick, and has dealt round the second pack
before the meagre doctor has calculated his losses.

And so went off the warden's party, and men and women arranging shawls
and shoes declared how pleasant it had been; and Mrs Goodenough, the
red-faced rector's wife, pressing the warden's hand, declared she had
never enjoyed herself better; which showed how little pleasure she
allowed herself in this world, as she had sat the whole evening
through in the same chair without occupation, not speaking, and
unspoken to.  And Matilda Johnson, when she allowed young Dickson of
the bank to fasten her cloak round her neck, thought that two hundred
pounds a year and a little cottage would really do for happiness;
besides, he was sure to be manager some day.  And Apollo, folding his
flute into his pocket, felt that he had acquitted himself with honour;
and the archdeacon pleasantly jingled his gains; but the meagre doctor
went off without much audible speech, muttering ever and anon as he
went, "three and thirty points!" "three and thirty points!"

And so they all were gone, and Mr Harding was left alone with his
daughter.

What had passed between Eleanor Harding and Mary Bold need not
be told.  It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that neither the
historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by their heroes
or heroines, or how would three volumes or twenty suffice!  In the
present case so little of this sort have I overheard, that I live
in hopes of finishing my work within 300 pages, and of completing
that pleasant task--a novel in one volume; but something had passed
between them, and as the warden blew out the wax candles, and put his
instrument into its case, his daughter stood sad and thoughtful by the
empty fire-place, determined to speak to her father, but irresolute as
to what she would say.

"Well, Eleanor," said he, "are you for bed?"

"Yes," said she, moving, "I suppose so; but papa--Mr Bold was not here
tonight; do you know why not?"

"He was asked; I wrote to him myself," said the warden.

"But do you know why he did not come, papa?"

"Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it's no use guessing at such
things, my dear.  What makes you look so earnest about it?"

"Oh, papa, do tell me," she exclaimed, throwing her arms round him,
and looking into his face; "what is it he is going to do?  What is it
all about?  Is there any--any--any--" she didn't well know what word
to use--"any danger?"

"Danger, my dear, what sort of danger?"

"Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and of--Oh, papa, why
haven't you told me of all this before?"

Mr Harding was not the man to judge harshly of anyone, much less of
the daughter whom he now loved better than any living creature; but
still he did judge her wrongly at this moment.  He knew that she loved
John Bold; he fully sympathised in her affection; day after day he
thought more of the matter, and, with the tender care of a loving
father, tried to arrange in his own mind how matters might be so
managed that his daughter's heart should not be made the sacrifice to
the dispute which was likely to exist between him and Bold.  Now, when
she spoke to him for the first time on the subject, it was natural
that he should think more of her than of himself, and that he should
imagine that her own cares, and not his, were troubling her.

He stood silent before her awhile, as she gazed up into his face, and
then kissing her forehead he placed her on the sofa.

"Tell me, Nelly," he said (he only called her Nelly in his kindest,
softest, sweetest moods, and yet all his moods were kind and sweet),
"tell me, Nelly, do you like Mr Bold--much?"

She was quite taken aback by the question.  I will not say that she
had forgotten herself, and her own love in thinking about John Bold,
and while conversing with Mary: she certainly had not done so.  She
had been sick at heart to think that a man of whom she could not but
own to herself that she loved him, of whose regard she had been so
proud, that such a man should turn against her father to ruin him.
She had felt her vanity hurt, that his affection for her had not kept
him from such a course; had he really cared for her, he would not have
risked her love by such an outrage.  But her main fear had been for
her father, and when she spoke of danger, it was of danger to him and
not to herself.

She was taken aback by the question altogether: "Do I like him, papa?"

"Yes, Nelly, do you like him?  Why shouldn't you like him? but that's
a poor word;--do you love him?"  She sat still in his arms without
answering him.  She certainly had not prepared herself for an avowal
of affection, intending, as she had done, to abuse John Bold herself,
and to hear her father do so also.  "Come, my love," said he, "let us
make a clean breast of it: do you tell me what concerns yourself, and
I will tell you what concerns me and the hospital."

And then, without waiting for an answer, he described to her, as he
best could, the accusation that was made about Hiram's will; the
claims which the old men put forward; what he considered the strength
and what the weakness of his own position; the course which Bold had
taken, and that which he presumed he was about to take; and then
by degrees, without further question, he presumed on the fact of
Eleanor's love, and spoke of that love as a feeling which he could in
no way disapprove: he apologised for Bold, excused what he was doing;
nay, praised him for his energy and intentions; made much of his good
qualities, and harped on none of his foibles; then, reminding his
daughter how late it was, and comforting her with much assurance which
he hardly felt himself, he sent her to her room, with flowing eyes and
a full heart.

When Mr Harding met his daughter at breakfast the next morning, there
was no further discussion on the matter, nor was the subject mentioned
between them for some days.  Soon after the party Mary Bold called at
the hospital, but there were various persons in the drawing-room at
the time, and she therefore said nothing about her brother.  On the
day following, John Bold met Miss Harding in one of the quiet, sombre,
shaded walks of the close.  He was most anxious to see her, but
unwilling to call at the warden's house, and had in truth waylaid her
in her private haunts.

"My sister tells me," said he, abruptly hurrying on with his
premeditated speech, "my sister tells me that you had a delightful
party the other evening.  I was so sorry I could not be there."

"We were all sorry," said Eleanor, with dignified composure.

"I believe, Miss Harding, you understand why, at this moment--"  And
Bold hesitated, muttered, stopped, commenced his explanation again,
and again broke down.

Eleanor would not help him in the least.

"I think my sister explained to you, Miss Harding?"

"Pray don't apologise, Mr Bold; my father will, I am sure, always be
glad to see you, if you like to come to the house now as formerly;
nothing has occurred to alter his feelings: of your own views you are,
of course, the best judge."

"Your father is all that is kind and generous; he always was so; but
you, Miss Harding, yourself--I hope you will not judge me harshly,
because--"

"Mr Bold," said she, "you may be sure of one thing; I shall always
judge my father to be right, and those who oppose him I shall judge
to be wrong.  If those who do not know him oppose him, I shall have
charity enough to believe that they are wrong, through error of
judgment; but should I see him attacked by those who ought to know
him, and to love him, and revere him, of such I shall be constrained
to form a different opinion."  And then curtseying low she sailed on,
leaving her lover in anything but a happy state of mind.




Chapter VII

_THE JUPITER_


Though Eleanor Harding rode off from John Bold on a high horse, it
must not be supposed that her heart was so elate as her demeanour.
In the first place, she had a natural repugnance to losing her
lover; and in the next, she was not quite so sure that she was in
the right as she pretended to be.  Her father had told her, and that
now repeatedly, that Bold was doing nothing unjust or ungenerous;
and why then should she rebuke him, and throw him off, when she felt
herself so ill able to bear his loss?--but such is human nature, and
young-lady-nature especially.

As she walked off from him beneath the shady elms of the close, her
look, her tone, every motion and gesture of her body, belied her
heart; she would have given the world to have taken him by the hand,
to have reasoned with him, persuaded him, cajoled him, coaxed him out
of his project; to have overcome him with all her female artillery,
and to have redeemed her father at the cost of herself; but pride
would not let her do this, and she left him without a look of love or
a word of kindness.

Had Bold been judging of another lover and of another lady, he might
have understood all this as well as we do; but in matters of love men
do not see clearly in their own affairs.  They say that faint heart
never won fair lady; and it is amazing to me how fair ladies are
won, so faint are often men's hearts!  Were it not for the kindness
of their nature, that seeing the weakness of our courage they will
occasionally descend from their impregnable fortresses, and themselves
aid us in effecting their own defeat, too often would they escape
unconquered if not unscathed, and free of body if not of heart.

Poor Bold crept off quite crestfallen; he felt that as regarded
Eleanor Harding his fate was sealed, unless he could consent to give
up a task to which he had pledged himself, and which indeed it would
not be easy for him to give up.  Lawyers were engaged, and the
question had to a certain extent been taken up by the public; besides,
how could a high-spirited girl like Eleanor Harding really learn to
love a man for neglecting a duty which he assumed!  Could she allow
her affection to be purchased at the cost of his own self-respect?

As regarded the issue of his attempt at reformation in the hospital,
Bold had no reason hitherto to be discontented with his success.
All Barchester was by the ears about it.  The bishop, the archdeacon,
the warden, the steward, and several other clerical allies, had daily
meetings, discussing their tactics, and preparing for the great
attack.  Sir Abraham Haphazard had been consulted, but his opinion was
not yet received: copies of Hiram's will, copies of wardens' journals,
copies of leases, copies of accounts, copies of everything that could
be copied, and of some that could not, had been sent to him; and the
case was assuming most creditable dimensions.  But, above all, it had
been mentioned in the daily _Jupiter_.  That all-powerful organ of
the press in one of its leading thunderbolts launched at St Cross, had
thus remarked: "Another case, of smaller dimensions indeed, but of
similar import, is now likely to come under public notice.  We are
informed that the warden or master of an old almshouse attached to
Barchester Cathedral is in receipt of twenty-five times the annual
income appointed for him by the will of the founder, while the sum
yearly expended on the absolute purposes of the charity has always
remained fixed.  In other words, the legatees under the founder's
will have received no advantage from the increase in the value of the
property during the last four centuries, such increase having been
absorbed by the so-called warden.  It is impossible to conceive a
case of greater injustice.  It is no answer to say that some six or
nine or twelve old men receive as much of the goods of this world
as such old men require.  On what foundation, moral or divine,
traditional or legal, is grounded the warden's claim to the large
income he receives for doing nothing?  The contentment of these
almsmen, if content they be, can give him no title to this wealth!
Does he ever ask himself, when he stretches wide his clerical palm to
receive the pay of some dozen of the working clergy, for what service
he is so remunerated?  Does his conscience ever entertain the question
of his right to such subsidies?  Or is it possible that the subject
never so presents itself to his mind; that he has received for many
years, and intends, should God spare him, to receive for years to come
these fruits of the industrious piety of past ages, indifferent as to
any right on his own part, or of any injustice to others!  We must
express an opinion that nowhere but in the Church of England, and only
there among its priests, could such a state of moral indifference be
found."

I must for the present leave my readers to imagine the state of Mr
Harding's mind after reading the above article.  They say that forty
thousand copies of _The Jupiter_ are daily sold, and that each copy is
read by five persons at the least.  Two hundred thousand readers then
would hear this accusation against him; two hundred thousand hearts
would swell with indignation at the griping injustice, the barefaced
robbery of the warden of Barchester Hospital!  And how was he to
answer this?  How was he to open his inmost heart to this multitude,
to these thousands, the educated, the polished, the picked men of his
own country; how show them that he was no robber, no avaricious, lazy
priest scrambling for gold, but a retiring, humble-spirited man, who
had innocently taken what had innocently been offered to him?

"Write to _The Jupiter_," suggested the bishop.

"Yes," said the archdeacon, more worldly wise than his father, "yes,
and be smothered with ridicule; tossed over and over again with
scorn; shaken this way and that, as a rat in the mouth of a practised
terrier.  You will leave out some word or letter in your answer, and
the ignorance of the cathedral clergy will be harped upon; you will
make some small mistake, which will be a falsehood, or some admission,
which will be self-condemnation; you will find yourself to have been
vulgar, ill-tempered, irreverend, and illiterate, and the chances are
ten to one, but that being a clergyman, you will have been guilty of
blasphemy!  A man may have the best of causes, the best of talents,
and the best of tempers; he may write as well as Addison, or as
strongly as Junius; but even with all this he cannot successfully
answer, when attacked by _The Jupiter_.  In such matters it is
omnipotent.  What the Czar is in Russia, or the mob in America, that
_The Jupiter_ is in England.  Answer such an article!  No, warden;
whatever you do, don't do that.  We were to look for this sort of
thing, you know; but we need not draw down on our heads more of it
than is necessary."

The article in _The Jupiter_, while it so greatly harassed our poor
warden, was an immense triumph to some of the opposite party.  Sorry
as Bold was to see Mr Harding attacked so personally, it still gave
him a feeling of elation to find his cause taken up by so powerful
an advocate: and as to Finney, the attorney, he was beside himself.
What! to be engaged in the same cause and on the same side with
_The Jupiter_; to have the views he had recommended seconded, and
furthered, and battled for by _The Jupiter_!  Perhaps to have his own
name mentioned as that of the learned gentleman whose efforts had
been so successful on behalf of the poor of Barchester!  He might be
examined before committees of the House of Commons, with heaven knows
how much a day for his personal expenses;--he might be engaged for
years on such a suit!  There was no end to the glorious golden dreams
which this leader in _The Jupiter_ produced in the soaring mind of
Finney.

And the old bedesmen, they also heard of this article, and had a
glimmering, indistinct idea of the marvellous advocate which had now
taken up their cause.  Abel Handy limped hither and thither through
the rooms, repeating all that he understood to have been printed,
with some additions of his own which he thought should have been
added.  He told them how _The Jupiter_ had declared that their warden
was no better than a robber, and that what _The Jupiter_ said was
acknowledged by the world to be true.  How _The Jupiter_ had affirmed
that each one of them--"each one of us, Jonathan Crumple, think of
that!"--had a clear right to a hundred a year; and that if _The
Jupiter_ had said so, it was better than a decision of the Lord
Chancellor: and then he carried about the paper, supplied by Mr
Finney, which, though none of them could read it, still afforded in
its very touch and aspect positive corroboration of what was told
them; and Jonathan Crumple pondered deeply over his returning wealth;
and Job Skulpit saw how right he had been in signing the petition, and
said so many scores of times; and Spriggs leered fearfully with his
one eye; and Moody, as he more nearly approached the coming golden
age, hated more deeply than ever those who still kept possession of
what he so coveted.  Even Billy Gazy and poor bed-ridden Bell became
active and uneasy, and the great Bunce stood apart with lowering brow,
with deep grief seated in his heart, for he perceived that evil days
were coming.

It had been decided, the archdeacon advising, that no remonstrance,
explanation, or defence should be addressed from the Barchester
conclave to the editor of _The Jupiter_; but hitherto that was the
only decision to which they had come.

Sir Abraham Haphazard was deeply engaged in preparing a bill for the
mortification of papists, to be called the "Convent Custody Bill,"
the purport of which was to enable any Protestant clergyman over
fifty years of age to search any nun whom he suspected of being in
possession of treasonable papers or Jesuitical symbols; and as there
were to be a hundred and thirty-seven clauses in the bill, each clause
containing a separate thorn for the side of the papist, and as it
was known the bill would be fought inch by inch, by fifty maddened
Irishmen, the due construction and adequate dovetailing of it did
consume much of Sir Abraham's time.  The bill had all its desired
effect.  Of course it never passed into law; but it so completely
divided the ranks of the Irish members, who had bound themselves
together to force on the ministry a bill for compelling all men to
drink Irish whiskey, and all women to wear Irish poplins, that for
the remainder of the session the Great Poplin and Whiskey League was
utterly harmless.

Thus it happened that Sir Abraham's opinion was not at once
forthcoming, and the uncertainty, the expectation, and suffering of
the folk of Barchester was maintained at a high pitch.




Chapter VIII

PLUMSTEAD EPISCOPI


The reader must now be requested to visit the rectory of Plumstead
Episcopi; and as it is as yet still early morning, to ascend again
with us into the bedroom of the archdeacon.  The mistress of the
mansion was at her toilet; on which we will not dwell with profane
eyes, but proceed into a small inner room, where the doctor dressed
and kept his boots and sermons; and here we will take our stand,
premising that the door of the room was so open as to admit of a
conversation between our reverend Adam and his valued Eve.

"It's all your own fault, archdeacon," said the latter.  "I told you
from the beginning how it would end, and papa has no one to thank but
you."

"Good gracious, my dear," said the doctor, appearing at the door of
his dressing-room, with his face and head enveloped in the rough towel
which he was violently using; "how can you say so?  I am doing my very
best."

"I wish you had never done so much," said the lady, interrupting him.
"If you'd just have let John Bold come and go there, as he and papa
liked, he and Eleanor would have been married by this time, and we
should not have heard one word about all this affair."

"But, my dear--"

"Oh, it's all very well, archdeacon; and of course you're right; I
don't for a moment think you'll ever admit that you could be wrong;
but the fact is, you've brought this young man down upon papa by
huffing him as you have done."

"But, my love--"

"And all because you didn't like John Bold for a brother-in-law.
How is she ever to do better?  Papa hasn't got a shilling; and though
Eleanor is well enough, she has not at all a taking style of beauty.
I'm sure I don't know how she's to do better than marry John Bold; or
as well indeed," added the anxious sister, giving the last twist to
her last shoe-string.

Dr Grantly felt keenly the injustice of this attack; but what could he
say?  He certainly had huffed John Bold; he certainly had objected to
him as a brother-in-law, and a very few months ago the very idea had
excited his wrath: but now matters were changed; John Bold had shown
his power, and, though he was as odious as ever to the archdeacon,
power is always respected, and the reverend dignitary began to think
that such an alliance might not have been imprudent.  Nevertheless,
his motto was still "no surrender;" he would still fight it out;
he believed confidently in Oxford, in the bench of bishops, in Sir
Abraham Haphazard, and in himself; and it was only when alone with
his wife that doubts of defeat ever beset him.  He once more tried to
communicate this confidence to Mrs Grantly, and for the twentieth time
began to tell her of Sir Abraham.

"Oh, Sir Abraham!" said she, collecting all her house keys into her
basket before she descended; "Sir Abraham won't get Eleanor a husband;
Sir Abraham won't get papa another income when he has been worreted
out of the hospital.  Mark what I tell you, archdeacon: while you and
Sir Abraham are fighting, papa will lose his preferment; and what will
you do then with him and Eleanor on your hands? besides, who's to pay
Sir Abraham?  I suppose he won't take the case up for nothing?"  And
so the lady descended to family worship among her children and
servants, the pattern of a good and prudent wife.

Dr Grantly was blessed with a happy, thriving family.  There were,
first, three boys, now at home from school for the holidays.  They
were called, respectively, Charles James, Henry, and Samuel.  The two
younger (there were five in all) were girls; the elder, Florinda, bore
the name of the Archbishop of York's wife, whose godchild she was:
and the younger had been christened Grizzel, after a sister of the
Archbishop of Canterbury.  The boys were all clever, and gave good
promise of being well able to meet the cares and trials of the world;
and yet they were not alike in their dispositions, and each had his
individual character, and each his separate admirers among the
doctor's friends.

Charles James was an exact and careful boy; he never committed
himself; he well knew how much was expected from the eldest son of the
Archdeacon of Barchester, and was therefore mindful not to mix too
freely with other boys.  He had not the great talents of his younger
brothers, but he exceeded them in judgment and propriety of demeanour;
his fault, if he had one, was an over-attention to words instead of
things; there was a thought too much finesse about him, and, as even
his father sometimes told him, he was too fond of a compromise.

The second was the archdeacon's favourite son, and Henry was indeed a
brilliant boy.  The versatility of his genius was surprising, and the
visitors at Plumstead Episcopi were often amazed at the marvellous
manner in which he would, when called on, adapt his capacity to
apparently most uncongenial pursuits.  He appeared once before a large
circle as Luther the reformer, and delighted them with the perfect
manner in which he assumed the character; and within three days he
again astonished them by acting the part of a Capuchin friar to the
very life.  For this last exploit his father gave him a golden guinea,
and his brothers said the reward had been promised beforehand in the
event of the performance being successful.  He was also sent on a tour
into Devonshire; a treat which the lad was most anxious of enjoying.
His father's friends there, however, did not appreciate his talents,
and sad accounts were sent home of the perversity of his nature.  He
was a most courageous lad, game to the backbone.

It was soon known, both at home, where he lived, and within some miles
of Barchester Cathedral, and also at Westminster, where he was at
school, that young Henry could box well and would never own himself
beat; other boys would fight while they had a leg to stand on, but he
would fight with no leg at all.  Those backing him would sometimes
think him crushed by the weight of blows and faint with loss of blood,
and his friends would endeavour to withdraw him from the contest; but
no, Henry never gave in, was never weary of the battle.  The ring was
the only element in which he seemed to enjoy himself; and while other
boys were happy in the number of their friends, he rejoiced most in
the multitude of his foes.

His relations could not but admire his pluck, but they sometimes were
forced to regret that he was inclined to be a bully; and those not
so partial to him as his father was, observed with pain that, though
he could fawn to the masters and the archdeacon's friends, he was
imperious and masterful to the servants and the poor.

But perhaps Samuel was the general favourite; and dear little Soapy,
as he was familiarly called, was as engaging a child as ever fond
mother petted.  He was soft and gentle in his manners, and attractive
in his speech; the tone of his voice was melody, and every action was
a grace; unlike his brothers, he was courteous to all, he was affable
to the lowly, and meek even to the very scullery-maid.  He was a boy
of great promise, minding his books and delighting the hearts of his
masters.  His brothers, however, were not particularly fond of him;
they would complain to their mother that Soapy's civility all meant
something; they thought that his voice was too often listened to at
Plumstead Episcopi, and evidently feared that, as he grew up, he
would have more weight in the house than either of them; there was,
therefore, a sort of agreement among them to put young Soapy down.
This, however, was not so easy to be done; Samuel, though young, was
sharp; he could not assume the stiff decorum of Charles James, nor
could he fight like Henry; but he was a perfect master of his own
weapons, and contrived, in the teeth of both of them, to hold the
place which he had assumed.  Henry declared that he was a false,
cunning creature; and Charles James, though he always spoke of him as
his dear brother Samuel, was not slow to say a word against him when
opportunity offered.  To speak the truth, Samuel was a cunning boy,
and those even who loved him best could not but own that for one so
young, he was too adroit in choosing his words, and too skilled in
modulating his voice.

The two little girls Florinda and Grizzel were nice little girls
enough, but they did not possess the strong sterling qualities of
their brothers; their voices were not often heard at Plumstead
Episcopi; they were bashful and timid by nature, slow to speak before
company even when asked to do so; and though they looked very nice in
their clean white muslin frocks and pink sashes, they were but little
noticed by the archdeacon's visitors.

Whatever of submissive humility may have appeared in the gait and
visage of the archdeacon during his colloquy with his wife in the
sanctum of their dressing-rooms was dispelled as he entered his
breakfast-parlour with erect head and powerful step.  In the presence
of a third person he assumed the lord and master; and that wise and
talented lady too well knew the man to whom her lot for life was
bound, to stretch her authority beyond the point at which it would be
borne.  Strangers at Plumstead Episcopi, when they saw the imperious
brow with which he commanded silence from the large circle of
visitors, children, and servants who came together in the morning to
hear him read the word of God, and watched how meekly that wife seated
herself behind her basket of keys with a little girl on each side,
as she caught that commanding glance; strangers, I say, seeing this,
could little guess that some fifteen minutes since she had stoutly
held her ground against him, hardly allowing him to open his mouth in
his own defence. But such is the tact and talent of women!

And now let us observe the well-furnished breakfast-parlour at
Plumstead Episcopi, and the comfortable air of all the belongings of
the rectory.  Comfortable they certainly were, but neither gorgeous
nor even grand; indeed, considering the money that had been spent
there, the eye and taste might have been better served; there was an
air of heaviness about the rooms which might have been avoided without
any sacrifice of propriety; colours might have been better chosen and
lights more perfectly diffused; but perhaps in doing so the thorough
clerical aspect of the whole might have been somewhat marred; at any
rate, it was not without ample consideration that those thick, dark,
costly carpets were put down; those embossed, but sombre papers hung
up; those heavy curtains draped so as to half exclude the light of
the sun: nor were these old-fashioned chairs, bought at a price far
exceeding that now given for more modern goods, without a purpose.
The breakfast-service on the table was equally costly and equally
plain; the apparent object had been to spend money without obtaining
brilliancy or splendour.  The urn was of thick and solid silver, as
were also the tea-pot, coffee-pot, cream-ewer, and sugar-bowl; the
cups were old, dim dragon china, worth about a pound a piece, but very
despicable in the eyes of the uninitiated.  The silver forks were so
heavy as to be disagreeable to the hand, and the bread-basket was of a
weight really formidable to any but robust persons.  The tea consumed
was the very best, the coffee the very blackest, the cream the
very thickest; there was dry toast and buttered toast, muffins and
crumpets; hot bread and cold bread, white bread and brown bread,
home-made bread and bakers' bread, wheaten bread and oaten bread; and
if there be other breads than these, they were there; there were eggs
in napkins, and crispy bits of bacon under silver covers; and there
were little fishes in a little box, and devilled kidneys frizzling on
a hot-water dish; which, by the bye, were placed closely contiguous to
the plate of the worthy archdeacon himself.  Over and above this, on
a snow-white napkin, spread upon the sideboard, was a huge ham and a
huge sirloin; the latter having laden the dinner table on the previous
evening.  Such was the ordinary fare at Plumstead Episcopi.

And yet I have never found the rectory a pleasant house.  The
fact that man shall not live by bread alone seemed to be somewhat
forgotten; and noble as was the appearance of the host, and sweet and
good-natured as was the face of the hostess, talented as were the
children, and excellent as were the viands and the wines, in spite
of these attractions, I generally found the rectory somewhat dull.
After breakfast the archdeacon would retire, of course to his clerical
pursuits.  Mrs Grantly, I presume, inspected her kitchen, though she
had a first-rate housekeeper, with sixty pounds a year; and attended
to the lessons of Florinda and Grizzel, though she had an excellent
governess with thirty pounds a year: but at any rate she disappeared:
and I never could make companions of the boys.  Charles James, though
he always looked as though there was something in him, never seemed to
have much to say; and what he did say he would always unsay the next
minute.  He told me once that he considered cricket, on the whole, to
be a gentleman-like game for boys, provided they would play without
running about; and that fives, also, was a seemly game, so that those
who played it never heated themselves.  Henry once quarrelled with me
for taking his sister Grizzel's part in a contest between them as to
the best mode of using a watering-pot for the garden flowers; and from
that day to this he has not spoken to me, though he speaks at me often
enough.  For half an hour or so I certainly did like Sammy's gentle
speeches; but one gets tired of honey, and I found that he preferred
the more admiring listeners whom he met in the kitchen-garden and back
precincts of the establishment; besides, I think I once caught Sammy
fibbing.

On the whole, therefore, I found the rectory a dull house, though it
must be admitted that everything there was of the very best.

After breakfast, on the morning of which we are writing, the
archdeacon, as usual, retired to his study, intimating that he was
going to be very busy, but that he would see Mr Chadwick if he called.
On entering this sacred room he carefully opened the paper case on
which he was wont to compose his favourite sermons, and spread on it
a fair sheet of paper and one partly written on; he then placed his
inkstand, looked at his pen, and folded his blotting paper; having
done so, he got up again from his seat, stood with his back to the
fire-place, and yawned comfortably, stretching out vastly his huge
arms and opening his burly chest.  He then walked across the room and
locked the door; and having so prepared himself, he threw himself into
his easy-chair, took from a secret drawer beneath his table a volume
of Rabelais, and began to amuse himself with the witty mischief of
Panurge; and so passed the archdeacon's morning on that day.

He was left undisturbed at his studies for an hour or two, when a
knock came to the door, and Mr Chadwick was announced.  Rabelais
retired into the secret drawer, the easy-chair seemed knowingly to
betake itself off, and when the archdeacon quickly undid his bolt,
he was discovered by the steward working, as usual, for that church
of which he was so useful a pillar.  Mr Chadwick had just come from
London, and was, therefore, known to be the bearer of important news.

"We've got Sir Abraham's opinion at last," said Mr Chadwick, as he
seated himself.

"Well, well, well!" exclaimed the archdeacon impatiently.

"Oh, it's as long as my arm," said the other; "it can't be told in a
word, but you can read it;" and he handed him a copy, in heaven knows
how many spun-out folios, of the opinion which the attorney-general
had managed to cram on the back and sides of the case as originally
submitted to him.

"The upshot is," said Chadwick, "that there's a screw loose in their
case, and we had better do nothing.  They are proceeding against Mr
Harding and myself, and Sir Abraham holds that, under the wording of
the will, and subsequent arrangements legally sanctioned, Mr Harding
and I are only paid servants.  The defendants should have been either
the Corporation of Barchester, or possibly the chapter of your
father."

"W-hoo!" said the archdeacon; "so Master Bold is on the wrong scent,
is he?"

"That's Sir Abraham's opinion; but any scent almost would be a wrong
scent.  Sir Abraham thinks that if they'd taken the corporation, or
the chapter, we could have baffled them.  The bishop, he thinks, would
be the surest shot; but even there we could plead that the bishop is
only a visitor, and that he has never made himself a consenting party
to the performance of other duties."

"That's quite clear," said the archdeacon.

"Not quite so clear," said the other.  "You see the will says, 'My
lord, the bishop, being graciously pleased to see that due justice
be done.'  Now, it may be a question whether, in accepting and
administering the patronage, your father has not accepted also the
other duties assigned.  It is doubtful, however; but even if they hit
that nail,--and they are far off from that yet,--the point is so nice,
as Sir Abraham says, that you would force them into fifteen thousand
pounds' cost before they could bring it to an issue! and where's that
sum of money to come from?"

The archdeacon rubbed his hands with delight; he had never doubted the
justice of his case, but he had begun to have some dread of unjust
success on the part of his enemies.  It was delightful to him thus to
hear that their cause was surrounded with such rocks and shoals; such
causes of shipwreck unseen by the landsman's eye, but visible enough
to the keen eyes of practical law mariners.  How wrong his wife was to
wish that Bold should marry Eleanor!  Bold! why, if he should be ass
enough to persevere, he would be a beggar before he knew whom he was
at law with!

"That's excellent, Chadwick;--that's excellent!  I told you Sir
Abraham was the man for us;" and he put down on the table the copy of
the opinion, and patted it fondly.

"Don't you let that be seen, though, archdeacon."

"Who?--I!--not for worlds," said the doctor.

"People will talk, you know, archdeacon."

"Of course, of course," said the doctor.

"Because, if that gets abroad, it would teach them how to fight their
own battle."

"Quite true," said the doctor.

"No one here in Barchester ought to see that but you and I,
archdeacon."

"No, no, certainly no one else," said the archdeacon, pleased with the
closeness of the confidence; "no one else shall."

"Mrs Grantly is very interested in the matter, I know," said Mr
Chadwick.

Did the archdeacon wink, or did he not?  I am inclined to think he did
not quite wink; but that without such, perhaps, unseemly gesture he
communicated to Mr Chadwick, with the corner of his eye, intimation
that, deep as was Mrs Grantly's interest in the matter, it should not
procure for her a perusal of that document; and at the same time he
partly opened the small drawer, above spoken of, deposited the paper
on the volume of Rabelais, and showed to Mr Chadwick the nature of the
key which guarded these hidden treasures.  The careful steward then
expressed himself contented.  Ah! vain man! he could fasten up his
Rabelais, and other things secret, with all the skill of Bramah or
of Chubb; but where could he fasten up the key which solved these
mechanical mysteries?  It is probable to us that the contents of
no drawer in that house were unknown to its mistress, and we think,
moreover, that she was entitled to all such knowledge.

"But," said Mr Chadwick, "we must, of course, tell your father and Mr
Harding so much of Sir Abraham's opinion as will satisfy them that the
matter is doing well."

"Oh, certainly,--yes, of course," said the doctor.

"You had better let them know that Sir Abraham is of opinion that
there is no case at any rate against Mr Harding; and that as the
action is worded at present, it must fall to the ground; they must be
nonsuited, if they carry it on; you had better tell Mr Harding, that
Sir Abraham is clearly of opinion that he is only a servant, and as
such not liable;--or if you like it, I'll see Mr Harding myself."

"Oh, I must see him to-morrow, and my father too, and I'll explain to
them exactly so much;--you won't go before lunch, Mr Chadwick: well,
if you will, you must, for I know your time is precious;" and he shook
hands with the diocesan steward, and bowed him out.

The archdeacon had again recourse to his drawer, and twice read
through the essence of Sir Abraham Haphazard's law-enlightened and
law-bewildered brains.  It was very clear that to Sir Abraham, the
justice of the old men's claim or the justice of Mr Harding's defence
were ideas that had never presented themselves.  A legal victory
over an opposing party was the service for which Sir Abraham was, as
he imagined, to be paid; and that he, according to his lights, had
diligently laboured to achieve, and with probable hope of success.
Of the intense desire which Mr Harding felt to be assured on fit
authority that he was wronging no man, that he was entitled in true
equity to his income, that he might sleep at night without pangs of
conscience, that he was no robber, no spoiler of the poor; that he and
all the world might be openly convinced that he was not the man which
_The Jupiter_ had described him to be; of such longings on the part of
Mr Harding, Sir Abraham was entirely ignorant; nor, indeed, could it
be looked on as part of his business to gratify such desires.  Such
was not the system on which his battles were fought, and victories
gained.  Success was his object, and he was generally successful.
He conquered his enemies by their weakness rather than by his own
strength, and it had been found almost impossible to make up a case
in which Sir Abraham, as an antagonist, would not find a flaw.

The archdeacon was delighted with the closeness of the reasoning.  To
do him justice, it was not a selfish triumph that he desired; he would
personally lose nothing by defeat, or at least what he might lose did
not actuate him; but neither was it love of justice which made him so
anxious, nor even mainly solicitude for his father-in-law.  He was
fighting a part of a never-ending battle against a never-conquered
foe--that of the church against its enemies.

He knew Mr Harding could not pay all the expense of these doings: for
these long opinions of Sir Abraham's, these causes to be pleaded,
these speeches to be made, these various courts through which the case
was, he presumed, to be dragged.  He knew that he and his father must
at least bear the heavier portion of this tremendous cost; but to do
the archdeacon justice, he did not recoil from this.  He was a man
fond of obtaining money, greedy of a large income, but open-handed
enough in expending it, and it was a triumph to him to foresee the
success of this measure, although he might be called on to pay so
dearly for it himself.




Chapter IX

THE CONFERENCE


On the following morning the archdeacon was with his father betimes,
and a note was sent down to the warden begging his attendance at the
palace.  Dr Grantly, as he cogitated on the matter, leaning back in
his brougham as he journeyed into Barchester, felt that it would be
difficult to communicate his own satisfaction either to his father or
his father-in-law.  He wanted success on his own side and discomfiture
on that of his enemies.  The bishop wanted peace on the subject; a
settled peace if possible, but peace at any rate till the short
remainder of his own days had spun itself out.  Mr Harding required
not only success and peace, but he also demanded that he might stand
justified before the world.

The bishop, however, was comparatively easy to deal with; and before
the arrival of the other, the dutiful son had persuaded his father
that all was going on well, and then the warden arrived.

It was Mr Harding's wont, whenever he spent a morning at the palace,
to seat himself immediately at the bishop's elbow, the bishop
occupying a huge arm-chair fitted up with candle-sticks, a reading
table, a drawer, and other paraphernalia, the position of which
chair was never moved, summer or winter; and when, as was usual, the
archdeacon was there also, he confronted the two elders, who thus were
enabled to fight the battle against him together;--and together submit
to defeat, for such was their constant fate.

Our warden now took his accustomed place, having greeted his
son-in-law as he entered, and then affectionately inquired after his
friend's health.  There was a gentleness about the bishop to which the
soft womanly affection of Mr Harding particularly endeared itself, and
it was quaint to see how the two mild old priests pressed each other's
hand, and smiled and made little signs of love.

"Sir Abraham's opinion has come at last," began the archdeacon.  Mr
Harding had heard so much, and was most anxious to know the result.

"It is quite favourable," said the bishop, pressing his friend's arm.
"I am so glad."

Mr Harding looked at the mighty bearer of the important news for
confirmation of these glad tidings.

"Yes," said the archdeacon; "Sir Abraham has given most minute
attention to the case; indeed, I knew he would;--most minute
attention; and his opinion is,--and as to his opinion on such a
subject being correct, no one who knows Sir Abraham's character can
doubt,--his opinion is, that they hav'n't got a leg to stand on."

"But as how, archdeacon?"

"Why, in the first place:--but you're no lawyer, warden, and I doubt
you won't understand it; the gist of the matter is this:--under
Hiram's will two paid guardians have been selected for the hospital;
the law will say two paid servants, and you and I won't quarrel with
the name."

"At any rate I will not if I am one of the servants," said Mr Harding.
"A rose, you know--"

"Yes, yes," said the archdeacon, impatient of poetry at such a time.
"Well, two paid servants, we'll say; one to look after the men, and
the other to look after the money.  You and Chadwick are these two
servants, and whether either of you be paid too much, or too little,
more or less in fact than the founder willed, it's as clear as
daylight that no one can fall foul of either of you for receiving an
allotted stipend."

"That does seem clear," said the bishop, who had winced visibly at the
words servants and stipend, which, however, appeared to have caused no
uneasiness to the archdeacon.

"Quite clear," said he, "and very satisfactory.  In point of fact, it
being necessary to select such servants for the use of the hospital,
the pay to be given to them must depend on the rate of pay for such
services, according to their market value at the period in question;
and those who manage the hospital must be the only judges of this."

"And who does manage the hospital?" asked the warden.

"Oh, let them find that out; that's another question: the action is
brought against you and Chadwick; that's your defence, and a perfect and
full defence it is.  Now that I think very satisfactory."

"Well," said the bishop, looking inquiringly up into his friend's
face, who sat silent awhile, and apparently not so well satisfied.

"And conclusive," continued the archdeacon; "if they press it to a
jury, which they won't do, no twelve men in England will take five
minutes to decide against them."

"But according to that," said Mr Harding, "I might as well have sixteen
hundred a year as eight, if the managers choose to allot it to me; and
as I am one of the managers, if not the chief manager, myself, that
can hardly be a just arrangement."

"Oh, well; all that's nothing to the question.  The question is,
whether this intruding fellow, and a lot of cheating attorneys and
pestilent dissenters, are to interfere with an arrangement which
everyone knows is essentially just and serviceable to the church.
Pray don't let us be splitting hairs, and that amongst ourselves, or
there'll never be an end of the cause or the cost."

Mr Harding again sat silent for a while, during which the bishop once
and again pressed his arm, and looked in his face to see if he could
catch a gleam of a contented and eased mind; but there was no such
gleam, and the poor warden continued playing sad dirges on invisible
stringed instruments in all manner of positions; he was ruminating in
his mind on this opinion of Sir Abraham, looking to it wearily and
earnestly for satisfaction, but finding none.  At last he said, "Did
you see the opinion, archdeacon?"

The archdeacon said he had not,--that was to say, he had,--that was,
he had not seen the opinion itself; he had seen what had been called a
copy, but he could not say whether of a whole or part; nor could he
say that what he had seen were the _ipsissima verba_ of the great man
himself; but what he had seen contained exactly the decision which he
had announced, and which he again declared to be to his mind extremely
satisfactory.

"I should like to see the opinion," said the warden; "that is, a copy
of it."

"Well, I suppose you can if you make a point of it; but I don't see
the use myself; of course it is essential that the purport of it
should not be known, and it is therefore unadvisable to multiply
copies."

"Why should it not be known?" asked the warden.

"What a question for a man to ask!" said the archdeacon, throwing up
his hands in token of his surprise; "but it is like you:--a child is
not more innocent than you are in matters of business.  Can't you see
that if we tell them that no action will lie against you, but that one
may possibly lie against some other person or persons, that we shall
be putting weapons into their hands, and be teaching them how to cut
our own throats?"

The warden again sat silent, and the bishop again looked at him
wistfully.  "The only thing we have now to do," continued the
archdeacon, "is to remain quiet, hold our peace, and let them play
their own game as they please."

"We are not to make known then," said the warden, "that we have
consulted the attorney-general, and that we are advised by him that
the founder's will is fully and fairly carried out."

"God bless my soul!" said the archdeacon, "how odd it is that you will
not see that all we are to do is to do nothing: why should we say
anything about the founder's will?  We are in possession; and we know
that they are not in a position to put us out; surely that is enough
for the present."

Mr Harding rose from his seat and paced thoughtfully up and down the
library, the bishop the while watching him painfully at every turn,
and the archdeacon continuing to pour forth his convictions that the
affair was in a state to satisfy any prudent mind.

"And _The Jupiter_?" said the warden, stopping suddenly.

"Oh! _The Jupiter_," answered the other.  "_The Jupiter_ can break no
bones.  You must bear with that; there is much, of course, which it
is our bounden duty to bear; it cannot be all roses for us here," and
the archdeacon looked exceedingly moral; "besides, the matter is too
trivial, of too little general interest to be mentioned again in _The
Jupiter_, unless we stir up the subject."  And the archdeacon again
looked exceedingly knowing and worldly wise.

The warden continued his walk; the hard and stinging words of that
newspaper article, each one of which had thrust a thorn as it were
into his inmost soul, were fresh in his memory; he had read it more
than once, word by word, and what was worse, he fancied it was as well
known to everyone as to himself.  Was he to be looked on as the unjust
griping priest he had been there described?  Was he to be pointed at
as the consumer of the bread of the poor, and to be allowed no means
of refuting such charges, of clearing his begrimed name, of standing
innocent in the world, as hitherto he had stood?  Was he to bear all
this, to receive as usual his now hated income, and be known as one
of those greedy priests who by their rapacity have brought disgrace
on their church?  And why?  Why should he bear all this?  Why should
he die, for he felt that he could not live, under such a weight of
obloquy?  As he paced up and down the room he resolved in his misery
and enthusiasm that he could with pleasure, if he were allowed, give
up his place, abandon his pleasant home, leave the hospital, and live
poorly, happily, and with an unsullied name, on the small remainder of
his means.

He was a man somewhat shy of speaking of himself, even before those
who knew him best, and whom he loved the most; but at last it burst
forth from him, and with a somewhat jerking eloquence he declared that
he could not, would not, bear this misery any longer.

"If it can be proved," said he at last, "that I have a just and honest
right to this, as God well knows I always deemed I had; if this salary
or stipend be really my due, I am not less anxious than another to
retain it.  I have the well-being of my child to look to.  I am too
old to miss without some pain the comforts to which I have been used;
and I am, as others are, anxious to prove to the world that I have
been right, and to uphold the place I have held; but I cannot do it
at such a cost as this.  I cannot bear this.  Could you tell me to do
so?"  And he appealed, almost in tears, to the bishop, who had left
his chair, and was now leaning on the warden's arm as he stood on the
further side of the table facing the archdeacon.  "Could you tell me
to sit there at ease, indifferent, and satisfied, while such things as
these are said loudly of me in the world?"

The bishop could feel for him and sympathise with him, but he could
not advise him; he could only say, "No, no, you shall be asked to
do nothing that is painful; you shall do just what your heart tells
you to be right; you shall do whatever you think best yourself.
Theophilus, don't advise him, pray don't advise the warden to do
anything which is painful."

But the archdeacon, though he could not sympathise, could advise;
and he saw that the time had come when it behoved him to do so in a
somewhat peremptory manner.

"Why, my lord," he said, speaking to his father;--and when he called
his father "my lord," the good old bishop shook in his shoes, for he
knew that an evil time was coming.  "Why, my lord, there are two ways
of giving advice: there is advice that may be good for the present
day; and there is advice that may be good for days to come: now I
cannot bring myself to give the former, if it be incompatible with the
other."

"No, no, no, I suppose not," said the bishop, re-seating himself, and
shading his face with his hands.  Mr Harding sat down with his back to
the further wall, playing to himself some air fitted for so calamitous
an occasion, and the archdeacon said out his say standing, with his
back to the empty fire-place.

"It is not to be supposed but that much pain will spring out of this
unnecessarily raised question.  We must all have foreseen that, and
the matter has in no wise gone on worse than we expected; but it will
be weak, yes, and wicked also, to abandon the cause and own ourselves
wrong, because the inquiry is painful.  It is not only ourselves we
have to look to; to a certain extent the interest of the church is in
our keeping.  Should it be found that one after another of those who
hold preferment abandoned it whenever it might be attacked, is it
not plain that such attacks would be renewed till nothing was left
us? and, that if so deserted, the Church of England must fall to
the ground altogether?  If this be true of many, it is true of one.
Were you, accused as you now are, to throw up the wardenship, and to
relinquish the preferment which is your property, with the vain object
of proving yourself disinterested, you would fail in that object, you
would inflict a desperate blow on your brother clergymen, you would
encourage every cantankerous dissenter in England to make a similar
charge against some source of clerical revenue, and you would do your
best to dishearten those who are most anxious to defend you and uphold
your position.  I can fancy nothing more weak, or more wrong.  It is
not that you think that there is any justice in these charges, or that
you doubt your own right to the wardenship: you are convinced of your
own honesty, and yet would yield to them through cowardice."

"Cowardice!" said the bishop, expostulating.  Mr Harding sat unmoved,
gazing on his son-in-law.

"Well; would it not be cowardice?  Would he not do so because he is
afraid to endure the evil things which will be falsely spoken of him?
Would that not be cowardice?  And now let us see the extent of the
evil which you dread.  The _Jupiter_ publishes an article which a
great many, no doubt, will read; but of those who understand the
subject how many will believe _The Jupiter_?  Everyone knows what its
object is: it has taken up the case against Lord Guildford and against
the Dean of Rochester, and that against half a dozen bishops; and does
not everyone know that it would take up any case of the kind, right
or wrong, false or true, with known justice or known injustice, if by
doing so it could further its own views?  Does not all the world know
this of _The Jupiter_?  Who that really knows you will think the worse
of you for what _The Jupiter_ says?  And why care for those who do not
know you?  I will say nothing of your own comfort, but I do say that
you could not be justified in throwing up, in a fit of passion, for
such it would be, the only maintenance that Eleanor has; and if you
did so, if you really did vacate the wardenship, and submit to ruin,
what would that profit you?  If you have no future right to the
income, you have had no past right to it; and the very fact of your
abandoning your position would create a demand for repayment of that
which you have already received and spent."

The poor warden groaned as he sat perfectly still, looking up at the
hard-hearted orator who thus tormented him, and the bishop echoed the
sound faintly from behind his hands; but the archdeacon cared little
for such signs of weakness, and completed his exhortation.

"But let us suppose the office to be left vacant, and that your own
troubles concerning it were over; would that satisfy you?  Are your
only aspirations in the matter confined to yourself and family?  I
know they are not.  I know you are as anxious as any of us for the
church to which we belong; and what a grievous blow would such an act
of apostasy give her!  You owe it to the church of which you are a
member and a minister, to bear with this affliction, however severe it
may be: you owe it to my father, who instituted you, to support his
rights: you owe it to those who preceded you to assert the legality
of their position; you owe it to those who are to come after you, to
maintain uninjured for them that which you received uninjured from
others; and you owe to us all the unflinching assistance of perfect
brotherhood in this matter, so that upholding one another we may
support our great cause without blushing and without disgrace."

And so the archdeacon ceased, and stood self-satisfied, watching the
effect of his spoken wisdom.

The warden felt himself, to a certain extent, stifled; he would have
given the world to get himself out into the open air without speaking
to, or noticing those who were in the room with him; but this was
impossible.  He could not leave without saying something, and he felt
himself confounded by the archdeacon's eloquence.  There was a heavy,
unfeeling, unanswerable truth in what he had said; there was so much
practical, but odious common sense in it, that he neither knew how
to assent or to differ.  If it were necessary for him to suffer, he
felt that he could endure without complaint and without cowardice,
providing that he was self-satisfied of the justice of his own cause.
What he could not endure was, that he should be accused by others, and
not acquitted by himself.  Doubting, as he had begun to doubt, the
justice of his own position in the hospital, he knew that his own
self-confidence would not be restored because Mr Bold had been in
error as to some legal form; nor could he be satisfied to escape,
because, through some legal fiction, he who received the greatest
benefit from the hospital might be considered only as one of its
servants.

The archdeacon's speech had silenced him,--stupefied him,--annihilated
him; anything but satisfied him.  With the bishop it fared not much
better.  He did not discern clearly how things were, but he saw enough
to know that a battle was to be prepared for; a battle that would
destroy his few remaining comforts, and bring him with sorrow to the
grave.

The warden still sat, and still looked at the archdeacon, till his
thoughts fixed themselves wholly on the means of escape from his
present position, and he felt like a bird fascinated by gazing on a
snake.

"I hope you agree with me," said the archdeacon at last, breaking the
dread silence; "my lord, I hope you agree with me."

Oh, what a sigh the bishop gave!  "My lord, I hope you agree with me,"
again repeated the merciless tyrant.

"Yes, I suppose so," groaned the poor old man, slowly.

"And you, warden?"

Mr Harding was now stirred to action;--he must speak and move, so he
got up and took one turn before he answered.

"Do not press me for an answer just at present; I will do nothing
lightly in the matter, and of whatever I do I will give you and the
bishop notice."  And so without another word he took his leave,
escaping quickly through the palace hall, and down the lofty steps;
nor did he breathe freely till he found himself alone under the huge
elms of the silent close.  Here he walked long and slowly, thinking
on his case with a troubled air, and trying in vain to confute the
archdeacon's argument.  He then went home, resolved to bear it
all,--ignominy, suspense, disgrace, self-doubt, and heart-burning,--
and to do as those would have him, who he still believed were most fit
and most able to counsel him aright.




Chapter X

TRIBULATION


Mr Harding was a sadder man than he had ever yet been when he returned
to his own house.  He had been wretched enough on that well-remembered
morning when he was forced to expose before his son-in-law the
publisher's account for ushering into the world his dear book
of sacred music: when after making such payments as he could do
unassisted, he found that he was a debtor of more than three hundred
pounds; but his sufferings then were as nothing to his present
misery;--then he had done wrong, and he knew it, and was able to
resolve that he would not sin in like manner again; but now he could
make no resolution, and comfort himself by no promises of firmness.
He had been forced to think that his lot had placed him in a false
position, and he was about to maintain that position against the
opinion of the world and against his own convictions.

He had read with pity, amounting almost to horror, the strictures
which had appeared from time to time against the Earl of Guildford as
master of St Cross, and the invectives that had been heaped on rich
diocesan dignitaries and overgrown sinecure pluralists.  In judging of
them, he judged leniently; the whole bias of his profession had taught
him to think that they were more sinned against than sinning, and
that the animosity with which they had been pursued was venomous
and unjust; but he had not the less regarded their plight as most
miserable.  His hair had stood on end and his flesh had crept as
he read the things which had been written; he had wondered how men
could live under such a load of disgrace; how they could face their
fellow-creatures while their names were bandied about so injuriously
and so publicly;--and now this lot was to be his,--he, that shy,
retiring man, who had so comforted himself in the hidden obscurity of
his lot, who had so enjoyed the unassuming warmth of his own little
corner,--he was now dragged forth into the glaring day, and gibbeted
before ferocious multitudes.  He entered his own house a crestfallen,
humiliated man, without a hope of overcoming the wretchedness which
affected him.

He wandered into the drawing-room where was his daughter; but he could
not speak to her now, so he left it, and went into the book-room.
He was not quick enough to escape Eleanor's glance, or to prevent her
from seeing that he was disturbed; and in a little while she followed
him.  She found him seated in his accustomed chair with no book open
before him, no pen ready in his hand, no ill-shapen notes of blotted
music lying before him as was usual, none of those hospital accounts
with which he was so precise and yet so unmethodical: he was doing
nothing, thinking of nothing, looking at nothing; he was merely
suffering.

"Leave me, Eleanor, my dear," he said; "leave me, my darling, for a
few minutes, for I am busy."

Eleanor saw well how it was, but she did leave him, and glided
silently back to her drawing-room.  When he had sat a while, thus
alone and unoccupied, he got up to walk again;--he could make more
of his thoughts walking than sitting, and was creeping out into his
garden, when he met Bunce on the threshold.

"Well, Bunce," said he, in a tone that for him was sharp, "what is it?
do you want me?"

"I was only coming to ask after your reverence," said the old
bedesman, touching his hat; "and to inquire about the news from
London," he added after a pause.

The warden winced, and put his hand to his forehead and felt
bewildered.

"Attorney Finney has been there this morning," continued Bunce, "and
by his looks I guess he is not so well pleased as he once was, and it
has got abroad somehow that the archdeacon has had down great news
from London, and Handy and Moody are both as black as devils.  And I
hope," said the man, trying to assume a cheery tone, "that things are
looking up, and that there'll be an end soon to all this stuff which
bothers your reverence so sorely."

"Well, I wish there may be, Bunce."

"But about the news, your reverence?" said the old man, almost
whispering.

Mr Harding walked on, and shook his head impatiently.  Poor Bunce
little knew how he was tormenting his patron.

"If there was anything to cheer you, I should be so glad to know it,"
said he, with a tone of affection which the warden in all his misery
could not resist.

He stopped, and took both the old man's hands in his.  "My friend,"
said he, "my dear old friend, there is nothing; there is no news to
cheer me;--God's will be done": and two small hot tears broke away
from his eyes and stole down his furrowed cheeks.

"Then God's will be done," said the other solemnly; "but they told
me that there was good news from London, and I came to wish your
reverence joy; but God's will be done;" and so the warden again walked
on, and the bedesman, looking wistfully after him and receiving no
encouragement to follow, returned sadly to his own abode.

For a couple of hours the warden remained thus in the garden, now
walking, now standing motionless on the turf, and then, as his legs
got weary, sitting unconsciously on the garden seats, and then walking
again.  And Eleanor, hidden behind the muslin curtains of the window,
watched him through the trees as he now came in sight, and then again
was concealed by the turnings of the walk; and thus the time passed
away till five, when the warden crept back to the house and prepared
for dinner.

It was but a sorry meal.  The demure parlour-maid, as she handed the
dishes and changed the plates, saw that all was not right, and was
more demure than ever: neither father nor daughter could eat, and the
hateful food was soon cleared away, and the bottle of port placed upon
the table.

"Would you like Bunce to come in, papa?" said Eleanor, thinking that
the company of the old man might lighten his sorrow.

"No, my dear, thank you, not to-day; but are not you going out,
Eleanor, this lovely afternoon? don't stay in for me, my dear."

"I thought you seemed so sad, papa."

"Sad," said he, irritated; "well, people must all have their share of
sadness here; I am not more exempt than another: but kiss me, dearest,
and go now; I will, if possible, be more sociable when you return."

And Eleanor was again banished from her father's sorrow.  Ah! her
desire now was not to find him happy, but to be allowed to share his
sorrows; not to force him to be sociable, but to persuade him to be
trustful.

She put on her bonnet as desired, and went up to Mary Bold; this was
now her daily haunt, for John Bold was up in London among lawyers and
church reformers, diving deep into other questions than that of the
wardenship of Barchester; supplying information to one member of
Parliament, and dining with another; subscribing to funds for the
abolition of clerical incomes, and seconding at that great national
meeting at the Crown and Anchor a resolution to the effect, that no
clergyman of the Church of England, be he who he might, should have
more than a thousand a year, and none less than two hundred and fifty.
His speech on this occasion was short, for fifteen had to speak, and
the room was hired for two hours only, at the expiration of which
the Quakers and Mr Cobden were to make use of it for an appeal to
the public in aid of the Emperor of Russia; but it was sharp and
effective; at least he was told so by a companion with whom he now
lived much, and on whom he greatly depended,--one Tom Towers, a very
leading genius, and supposed to have high employment on the staff of
_The Jupiter_.

So Eleanor, as was now her wont, went up to Mary Bold, and Mary
listened kindly, while the daughter spoke much of her father, and,
perhaps kinder still, found a listener in Eleanor, while she spoke
about her brother.  In the meantime the warden sat alone, leaning on
the arm of his chair; he had poured out a glass of wine, but had done
so merely from habit, for he left it untouched; there he sat gazing
at the open window, and thinking, if he can be said to have thought,
of the happiness of his past life.  All manner of past delights came
before his mind, which at the time he had enjoyed without considering
them; his easy days, his absence of all kind of hard work, his
pleasant shady home, those twelve old neighbours whose welfare till
now had been the source of so much pleasant care, the excellence
of his children, the friendship of the dear old bishop, the solemn
grandeur of those vaulted aisles, through which he loved to hear his
own voice pealing; and then that friend of friends, that choice ally
that had never deserted him, that eloquent companion that would
always, when asked, discourse such pleasant music, that violoncello
of his;--ah, how happy he had been! but it was over now; his easy
days and absence of work had been the crime which brought on him his
tribulation; his shady home was pleasant no longer; maybe it was no
longer his; the old neighbours, whose welfare had been so desired by
him, were his enemies; his daughter was as wretched as himself; and
even the bishop was made miserable by his position.  He could never
again lift up his voice boldly as he had hitherto done among his
brethren, for he felt that he was disgraced; and he feared even to
touch his bow, for he knew how grievous a sound of wailing, how
piteous a lamentation, it would produce.

He was still sitting in the same chair and the same posture, having
hardly moved a limb for two hours, when Eleanor came back to tea, and
succeeded in bringing him with her into the drawing-room.

The tea seemed as comfortless as the dinner, though the warden, who
had hitherto eaten nothing all day, devoured the plateful of bread and
butter, unconscious of what he was doing.

Eleanor had made up her mind to force him to talk to her, but she
hardly knew how to commence: she must wait till the urn was gone, till
the servant would no longer be coming in and out.

At last everything was gone, and the drawing-room door was permanently
closed; then Eleanor, getting up and going round to her father, put
her arm round his neck, and said, "Papa, won't you tell me what it
is?"

"What what is, my dear?"

"This new sorrow that torments you; I know you are unhappy, papa."

"New sorrow! it's no new sorrow, my dear; we have all our cares
sometimes;" and he tried to smile, but it was a ghastly failure; "but
I shouldn't be so dull a companion; come, we'll have some music."

"No, papa, not tonight,--it would only trouble you tonight;" and she
sat upon his knee, as she sometimes would in their gayest moods, and
with her arm round his neck, she said: "Papa, I will not leave you
till you talk to me; oh, if you only knew how much good it would do
to you, to tell me of it all."

The father kissed his daughter, and pressed her to his heart; but
still he said nothing: it was so hard to him to speak of his own
sorrows; he was so shy a man even with his own child!

"Oh, papa, do tell me what it is; I know it is about the hospital, and
what they are doing up in London, and what that cruel newspaper has
said; but if there be such cause for sorrow, let us be sorrowful
together; we are all in all to each other now: dear, dear papa, do
speak to me."

Mr Harding could not well speak now, for the warm tears were running
down his cheeks like rain in May, but he held his child close to his
heart, and squeezed her hand as a lover might, and she kissed his
forehead and his wet cheeks, and lay upon his bosom, and comforted him
as a woman only can do.

"My own child," he said, as soon as his tears would let him speak, "my
own, own child, why should you too be unhappy before it is necessary?
It may come to that, that we must leave this place, but till that time
comes, why should your young days be clouded?"

"And is that all, papa?  If that be all, let us leave it, and have
light hearts elsewhere: if that be all, let us go.  Oh, papa, you and
I could be happy if we had only bread to eat, so long as our hearts
were light."

And Eleanor's face was lighted up with enthusiasm as she told her
father how he might banish all his care; and a gleam of joy shot
across his brow as this idea of escape again presented itself, and
he again fancied for a moment that he could spurn away from him the
income which the world envied him; that he could give the lie to that
wielder of the tomahawk who had dared to write such things of him in
_The Jupiter_; that he could leave Sir Abraham, and the archdeacon,
and Bold, and the rest of them with their lawsuit among them, and
wipe his hands altogether of so sorrow-stirring a concern.  Ah, what
happiness might there be in the distance, with Eleanor and him in some
small cottage, and nothing left of their former grandeur but their
music!  Yes, they would walk forth with their music books, and their
instruments, and shaking the dust from off their feet as they went,
leave the ungrateful place. Never did a poor clergyman sigh for a warm
benefice more anxiously than our warden did now to be rid of his.

"Give it up, papa," she said again, jumping from his knees and
standing on her feet before him, looking boldly into his face; "give
it up, papa."

Oh, it was sad to see how that momentary gleam of joy passed away;
how the look of hope was dispersed from that sorrowful face, as the
remembrance of the archdeacon came back upon our poor warden, and he
reflected that he could not stir from his now hated post.  He was as
a man bound with iron, fettered with adamant: he was in no respect a
free agent; he had no choice.  "Give it up!"  Oh if he only could:
what an easy way that were out of all his troubles!

"Papa, don't doubt about it," she continued, thinking that his
hesitation arose from his unwillingness to abandon so comfortable
a home; "is it on my account that you would stay here?  Do you
think that I cannot be happy without a pony-carriage and a fine
drawing-room?  Papa, I never can be happy here, as long as there is a
question as to your honour in staying here; but I could be gay as the
day is long in the smallest tiny little cottage, if I could see you
come in and go out with a light heart.  Oh! papa, your face tells so
much; though you won't speak to me with your voice, I know how it is
with you every time I look at you."

How he pressed her to his heart again with almost a spasmodic
pressure!  How he kissed her as the tears fell like rain from his old
eyes!  How he blessed her, and called her by a hundred soft sweet
names which now came new to his lips!  How he chid himself for ever
having been unhappy with such a treasure in his house, such a jewel on
his bosom, with so sweet a flower in the choice garden of his heart!
And then the floodgates of his tongue were loosed, and, at length,
with unsparing detail of circumstances, he told her all that he
wished, and all that he could not do.  He repeated those arguments
of the archdeacon, not agreeing in their truth, but explaining his
inability to escape from them;--how it had been declared to him that
he was bound to remain where he was by the interests of his order,
by gratitude to the bishop, by the wishes of his friends, by a sense
of duty, which, though he could not understand it, he was fain to
acknowledge.  He told her how he had been accused of cowardice, and
though he was not a man to make much of such a charge before the
world, now in the full candour of his heart he explained to her that
such an accusation was grievous to him; that he did think it would be
unmanly to desert his post, merely to escape his present sufferings,
and that, therefore, he must bear as best he might the misery which
was prepared for him.

And did she find these details tedious?  Oh, no; she encouraged him
to dilate on every feeling he expressed, till he laid bare the inmost
corners of his heart to her.  They spoke together of the archdeacon,
as two children might of a stern, unpopular, but still respected
schoolmaster, and of the bishop as a parent kind as kind could be, but
powerless against an omnipotent pedagogue.

And then when they had discussed all this, when the father had told
all to the child, she could not be less confiding than he had been;
and as John Bold's name was mentioned between them, she owned how well
she had learned to love him,--"had loved him once," she said, "but she
would not, could not do so now--no, even had her troth been plighted
to him, she would have taken it back again;--had she sworn to love
him as his wife, she would have discarded him, and not felt herself
forsworn, when he proved himself the enemy of her father."

But the warden declared that Bold was no enemy of his, and encouraged
her love; and gently rebuked, as he kissed her, the stern resolve she
had made to cast him off; and then he spoke to her of happier days
when their trials would all be over; and declared that her young heart
should not be torn asunder to please either priest or prelate, dean or
archdeacon.  No, not if all Oxford were to convocate together, and
agree as to the necessity of the sacrifice.

And so they greatly comforted each other;--and in what sorrow will not
such mutual confidence give consolation!--and with a last expression
of tender love they parted, and went comparatively happy to their
rooms.




Chapter XI

IPHIGENIA


When Eleanor laid her head on her pillow that night, her mind was
anxiously intent on some plan by which she might extricate her father
from his misery; and, in her warm-hearted enthusiasm, self-sacrifice
was decided on as the means to be adopted.  Was not so good an
Agamemnon worthy of an Iphigenia?  She would herself personally
implore John Bold to desist from his undertaking; she would explain to
him her father's sorrows, the cruel misery of his position; she would
tell him how her father would die if he were thus dragged before the
public and exposed to such unmerited ignominy; she would appeal to his
old friendship, to his generosity, to his manliness, to his mercy; if
need were, she would kneel to him for the favour she would ask; but
before she did this the idea of love must be banished.  There must be
no bargain in the matter.  To his mercy, to his generosity, she could
appeal; but as a pure maiden, hitherto even unsolicited, she could not
appeal to his love, nor under such circumstances could she allow him
to do so.  Of course, when so provoked he would declare his passion;
that was to be expected; there had been enough between them to make
such a fact sure; but it was equally certain that he must be rejected.
She could not be understood as saying, Make my father free and I
am the reward.  There would be no sacrifice in that;--not so had
Jephthah's daughter saved her father;--not so could she show to
that kindest, dearest of parents how much she was able to bear for
his good.  No; to one resolve must her whole soul be bound; and so
resolving, she felt that she could make her great request to Bold
with as much self-assured confidence as she could have done to his
grandfather.

And now I own I have fears for my heroine; not as to the upshot of her
mission,--not in the least as to that; as to the full success of her
generous scheme, and the ultimate result of such a project, no one
conversant with human nature and novels can have a doubt; but as to
the amount of sympathy she may receive from those of her own sex.
Girls below twenty and old ladies above sixty will do her justice; for
in the female heart the soft springs of sweet romance reopen after
many years, and again gush out with waters pure as in earlier days,
and greatly refresh the path that leads downwards to the grave.
But I fear that the majority of those between these two eras will
not approve of Eleanor's plan.  I fear that unmarried ladies of
thirty-five will declare that there can be no probability of so absurd
a project being carried through; that young women on their knees
before their lovers are sure to get kissed, and that they would not
put themselves in such a position did they not expect it; that Eleanor
is going to Bold only because circumstances prevent Bold from coming
to her; that she is certainly a little fool, or a little schemer, but
that in all probability she is thinking a good deal more about herself
than her father.

Dear ladies, you are right as to your appreciation of the
circumstances, but very wrong as to Miss Harding's character.  Miss
Harding was much younger than you are, and could not, therefore, know,
as you may do, to what dangers such an encounter might expose her.
She may get kissed; I think it very probable that she will; but I give
my solemn word and positive assurance, that the remotest idea of such
a catastrophe never occurred to her as she made the great resolve now
alluded to.

And then she slept; and then she rose refreshed; and met her father
with her kindest embrace and most loving smiles; and on the whole
their breakfast was by no means so triste as had been their dinner the
day before; and then, making some excuse to her father for so soon
leaving him, she started on the commencement of her operations.

She knew that John Bold was in London, and that, therefore, the scene
itself could not be enacted to-day; but she also knew that he was soon
to be home, probably on the next day, and it was necessary that some
little plan for meeting him should be concerted with his sister Mary.
When she got up to the house, she went, as usual, into the morning
sitting-room, and was startled by perceiving, by a stick, a greatcoat,
and sundry parcels which were lying about, that Bold must already have
returned.

"John has come back so suddenly," said Mary, coming into the room; "he
has been travelling all night."

"Then I'll come up again some other time," said Eleanor, about to beat
a retreat in her sudden dismay.

"He's out now, and will be for the next two hours," said the other;
"he's with that horrid Finney; he only came to see him, and he returns
by the mail train tonight."

Returns by the mail train tonight, thought Eleanor to herself, as she
strove to screw up her courage;--away again tonight;--then it must be
now or never; and she again sat down, having risen to go.

She wished the ordeal could have been postponed: she had fully made
up her mind to do the deed, but she had not made up her mind to do it
this very day; and now she felt ill at ease, astray, and in
difficulty.

"Mary," she began, "I must see your brother before he goes back."

"Oh yes, of course," said the other; "I know he'll be delighted to see
you;" and she tried to treat it as a matter of course, but she was not
the less surprised; for Mary and Eleanor had daily talked over John
Bold and his conduct, and his love, and Mary would insist on calling
Eleanor her sister, and would scold her for not calling Bold by his
Christian name; and Eleanor would half confess her love, but like a
modest maiden would protest against such familiarities even with the
name of her lover; and so they talked hour after hour, and Mary Bold,
who was much the elder, looked forward with happy confidence to the
day when Eleanor would not be ashamed to call her her sister.  She
was, however, fully sure that just at present Eleanor would be much
more likely to avoid her brother than to seek him.

"Mary, I must see your brother, now, to-day, and beg from him a great
favour;" and she spoke with a solemn air, not at all usual to her;
and then she went on, and opened to her friend all her plan, her
well-weighed scheme for saving her father from a sorrow which would,
she said, if it lasted, bring him to his grave.  "But, Mary," she
continued, "you must now, you know, cease any joking about me and Mr
Bold; you must now say no more about that; I am not ashamed to beg
this favour from your brother, but when I have done so, there can
never be anything further between us;" and this she said with a staid
and solemn air, quite worthy of Jephthah's daughter or of Iphigenia
either.

It was quite clear that Mary Bold did not follow the argument.  That
Eleanor Harding should appeal, on behalf of her father, to Bold's
better feelings seemed to Mary quite natural; it seemed quite natural
that he should relent, overcome by such filial tears, and by so much
beauty; but, to her thinking, it was at any rate equally natural, that
having relented, John should put his arm round his mistress's waist,
and say: "Now having settled that, let us be man and wife, and all
will end happily!"  Why his good nature should not be rewarded, when
such reward would operate to the disadvantage of none, Mary, who had
more sense than romance, could not understand; and she said as much.

Eleanor, however, was firm, and made quite an eloquent speech to
support her own view of the question: she could not condescend, she
said, to ask such a favour on any other terms than those proposed.
Mary might, perhaps, think her high-flown, but she had her own ideas,
and she could not submit to sacrifice her self-respect.

"But I am sure you love him;--don't you?" pleaded Mary; "and I am sure
he loves you better than anything in the world."

Eleanor was going to make another speech, but a tear came to each eye,
and she could not; so she pretended to blow her nose, and walked to
the window, and made a little inward call on her own courage, and
finding herself somewhat sustained, said sententiously: "Mary, this
is nonsense."

"But you do love him," said Mary, who had followed her friend to the
window, and now spoke with her arms close wound round the other's
waist.  "You do love him with all your heart,--you know you do; I defy
you to deny it."

"I--" commenced Eleanor, turning sharply round to refute the charge;
but the intended falsehood stuck in her throat, and never came to
utterance.  She could not deny her love, so she took plentifully
to tears, and leant upon her friend's bosom and sobbed there, and
protested that, love or no love, it would make no difference in her
resolve, and called Mary, a thousand times, the most cruel of girls,
and swore her to secrecy by a hundred oaths, and ended by declaring
that the girl who could betray her friend's love, even to a brother,
would be as black a traitor as a soldier in a garrison who should
open the city gates to the enemy.  While they were yet discussing the
matter, Bold returned, and Eleanor was forced into sudden action: she
had either to accomplish or abandon her plan; and having slipped into
her friend's bedroom, as the gentleman closed the hall door, she
washed the marks of tears from her eyes, and resolved within herself
to go through with it.  "Tell him I am here," said she, "and coming
in; and mind, whatever you do, don't leave us."  So Mary informed her
brother, with a somewhat sombre air, that Miss Harding was in the next
room, and was coming to speak to him.

Eleanor was certainly thinking more of her father than herself, as she
arranged her hair before the glass, and removed the traces of sorrow
from her face; and yet I should be untrue if I said that she was not
anxious to appear well before her lover: why else was she so sedulous
with that stubborn curl that would rebel against her hand, and smooth
so eagerly her ruffled ribands? why else did she damp her eyes to
dispel the redness, and bite her pretty lips to bring back the colour?
Of course she was anxious to look her best, for she was but a mortal
angel after all.  But had she been immortal, had she flitted back to
the sitting-room on a cherub's wings, she could not have had a more
faithful heart, or a truer wish to save her father at any cost to
herself.

John Bold had not met her since the day when she left him in dudgeon
in the cathedral close.  Since then his whole time had been occupied
in promoting the cause against her father, and not unsuccessfully.
He had often thought of her, and turned over in his mind a hundred
schemes for showing her how disinterested was his love.  He would
write to her and beseech her not to allow the performance of a public
duty to injure him in her estimation; he would write to Mr Harding,
explain all his views, and boldly claim the warden's daughter, urging
that the untoward circumstances between them need be no bar to their
ancient friendship, or to a closer tie; he would throw himself on his
knees before his mistress; he would wait and marry the daughter when
the father has lost his home and his income; he would give up the
lawsuit and go to Australia, with her of course, leaving _The Jupiter_
and Mr Finney to complete the case between them.  Sometimes as he woke
in the morning fevered and impatient, he would blow out his brains and
have done with all his cares;--but this idea was generally consequent
on an imprudent supper enjoyed in company with Tom Towers.

How beautiful Eleanor appeared to him as she slowly walked into the
room!  Not for nothing had all those little cares been taken.  Though
her sister, the archdeacon's wife, had spoken slightingly of her
charms, Eleanor was very beautiful when seen aright.  Hers was not of
those impassive faces, which have the beauty of a marble bust; finely
chiselled features, perfect in every line, true to the rules of
symmetry, as lovely to a stranger as to a friend, unvarying unless in
sickness, or as age affects them.  She had no startling brilliancy of
beauty, no pearly whiteness, no radiant carnation.  She had not the
majestic contour that rivets attention, demands instant wonder, and
then disappoints by the coldness of its charms.  You might pass
Eleanor Harding in the street without notice, but you could hardly
pass an evening with her and not lose your heart.

She had never appeared more lovely to her lover than she now did.  Her
face was animated though it was serious, and her full dark lustrous
eyes shone with anxious energy; her hand trembled as she took his, and
she could hardly pronounce his name, when she addressed him.  Bold
wished with all his heart that the Australian scheme was in the act of
realisation, and that he and Eleanor were away together, never to hear
further of the lawsuit.

He began to talk, asked after her health,--said something about London
being very stupid, and more about Barchester being very pleasant;
declared the weather to be very hot, and then inquired after Mr
Harding.

"My father is not very well," said Eleanor.

John Bold was very sorry,--so sorry: he hoped it was nothing serious,
and put on the unmeaningly solemn face which people usually use on
such occasions.

"I especially want to speak to you about my father, Mr Bold; indeed, I
am now here on purpose to do so.  Papa is very unhappy, very unhappy
indeed, about this affair of the hospital: you would pity him, Mr
Bold, if you could see how wretched it has made him."

"Oh, Miss Harding!"

"Indeed you would;--anyone would pity him; but a friend, an old friend
as you are,--indeed you would.  He is an altered man; his cheerfulness
has all gone, and his sweet temper, and his kind happy tone of voice;
you would hardly know him if you saw him, Mr Bold, he is so much
altered; and--and--if this goes on, he will die."  Here Eleanor had
recourse to her handkerchief, and so also had her auditors; but she
plucked up her courage, and went on with her tale.  "He will break his
heart, and die.  I am sure, Mr Bold, it was not you who wrote those
cruel things in the newspaper--"

John Bold eagerly protested that it was not, but his heart smote him
as to his intimate alliance with Tom Towers.

"No, I am sure it was not; and papa has not for a moment thought so;
you would not be so cruel;--but it has nearly killed him.  Papa cannot
bear to think that people should so speak of him, and that everybody
should hear him so spoken of:--they have called him avaricious, and
dishonest, and they say he is robbing the old men, and taking the
money of the hospital for nothing."

"I have never said so, Miss Harding.  I--"

"No," continued Eleanor, interrupting him, for she was now in the full
flood-tide of her eloquence; "no, I am sure you have not; but others
have said so; and if this goes on, if such things are written again,
it will kill papa.  Oh! Mr Bold, if you only knew the state he is in!
Now papa does not care much about money."

Both her auditors, brother and sister, assented to this, and declared
on their own knowledge that no man lived less addicted to filthy lucre
than the warden.

"Oh! it's so kind of you to say so, Mary, and of you too, Mr Bold.
I couldn't bear that people should think unjustly of papa.  Do you
know he would give up the hospital altogether, only he cannot.  The
archdeacon says it would be cowardly, and that he would be deserting
his order, and injuring the church.  Whatever may happen, papa will
not do that: he would leave the place to-morrow willingly, and give
up his house, and the income and all, if the archdeacon--"

Eleanor was going to say "would let him," but she stopped herself
before she had compromised her father's dignity; and giving a long
sigh, she added--"Oh, I do so wish he would."

"No one who knows Mr Harding personally accuses him for a moment,"
said Bold.

"It is he that has to bear the punishment; it is he that suffers,"
said Eleanor; "and what for? what has he done wrong? how has he
deserved this persecution? he that never had an unkind thought in his
life, he that never said an unkind word!" and here she broke down, and
the violence of her sobs stopped her utterance.

Bold, for the fifth or sixth time, declared that neither he nor any of
his friends imputed any blame personally to Mr Harding.

"Then why should he be persecuted?" ejaculated Eleanor through her
tears, forgetting in her eagerness that her intention had been to
humble herself as a suppliant before John Bold;--"why should he be
singled out for scorn and disgrace? why should he be made so wretched?
Oh! Mr Bold,"--and she turned towards him as though the kneeling scene
were about to be commenced,--"oh! Mr Bold, why did you begin all this?
You, whom we all so--so--valued!"

To speak the truth, the reformer's punishment was certainly come upon
him, for his present plight was not enviable; he had nothing for it
but to excuse himself by platitudes about public duty, which it is
by no means worth while to repeat, and to reiterate his eulogy on Mr
Harding's character.  His position was certainly a cruel one: had any
gentleman called upon him on behalf of Mr Harding he could of course
have declined to enter upon the subject; but how could he do so with a
beautiful girl, with the daughter of the man whom he had injured, with
his own love?

In the meantime Eleanor recollected herself, and again summoned up
her energies.  "Mr Bold," said she, "I have come here to implore you
to abandon this proceeding."  He stood up from his seat, and looked
beyond measure distressed.  "To implore you to abandon it, to implore
you to spare my father, to spare either his life or his reason, for
one or the other will pay the forfeit if this goes on.  I know how
much I am asking, and how little right I have to ask anything; but
I think you will listen to me as it is for my father.  Oh, Mr Bold,
pray, pray do this for us;--pray do not drive to distraction a man who
has loved you so well."

She did not absolutely kneel to him, but she followed him as he moved
from his chair, and laid her soft hands imploringly upon his arm.  Ah!
at any other time how exquisitely valuable would have been that touch!
but now he was distraught, dumbfounded, and unmanned.  What could he
say to that sweet suppliant; how explain to her that the matter now
was probably beyond his control; how tell her that he could not quell
the storm which he had raised?

"Surely, surely, John, you cannot refuse her," said his sister.

"I would give her my soul," said he, "if it would serve her."

"Oh, Mr Bold," said Eleanor, "do not speak so; I ask nothing for
myself; and what I ask for my father, it cannot harm you to grant."

"I would give her my soul, if it would serve her," said Bold, still
addressing his sister; "everything I have is hers, if she will accept
it; my house, my heart, my all; every hope of my breast is centred in
her; her smiles are sweeter to me than the sun, and when I see her in
sorrow as she now is, every nerve in my body suffers.  No man can love
better than I love her."

"No, no, no," ejaculated Eleanor; "there can be no talk of love
between us.  Will you protect my father from the evil you have brought
upon him?"

"Oh, Eleanor, I will do anything; let me tell you how I love you!"

"No, no, no!" she almost screamed.  "This is unmanly of you, Mr Bold.
Will you, will you, will you leave my father to die in peace in his
quiet home?" and seizing him by his arm and hand, she followed him
across the room towards the door.  "I will not leave you till you
promise me; I'll cling to you in the street; I'll kneel to you before
all the people.  You shall promise me this, you shall promise me this,
you shall--" And she clung to him with fixed tenacity, and reiterated
her resolve with hysterical passion.

"Speak to her, John; answer her," said Mary, bewildered by the
unexpected vehemence of Eleanor's manner; "you cannot have the cruelty
to refuse her."

"Promise me, promise me," said Eleanor; "say that my father is
safe;--one word will do.  I know how true you are; say one word, and I
will let you go."

She still held him, and looked eagerly into his face, with her hair
dishevelled and her eyes all bloodshot.  She had no thought now of
herself, no care now for her appearance; and yet he thought he had
never seen her half so lovely; he was amazed at the intensity of her
beauty, and could hardly believe that it was she whom he had dared to
love.  "Promise me," said she; "I will not leave you till you have
promised me."

"I will," said he at length; "I do--all I can do, I will do."

"Then may God Almighty bless you for ever and ever!" said Eleanor; and
falling on her knees with her face in Mary's lap, she wept and sobbed
like a child: her strength had carried her through her allotted task,
but now it was well nigh exhausted.

In a while she was partly recovered, and got up to go, and would have
gone, had not Bold made her understand that it was necessary for him
to explain to her how far it was in his power to put an end to the
proceedings which had been taken against Mr Harding.  Had he spoken on
any other subject, she would have vanished, but on that she was bound
to hear him; and now the danger of her position commenced.  While she
had an active part to play, while she clung to him as a suppliant, it
was easy enough for her to reject his proffered love, and cast from
her his caressing words; but now--now that he had yielded, and was
talking to her calmly and kindly as to her father's welfare, it was
hard enough for her to do so.  Then Mary Bold assisted her; but now
she was quite on her brother's side.  Mary said but little, but every
word she did say gave some direct and deadly blow.  The first thing
she did was to make room for her brother between herself and Eleanor
on the sofa: as the sofa was full large for three, Eleanor could not
resent this, nor could she show suspicion by taking another seat; but
she felt it to be a most unkind proceeding.  And then Mary would talk
as though they three were joined in some close peculiar bond together;
as though they were in future always to wish together, contrive
together, and act together; and Eleanor could not gainsay this; she
could not make another speech, and say, "Mr Bold and I are strangers,
Mary, and are always to remain so!"

He explained to her that, though undoubtedly the proceeding against
the hospital had commenced solely with himself, many others were now
interested in the matter, some of whom were much more influential than
himself; that it was to him alone, however, that the lawyers looked
for instruction as to their doings, and, more important still, for
the payment of their bills; and he promised that he would at once
give them notice that it was his intention to abandon the cause.  He
thought, he said, that it was not probable that any active steps would
be taken after he had seceded from the matter, though it was possible
that some passing allusion might still be made to the hospital in the
daily _Jupiter_.  He promised, however, that he would use his best
influence to prevent any further personal allusion being made to Mr
Harding.  He then suggested that he would on that afternoon ride over
himself to Dr Grantly, and inform him of his altered intentions on the
subject, and with this view, he postponed his immediate return to
London.

This was all very pleasant, and Eleanor did enjoy a sort of triumph in
the feeling that she had attained the object for which she had sought
this interview; but still the part of Iphigenia was to be played out.
The gods had heard her prayer, granted her request, and were they not
to have their promised sacrifice?  Eleanor was not a girl to defraud
them wilfully; so, as soon as she decently could, she got up for her
bonnet.

"Are you going so soon?" said Bold, who half an hour since would
have given a hundred pounds that he was in London, and she still at
Barchester.

"Oh yes!" said she.  "I am so much obliged to you; papa will feel
this to be so kind."  She did not quite appreciate all her father's
feelings.  "Of course I must tell him, and I will say that you will
see the archdeacon."

"But may I not say one word for myself?" said Bold.

"I'll fetch you your bonnet, Eleanor," said Mary, in the act of
leaving the room.

"Mary, Mary," said she, getting up and catching her by her dress;
"don't go, I'll get my bonnet myself."  But Mary, the traitress, stood
fast by the door, and permitted no such retreat. Poor Iphigenia!

And with a volley of impassioned love, John Bold poured forth the
feelings of his heart, swearing, as men do, some truths and many
falsehoods; and Eleanor repeated with every shade of vehemence the
"No, no, no," which had had a short time since so much effect; but
now, alas! its strength was gone.  Let her be never so vehement, her
vehemence was not respected; all her "No, no, no's" were met with
counter-asseverations, and at last were overpowered.  The ground was
cut from under her on every side.  She was pressed to say whether her
father would object; whether she herself had any aversion (aversion!
God help her, poor girl! the word nearly made her jump into his arms);
any other preference (this she loudly disclaimed); whether it was
impossible that she should love him (Eleanor could not say that it
was impossible): and so at last all her defences demolished, all her
maiden barriers swept away, she capitulated, or rather marched out
with the honours of war, vanquished evidently, palpably vanquished,
but still not reduced to the necessity of confessing it.

And so the altar on the shore of the modern Aulis reeked with no
sacrifice.




Chapter XII

MR BOLD'S VISIT TO PLUMSTEAD


Whether or no the ill-natured prediction made by certain ladies in
the beginning of the last chapter was or was not carried out to the
letter, I am not in a position to state.  Eleanor, however, certainly
did feel herself to have been baffled as she returned home with all
her news to her father.  Certainly she had been victorious, certainly
she had achieved her object, certainly she was not unhappy, and yet
she did not feel herself triumphant.  Everything would run smooth now.
Eleanor was not at all addicted to the Lydian school of romance; she
by no means objected to her lover because he came in at the door under
the name of Absolute, instead of pulling her out of a window under the
name of Beverley; and yet she felt that she had been imposed upon, and
could hardly think of Mary Bold with sisterly charity.  "I did think
I could have trusted Mary," she said to herself over and over again.
"Oh that she should have dared to keep me in the room when I tried to
get out!"  Eleanor, however, felt that the game was up, and that she
had now nothing further to do but to add to the budget of news which
was prepared for her father, that John Bold was her accepted lover.

We will, however, now leave her on her way, and go with John Bold to
Plumstead Episcopi, merely premising that Eleanor on reaching home
will not find things so smooth as she fondly expected; two messengers
had come, one to her father and the other to the archdeacon, and
each of them much opposed to her quiet mode of solving all their
difficulties; the one in the shape of a number of _The Jupiter_, and
the other in that of a further opinion from Sir Abraham Haphazard.

John Bold got on his horse and rode off to Plumstead Episcopi; not
briskly and with eager spur, as men do ride when self-satisfied with
their own intentions; but slowly, modestly, thoughtfully, and somewhat
in dread of the coming interview.  Now and again he would recur to the
scene which was just over, support himself by the remembrance of the
silence that gives consent, and exult as a happy lover.  But even this
feeling was not without a shade of remorse.  Had he not shown himself
childishly weak thus to yield up the resolve of many hours of thought
to the tears of a pretty girl?  How was he to meet his lawyer?
How was he to back out of a matter in which his name was already so
publicly concerned?  What, oh what! was he to say to Tom Towers?
While meditating these painful things he reached the lodge leading up
to the archdeacon's glebe, and for the first time in his life found
himself within the sacred precincts.

All the doctor's children were together on the slope of the lawn,
close to the road, as Bold rode up to the hall door.  They were there
holding high debate on matters evidently of deep interest at Plumstead
Episcopi, and the voices of the boys had been heard before the lodge
gate was closed.

Florinda and Grizzel, frightened at the sight of so well-known an
enemy to the family, fled on the first appearance of the horseman,
and ran in terror to their mother's arms; not for them was it, tender
branches, to resent injuries, or as members of a church militant to
put on armour against its enemies.  But the boys stood their ground
like heroes, and boldly demanded the business of the intruder.

"Do you want to see anybody here, sir?" said Henry, with a defiant eye
and a hostile tone, which plainly said that at any rate no one there
wanted to see the person so addressed; and as he spoke he brandished
aloft his garden water-pot, holding it by the spout, ready for the
braining of anyone.

"Henry," said Charles James slowly, and with a certain dignity of
diction, "Mr Bold of course would not have come without wanting to see
someone; if Mr Bold has a proper ground for wanting to see some person
here, of course he has a right to come."

But Samuel stepped lightly up to the horse's head, and offered his
services.  "Oh, Mr Bold," said he, "papa, I'm sure, will be glad to
see you; I suppose you want to see papa.  Shall I hold your horse for
you?  Oh what a very pretty horse!" and he turned his head and winked
funnily at his brothers.  "Papa has heard such good news about the old
hospital to-day.  We know you'll be glad to hear it, because you're
such a friend of grandpapa Harding, and so much in love with Aunt
Nelly!"

"How d'ye do, lads?" said Bold, dismounting.  "I want to see your
father if he's at home."

"Lads!" said Henry, turning on his heel and addressing himself to his
brother, but loud enough to be heard by Bold; "lads, indeed! if we're
lads, what does he call himself?"

Charles James condescended to say nothing further, but cocked his hat
with much precision, and left the visitor to the care of his youngest
brother.

Samuel stayed till the servant came, chatting and patting the horse;
but as soon as Bold had disappeared through the front door, he stuck
a switch under the animal's tail to make him kick if possible.

The church reformer soon found himself _tête-à-tête_ with the
archdeacon in that same room, in that sanctum sanctorum of the
rectory, to which we have already been introduced.  As he entered he
heard the click of a certain patent lock, but it struck him with no
surprise; the worthy clergyman was no doubt hiding from eyes profane
his last much-studied sermon; for the archdeacon, though he preached
but seldom, was famous for his sermons.  No room, Bold thought, could
have been more becoming for a dignitary of the church; each wall was
loaded with theology; over each separate bookcase was printed in small
gold letters the names of those great divines whose works were ranged
beneath: beginning from the early fathers in due chronological order,
there were to be found the precious labours of the chosen servants
of the church down to the last pamphlet written in opposition to the
consecration of Dr Hampden; and raised above this were to be seen
the busts of the greatest among the great: Chrysostom, St Augustine,
Thomas à Becket, Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop Laud, and Dr Philpotts.

Every appliance that could make study pleasant and give ease to the
overtoiled brain was there; chairs made to relieve each limb and
muscle; reading-desks and writing-desks to suit every attitude;
lamps and candles mechanically contrived to throw their light on any
favoured spot, as the student might desire; a shoal of newspapers to
amuse the few leisure moments which might be stolen from the labours
of the day; and then from the window a view right through a bosky
vista along which ran a broad green path from the rectory to the
church,--at the end of which the tawny-tinted fine old tower was seen
with all its variegated pinnacles and parapets.  Few parish churches
in England are in better repair, or better worth keeping so, than that
at Plumstead Episcopi; and yet it is built in a faulty style: the body
of the church is low,--so low, that the nearly flat leaden roof would
be visible from the churchyard, were it not for the carved parapet
with which it is surrounded.  It is cruciform, though the transepts
are irregular, one being larger than the other; and the tower is much
too high in proportion to the church.  But the colour of the building
is perfect; it is that rich yellow gray which one finds nowhere but in
the south and west of England, and which is so strong a characteristic
of most of our old houses of Tudor architecture.  The stone work also
is beautiful; the mullions of the windows and the thick tracery of
the Gothic workmanship is as rich as fancy can desire; and though in
gazing on such a structure one knows by rule that the old priests who
built it, built it wrong, one cannot bring oneself to wish that they
should have made it other than it is.

When Bold was ushered into the book-room, he found its owner standing
with his back to the empty fire-place ready to receive him, and he
could not but perceive that that expansive brow was elated with
triumph, and that those full heavy lips bore more prominently than
usual an appearance of arrogant success.

"Well, Mr Bold," said he;--"well, what can I do for you?
Very happy, I can assure you, to do anything for such a friend
of my father-in-law."

"I hope you'll excuse my calling, Dr Grantly."

"Certainly, certainly," said the archdeacon; "I can assure you, no
apology is necessary from Mr Bold;--only let me know what I can do for
him."

Dr Grantly was standing himself, and he did not ask Bold to sit, and
therefore he had to tell his tale standing, leaning on the table, with
his hat in his hand.  He did, however, manage to tell it; and as the
archdeacon never once interrupted him, or even encouraged him by a
single word, he was not long in coming to the end of it.

"And so, Mr Bold, I'm to understand, I believe, that you are desirous
of abandoning this attack upon Mr Harding."

"Oh, Dr Grantly, there has been no attack, I can assure you--"

"Well, well, we won't quarrel about words; I should call it an
attack;--most men would so call an endeavour to take away from a man
every shilling of income that he has to live upon; but it sha'n't be
an attack, if you don't like it; you wish to abandon this--this little
game of backgammon you've begun to play."

"I intend to put an end to the legal proceedings which I have
commenced."

"I understand," said the archdeacon.  "You've already had enough
of it; well, I can't say that I am surprised; carrying on a losing
lawsuit where one has nothing to gain, but everything to pay, is not
pleasant."

Bold turned very red in the face.  "You misinterpret my motives," said
he; "but, however, that is of little consequence.  I did not come
to trouble you with my motives, but to tell you a matter of fact.
Good-morning, Dr Grantly."

"One moment,--one moment," said the other.  "I don't exactly
appreciate the taste which induced you to make any personal
communication to me on the subject; but I dare say I'm wrong, I dare
say your judgment is the better of the two; but as you have done me
the honour,--as you have, as it were, forced me into a certain amount
of conversation on a subject which had better, perhaps, have been left
to our lawyers, you will excuse me if I ask you to hear my reply to
your communication."

"I am in no hurry, Dr Grantly."

"Well, I am, Mr Bold; my time is not exactly leisure time, and,
therefore, if you please, we'll go to the point at once:--you're going
to abandon this lawsuit?"--and he paused for a reply.

"Yes, Dr Grantly, I am."

"Having exposed a gentleman who was one of your father's warmest
friends to all the ignominy and insolence which the press could heap
upon his name, having somewhat ostentatiously declared that it was
your duty as a man of high public virtue to protect those poor old
fools whom you have humbugged there at the hospital, you now find that
the game costs more than it's worth, and so you make up your mind to
have done with it.  A prudent resolution, Mr Bold; but it is a pity
you should have been so long coming to it.  Has it struck you that
we may not now choose to give over? that we may find it necessary to
punish the injury you have done to us?  Are you aware, sir, that we
have gone to enormous expense to resist this iniquitous attempt of
yours?"

Bold's face was now furiously red, and he nearly crushed his hat
between his hands; but he said nothing.

"We have found it necessary to employ the best advice that money
could procure.  Are you aware, sir, what may be the probable cost of
securing the services of the attorney-general?"

"Not in the least, Dr Grantly."

"I dare say not, sir.  When you recklessly put this affair into
the hands of your friend Mr Finney, whose six-and-eightpences and
thirteen-and-fourpences may, probably, not amount to a large sum, you
were indifferent as to the cost and suffering which such a proceeding
might entail on others; but are you aware, sir, that these crushing
costs must now come out of your own pocket?"

"Any demand of such a nature which Mr Harding's lawyer may have to
make will doubtless be made to my lawyer."

"'Mr Harding's lawyer and my lawyer!' Did you come here merely to
refer me to the lawyers?  Upon my word I think the honour of your
visit might have been spared!  And now, sir, I'll tell you what my
opinion is:--my opinion is, that we shall not allow you to withdraw
this matter from the courts."

"You can do as you please, Dr Grantly; good-morning."

"Hear me out, sir," said the archdeacon; "I have here in my hands the
last opinion given in this matter by Sir Abraham Haphazard.  I dare
say you have already heard of this;--I dare say it has had something
to do with your visit here to-day."

"I know nothing whatever of Sir Abraham Haphazard or his opinion."

"Be that as it may, here it is; he declares most explicitly that under
no phasis of the affair whatever have you a leg to stand upon; that Mr
Harding is as safe in his hospital as I am here in my rectory; that a
more futile attempt to destroy a man was never made, than this which
you have made to ruin Mr Harding.  Here," and he slapped the paper
on the table, "I have this opinion from the very first lawyer in the
land; and under these circumstances you expect me to make you a low
bow for your kind offer to release Mr Harding from the toils of your
net!  Sir, your net is not strong enough to hold him; sir, your net
has fallen to pieces, and you knew that well enough before I told
you--and now, sir, I'll wish you good-morning, for I'm busy."

Bold was now choking with passion.  He had let the archdeacon run on
because he knew not with what words to interrupt him; but now that he
had been so defied and insulted, he could not leave the room without
some reply.

"Dr Grantly," he commenced.

"I have nothing further to say or to hear," said the archdeacon.
"I'll do myself the honour to order your horse."  And he rang the
bell.

"I came here, Dr Grantly, with the warmest, kindest feelings--"

"Oh, of course you did; nobody doubts it."

"With the kindest feelings;--and they have been most grossly outraged
by your treatment."

"Of course they have;--I have not chosen to see my father-in-law
ruined; what an outrage that has been to your feelings!"

"The time will come, Dr Grantly, when you will understand why I called
upon you to-day."

"No doubt, no doubt.  Is Mr Bold's horse there?  That's right; open
the front door.  Good-morning, Mr Bold;" and the doctor stalked into
his own drawing-room, closing the door behind him, and making it quite
impossible that John Bold should speak another word.

As he got on his horse, which he was fain to do feeling like a dog
turned out of a kitchen, he was again greeted by little Sammy.

"Good-bye, Mr Bold; I hope we may have the pleasure of seeing you
again before long; I am sure papa will always be glad to see you."

That was certainly the bitterest moment in John Bold's life.  Not even
the remembrance of his successful love could comfort him; nay, when
he thought of Eleanor he felt that it was that very love which had
brought him to such a pass.  That he should have been so insulted,
and be unable to reply!  That he should have given up so much to the
request of a girl, and then have had his motives so misunderstood!
That he should have made so gross a mistake as this visit of his to
the archdeacon's!  He bit the top of his whip, till he penetrated the
horn of which it was made: he struck the poor animal in his anger, and
then was doubly angry with himself at his futile passion.  He had been
so completely checkmated, so palpably overcome! and what was he to do?
He could not continue his action after pledging himself to abandon it;
nor was there any revenge in that;--it was the very step to which his
enemy had endeavoured to goad him!

He threw the reins to the servant who came to take his horse, and
rushed upstairs into his drawing-room, where his sister Mary was
sitting.

"If there be a devil," said he, "a real devil here on earth, it is
Dr Grantly."  He vouchsafed her no further intelligence, but again
seizing his hat, he rushed out, and took his departure for London
without another word to anyone.




Chapter XIII

THE WARDEN'S DECISION


The meeting between Eleanor and her father was not so stormy as that
described in the last chapter, but it was hardly more successful.  On
her return from Bold's house she found her father in a strange state.
He was not sorrowful and silent as he had been on that memorable
day when his son-in-law lectured him as to all that he owed to his
order; nor was he in his usual quiet mood.  When Eleanor reached the
hospital, he was walking to and fro upon the lawn, and she soon saw
that he was much excited.

"I am going to London, my dear," he said as soon as he saw her.

"London, papa!"

"Yes, my dear, to London; I will have this matter settled some way;
there are some things, Eleanor, which I cannot bear."

"Oh, papa, what is it?" said she, leading him by the arm into the
house.  "I had such good news for you, and now you make me fear I am
too late."  And then, before he could let her know what had caused
this sudden resolve, or could point to the fatal paper which lay on
the table, she told him that the lawsuit was over, that Bold had
commissioned her to assure her father in his name that it would be
abandoned,--that there was no further cause for misery, that the whole
matter might be looked on as though it had never been discussed.  She
did not tell him with what determined vehemence she had obtained this
concession in his favour, nor did she mention the price she was to pay
for it.

The warden did not express himself peculiarly gratified at this
intelligence, and Eleanor, though she had not worked for thanks, and
was by no means disposed to magnify her own good offices, felt hurt
at the manner in which her news was received.  "Mr Bold can act as
he thinks proper, my love," said he; "if Mr Bold thinks he has been
wrong, of course he will discontinue what he is doing; but that cannot
change my purpose."

"Oh, papa!" she exclaimed, all but crying with vexation; "I thought
you would have been so happy;--I thought all would have been right
now."

"Mr Bold," continued he, "has set great people to work,--so great that
I doubt they are now beyond his control.  Read that, my dear."  The
warden, doubling up a number of _The Jupiter_, pointed to the peculiar
article which she was to read.  It was to the last of the three
leaders, which are generally furnished daily for the support of the
nation, that Mr Harding directed her attention.  It dealt some heavy
blows on various clerical delinquents; on families who received their
tens of thousands yearly for doing nothing; on men who, as the article
stated, rolled in wealth which they had neither earned nor inherited,
and which was in fact stolen from the poorer clergy.  It named some
sons of bishops, and grandsons of archbishops; men great in their way,
who had redeemed their disgrace in the eyes of many by the enormity of
their plunder; and then, having disposed of these leviathans, it
descended to Mr Harding.


   We alluded some weeks since to an instance of similar
   injustice, though in a more humble scale, in which the warden
   of an almshouse at Barchester has become possessed of the
   income of the greater part of the whole institution.  Why an
   almshouse should have a warden we cannot pretend to explain,
   nor can we say what special need twelve old men can have for
   the services of a separate clergyman, seeing that they have
   twelve reserved seats for themselves in Barchester Cathedral.
   But be this as it may, let the gentleman call himself warden
   or precentor, or what he will, let him be never so scrupulous
   in exacting religious duties from his twelve dependents, or
   never so negligent as regards the services of the cathedral,
   it appears palpably clear that he can be entitled to no
   portion of the revenue of the hospital, excepting that which
   the founder set apart for him; and it is equally clear that
   the founder did not intend that three-fifths of his charity
   should be so consumed.

   The case is certainly a paltry one after the tens of
   thousands with which we have been dealing, for the warden's
   income is after all but a poor eight hundred a year: eight
   hundred a year is not magnificent preferment of itself, and
   the warden may, for anything we know, be worth much more to
   the church; but if so, let the church pay him out of funds
   justly at its own disposal.

   We allude to the question of the Barchester almshouse at the
   present moment, because we understand that a plea has been
   set up which will be peculiarly revolting to the minds of
   English churchmen.  An action has been taken against Mr
   Warden Harding, on behalf of the almsmen, by a gentleman
   acting solely on public grounds, and it is to be argued that
   Mr Harding takes nothing but what he received as a servant of
   the hospital, and that he is not himself responsible for the
   amount of stipend given to him for his work.  Such a plea
   would doubtless be fair, if anyone questioned the daily wages
   of a bricklayer employed on the building, or the fee of the
   charwoman who cleans it; but we cannot envy the feeling of a
   clergyman of the Church of England who could allow such an
   argument to be put in his mouth.

   If this plea be put forward we trust Mr Harding will be
   forced as a witness to state the nature of his employment;
   the amount of work that he does; the income which he
   receives; and the source from whence he obtained his
   appointment.  We do not think he will receive much public
   sympathy to atone for the annoyance of such an examination.


As Eleanor read the article her face flushed with indignation, and
when she had finished it, she almost feared to look up at her father.

"Well, my dear," said he, "what do you think of that;--is it worth
while to be a warden at that price?"

"Oh, papa;--dear papa!"

"Mr Bold can't un-write that, my dear;--Mr Bold can't say that that
sha'n't be read by every clergyman at Oxford; nay, by every gentleman
in the land;" and then he walked up and down the room, while Eleanor
in mute despair followed him with her eyes.  "And I'll tell you what,
my dear," he continued, speaking now very calmly, and in a forced
manner very unlike himself; "Mr Bold can't dispute the truth of every
word in that article you have just read--nor can I."  Eleanor stared
at him, as though she scarcely understood the words he was speaking.
"Nor can I, Eleanor: that's the worst of all, or would be so if
there were no remedy.  I have thought much of all this since we were
together last night;" and he came and sat beside her, and put his arm
round her waist as he had done then.  "I have thought much of what the
archdeacon has said, and of what this paper says; and I do believe I
have no right to be here."

"No right to be warden of the hospital, papa?"

"No right to be warden with eight hundred a year; no right to be
warden with such a house as this; no right to spend in luxury money
that was intended for charity.  Mr Bold may do as he pleases about his
suit, but I hope he will not abandon it for my sake."

Poor Eleanor! this was hard upon her.  Was it for this she had made
her great resolve!  For this that she had laid aside her quiet
demeanour, and taken upon her the rants of a tragedy heroine!  One
may work and not for thanks, but yet feel hurt at not receiving them;
and so it was with Eleanor: one may be disinterested in one's good
actions, and yet feel discontented that they are not recognised.
Charity may be given with the left hand so privily that the right hand
does not know it, and yet the left hand may regret to feel that it has
no immediate reward.  Eleanor had had no wish to burden her father
with a weight of obligation, and yet she had looked forward to much
delight from the knowledge that she had freed him from his sorrows:
now such hopes were entirely over: all that she had done was of no
avail; she had humbled herself to Bold in vain; the evil was utterly
beyond her power to cure!

She had thought also how gently she would whisper to her father all
that her lover had said to her about herself, and how impossible she
had found it to reject him: and then she had anticipated her father's
kindly kiss and close embrace as he gave his sanction to her love.
Alas! she could say nothing of this now.  In speaking of Mr Bold, her
father put him aside as one whose thoughts and sayings and acts could
be of no moment.  Gentle reader, did you ever feel yourself snubbed?
Did you ever, when thinking much of your own importance, find yourself
suddenly reduced to a nonentity?  Such was Eleanor's feeling now.

"They shall not put forward this plea on my behalf," continued the
warden.  "Whatever may be the truth of the matter, that at any rate is
not true; and the man who wrote that article is right in saying that
such a plea is revolting to an honest mind.  I will go up to London,
my dear, and see these lawyers myself, and if no better excuse can be
made for me than that, I and the hospital will part."

"But the archdeacon, papa?"

"I can't help it, my dear; there are some things which a man cannot
bear:--I cannot bear that;" and he put his hand upon the newspaper.

"But will the archdeacon go with you?"

To tell the truth, Mr Harding had made up his mind to steal a march
upon the archdeacon.  He was aware that he could take no steps without
informing his dread son-in-law, but he had resolved that he would send
out a note to Plumstead Episcopi detailing his plans, but that the
messenger should not leave Barchester till he himself had started
for London; so that he might be a day before the doctor, who, he had
no doubt, would follow him.  In that day, if he had luck, he might
arrange it all; he might explain to Sir Abraham that he, as warden,
would have nothing further to do with the defence about to be set up;
he might send in his official resignation to his friend the bishop,
and so make public the whole transaction, that even the doctor would
not be able to undo what he had done.  He knew too well the doctor's
strength and his own weakness to suppose he could do this, if they
both reached London together; indeed, he would never be able to get to
London, if the doctor knew of his intended journey in time to prevent
it.

"No, I think not," said he.  "I think I shall start before the
archdeacon could be ready;--I shall go early to-morrow morning."

"That will be best, papa," said Eleanor, showing that her father's
ruse was appreciated.

"Why yes, my love.  The fact is, I wish to do all this before the
archdeacon can--can interfere.  There is a great deal of truth in
all he says;--he argues very well, and I can't always answer him;
but there is an old saying, Nelly: 'Everyone knows where his own
shoe pinches!'  He'll say that I want moral courage, and strength of
character, and power of endurance, and it's all true; but I'm sure I
ought not to remain here, if I have nothing better to put forward than
a quibble: so, Nelly, we shall have to leave this pretty place."

Eleanor's face brightened up, as she assured her father how cordially
she agreed with him.

"True, my love," said he, now again quite happy and at ease in his
manner.  "What good to us is this place or all the money, if we are to
be ill-spoken of?"

"Oh, papa, I am so glad!"

"My darling child!  It did cost me a pang at first, Nelly, to think
that you should lose your pretty drawing-room, and your ponies, and
your garden: the garden will be the worst of all;--but there is a
garden at Crabtree, a very pretty garden."

Crabtree Parva was the name of the small living which Mr Harding had
held as a minor canon, and which still belonged to him.  It was only
worth some eighty pounds a year, and a small house and glebe, all
of which were now handed over to Mr Harding's curate; but it was to
Crabtree glebe that Mr Harding thought of retiring.  This parish must
not be mistaken for that other living, Crabtree Canonicorum, as it is
called.  Crabtree Canonicorum is a very nice thing; there are only two
hundred parishioners; there are four hundred acres of glebe; and the
great and small tithes, which both go to the rector, are worth four
hundred pounds a year more.  Crabtree Canonicorum is in the gift of
the dean and chapter, and is at this time possessed by the Honourable
and Reverend Dr Vesey Stanhope, who also fills the prebendal stall
of Goosegorge in Barchester Chapter, and holds the united rectory of
Eiderdown and Stogpingum, or Stoke Pinquium, as it should be written.
This is the same Dr Vesey Stanhope whose hospitable villa on the Lake
of Como is so well known to the _élite_ of English travellers, and
whose collection of Lombard butterflies is supposed to be unique.

"Yes," said the warden, musing, "there is a very pretty garden at
Crabtree;--but I shall be sorry to disturb poor Smith." Smith was the
curate of Crabtree, a gentleman who was maintaining a wife and half a
dozen children on the income arising from his profession.

Eleanor assured her father that, as far as she was concerned, she
could leave her house and her ponies without a single regret.  She was
only so happy that he was going--going where he would escape all this
dreadful turmoil.

"But we will take the music, my dear."

And so they went on planning their future happiness, and plotting how
they would arrange it all without the interposition of the archdeacon,
and at last they again became confidential, and then the warden did
thank her for what she had done, and Eleanor, lying on her father's
shoulder, did find an opportunity to tell her secret: and the father
gave his blessing to his child, and said that the man whom she
loved was honest, good, and kind-hearted, and right-thinking in the
main,--one who wanted only a good wife to put him quite upright,--"a
man, my love," he ended by saying, "to whom I firmly believe that I
can trust my treasure with safety."

"But what will Dr Grantly say?"

"Well, my dear, it can't be helped;--we shall be out at Crabtree
then."

And Eleanor ran upstairs to prepare her father's clothes for his
journey; and the warden returned to his garden to make his last adieux
to every tree, and shrub, and shady nook that he knew so well.




Chapter XIV

MOUNT OLYMPUS


Wretched in spirit, groaning under the feeling of insult,
self-condemning, and ill-satisfied in every way, Bold returned to
his London lodgings.  Ill as he had fared in his interview with the
archdeacon, he was not the less under the necessity of carrying out
his pledge to Eleanor; and he went about his ungracious task with a
heavy heart.

The attorneys whom he had employed in London received his instructions
with surprise and evident misgiving; however, they could only obey,
and mutter something of their sorrow that such heavy costs should
only fall upon their own employer,--especially as nothing was wanting
but perseverance to throw them on the opposite party.  Bold left the
office which he had latterly so much frequented, shaking the dust from
off his feet; and before he was down the stairs, an edict had already
gone forth for the preparation of the bill.

He next thought of the newspapers.  The case had been taken up by more
than one; and he was well aware that the keynote had been sounded by
_The Jupiter_.  He had been very intimate with Tom Towers, and had
often discussed with him the affairs of the hospital.  Bold could
not say that the articles in that paper had been written at his own
instigation.  He did not even know, as a fact, that they had been
written by his friend.  Tom Towers had never said that such a view of
the case, or such a side in the dispute, would be taken by the paper
with which he was connected.  Very discreet in such matters was Tom
Towers, and altogether indisposed to talk loosely of the concerns
of that mighty engine of which it was his high privilege to move
in secret some portion.  Nevertheless Bold believed that to him
were owing those dreadful words which had caused such panic at
Barchester,--and he conceived himself bound to prevent their
repetition.  With this view he betook himself from the attorneys'
office to that laboratory where, with amazing chemistry, Tom Towers
compounded thunderbolts for the destruction of all that is evil, and
for the furtherance of all that is good, in this and other
hemispheres.

Who has not heard of Mount Olympus,--that high abode of all the powers
of type, that favoured seat of the great goddess Pica, that wondrous
habitation of gods and devils, from whence, with ceaseless hum of
steam and never-ending flow of Castalian ink, issue forth fifty
thousand nightly edicts for the governance of a subject nation?

Velvet and gilding do not make a throne, nor gold and jewels a
sceptre.  It is a throne because the most exalted one sits there,--and
a sceptre because the most mighty one wields it.  So it is with Mount
Olympus.  Should a stranger make his way thither at dull noonday, or
during the sleepy hours of the silent afternoon, he would find no
acknowledged temple of power and beauty, no fitting fane for the
great Thunderer, no proud façades and pillared roofs to support
the dignity of this greatest of earthly potentates.  To the
outward and uninitiated eye, Mount Olympus is a somewhat humble
spot,--undistinguished, unadorned,--nay, almost mean.  It stands
alone, as it were, in a mighty city, close to the densest throng
of men, but partaking neither of the noise nor the crowd; a small
secluded, dreary spot, tenanted, one would say, by quite unambitious
people at the easiest rents.  "Is this Mount Olympus?" asks the
unbelieving stranger.  "Is it from these small, dark, dingy buildings
that those infallible laws proceed which cabinets are called upon to
obey; by which bishops are to be guided, lords and commons controlled,
judges instructed in law, generals in strategy, admirals in naval
tactics, and orange-women in the management of their barrows?"
"Yes, my friend--from these walls.  From here issue the only known
infallible bulls for the guidance of British souls and bodies.
This little court is the Vatican of England.  Here reigns a
pope, self-nominated, self-consecrated,--ay, and much stranger
too,--self-believing!--a pope whom, if you cannot obey him, I would
advise you to disobey as silently as possible; a pope hitherto afraid
of no Luther; a pope who manages his own inquisition, who punishes
unbelievers as no most skilful inquisitor of Spain ever dreamt of
doing;--one who can excommunicate thoroughly, fearfully, radically;
put you beyond the pale of men's charity; make you odious to your
dearest friends, and turn you into a monster to be pointed at by the
finger!"  Oh heavens! and this is Mount Olympus!

It is a fact amazing to ordinary mortals that _The Jupiter_ is never
wrong.  With what endless care, with what unsparing labour, do we not
strive to get together for our great national council the men most
fitting to compose it.  And how we fail! Parliament is always wrong:
look at _The Jupiter_, and see how futile are their meetings, how vain
their council, how needless all their trouble!  With what pride do we
regard our chief ministers, the great servants of state, the oligarchs
of the nation on whose wisdom we lean, to whom we look for guidance in
our difficulties!  But what are they to the writers of _The Jupiter_?
They hold council together and with anxious thought painfully
elaborate their country's good; but when all is done, _The Jupiter_
declares that all is naught.  Why should we look to Lord John
Russell;--why should we regard Palmerston and Gladstone, when Tom
Towers without a struggle can put us right?  Look at our generals,
what faults they make; at our admirals, how inactive they are.  What
money, honesty, and science can do, is done; and yet how badly are our
troops brought together, fed, conveyed, clothed, armed, and managed.
The most excellent of our good men do their best to man our ships,
with the assistance of all possible external appliances; but in vain.
All, all is wrong--alas! alas!  Tom Towers, and he alone, knows all
about it.  Why, oh why, ye earthly ministers, why have ye not followed
more closely this heaven-sent messenger that is among us?

Were it not well for us in our ignorance that we confided all things
to _The Jupiter_?  Would it not be wise in us to abandon useless
talking, idle thinking, and profitless labour?  Away with majorities
in the House of Commons, with verdicts from judicial bench given after
much delay, with doubtful laws, and the fallible attempts of humanity!
Does not _The Jupiter_, coming forth daily with fifty thousand
impressions full of unerring decision on every mortal subject, set all
matters sufficiently at rest?  Is not Tom Towers here, able to guide
us and willing?

Yes indeed, able and willing to guide all men in all things, so
long as he is obeyed as autocrat should be obeyed,--with undoubting
submission: only let not ungrateful ministers seek other colleagues
than those whom Tom Towers may approve; let church and state, law and
physic, commerce and agriculture, the arts of war, and the arts of
peace, all listen and obey, and all will be made perfect.  Has not Tom
Towers an all-seeing eye?  From the diggings of Australia to those of
California, right round the habitable globe, does he not know, watch,
and chronicle the doings of everyone?  From a bishopric in New Zealand
to an unfortunate director of a North-west passage, is he not the only
fit judge of capability?  From the sewers of London to the Central
Railway of India,--from the palaces of St Petersburg to the cabins of
Connaught, nothing can escape him.  Britons have but to read, to obey,
and be blessed.  None but the fools doubt the wisdom of _The Jupiter_;
none but the mad dispute its facts.

No established religion has ever been without its unbelievers, even
in the country where it is the most firmly fixed; no creed has been
without scoffers; no church has so prospered as to free itself
entirely from dissent.  There are those who doubt _The Jupiter_!
They live and breathe the upper air, walking here unscathed, though
scorned,--men, born of British mothers and nursed on English milk, who
scruple not to say that Mount Olympus has its price, that Tom Towers
can be bought for gold!

Such is Mount Olympus, the mouthpiece of all the wisdom of this great
country.  It may probably be said that no place in this 19th century
is more worthy of notice.  No treasury mandate armed with the
signatures of all the government has half the power of one of those
broad sheets, which fly forth from hence so abundantly, armed with no
signature at all.

Some great man, some mighty peer,--we'll say a noble duke,--retires to
rest feared and honoured by all his countrymen,--fearless himself; if
not a good man, at any rate a mighty man,--too mighty to care much
what men may say about his want of virtue.  He rises in the morning
degraded, mean, and miserable; an object of men's scorn, anxious only
to retire as quickly as may be to some German obscurity, some unseen
Italian privacy, or indeed, anywhere out of sight.  What has made this
awful change? what has so afflicted him?  An article has appeared in
_The Jupiter_; some fifty lines of a narrow column have destroyed all
his grace's equanimity, and banished him for ever from the world.
No man knows who wrote the bitter words; the clubs talk confusedly of
the matter, whispering to each other this and that name; while Tom
Towers walks quietly along Pall Mall, with his coat buttoned close
against the east wind, as though he were a mortal man, and not a god
dispensing thunderbolts from Mount Olympus.

It was not to Mount Olympus that our friend Bold betook himself.  He
had before now wandered round that lonely spot, thinking how grand a
thing it was to write articles for _The Jupiter_; considering within
himself whether by any stretch of the powers within him he could ever
come to such distinction; wondering how Tom Towers would take any
little humble offering of his talents; calculating that Tom Towers
himself must have once had a beginning, have once doubted as to
his own success.  Towers could not have been born a writer in _The
Jupiter_.  With such ideas, half ambitious and half awe-struck, had
Bold regarded the silent-looking workshop of the gods; but he had
never yet by word or sign attempted to influence the slightest word
of his unerring friend.  On such a course was he now intent; and not
without much inward palpitation did he betake himself to the quiet
abode of wisdom, where Tom Towers was to be found o' mornings inhaling
ambrosia and sipping nectar in the shape of toast and tea.

Not far removed from Mount Olympus, but somewhat nearer to the blessed
regions of the West, is the most favoured abode of Themis.  Washed by
the rich tide which now passes from the towers of Cæsar to Barry's
halls of eloquence; and again back, with new offerings of a city's
tribute, from the palaces of peers to the mart of merchants, stand
those quiet walls which Law has delighted to honour by its presence.
What a world within a world is the Temple! how quiet are its
"entangled walks," as someone lately has called them, and yet how
close to the densest concourse of humanity! how gravely respectable
its sober alleys, though removed but by a single step from the
profanity of the Strand and the low iniquity of Fleet Street!  Old
St Dunstan, with its bell-smiting bludgeoners, has been removed; the
ancient shops with their faces full of pleasant history are passing
away one by one; the bar itself is to go--its doom has been pronounced
by _The Jupiter_; rumour tells us of some huge building that is to
appear in these latitudes dedicated to law, subversive of the courts
of Westminster, and antagonistic to the Rolls and Lincoln's Inn; but
nothing yet threatens the silent beauty of the Temple: it is the
mediæval court of the metropolis.

Here, on the choicest spot of this choice ground, stands a lofty row
of chambers, looking obliquely upon the sullied Thames; before the
windows, the lawn of the Temple Gardens stretches with that dim yet
delicious verdure so refreshing to the eyes of Londoners.  If doomed
to live within the thickest of London smoke you would surely say that
that would be your chosen spot.  Yes, you, you whom I now address, my
dear, middle-aged bachelor friend, can nowhere be so well domiciled
as here.  No one here will ask whether you are out or at home; alone
or with friends; here no Sabbatarian will investigate your Sundays,
no censorious landlady will scrutinise your empty bottle, no
valetudinarian neighbour will complain of late hours.  If you love
books, to what place are books so suitable?  The whole spot is
redolent of typography.  Would you worship the Paphian goddess, the
groves of Cyprus are not more taciturn than those of the Temple.
Wit and wine are always here, and always together; the revels of the
Temple are as those of polished Greece, where the wildest worshipper
of Bacchus never forgot the dignity of the god whom he adored. Where
can retirement be so complete as here? where can you be so sure of all
the pleasures of society?

It was here that Tom Towers lived, and cultivated with eminent success
the tenth Muse who now governs the periodical press.  But let it not
be supposed that his chambers were such, or so comfortless, as are
frequently the gaunt abodes of legal aspirants.  Four chairs, a
half-filled deal book-case with hangings of dingy green baize, an old
office table covered with dusty papers, which are not moved once in
six months, and an older Pembroke brother with rickety legs, for all
daily uses; a despatcher for the preparation of lobsters and coffee,
and an apparatus for the cooking of toast and mutton chops; such
utensils and luxuries as these did not suffice for the well-being of
Tom Towers.  He indulged in four rooms on the first floor, each of
which was furnished, if not with the splendour, with probably more
than the comfort of Stafford House.  Every addition that science
and art have lately made to the luxuries of modern life was to be
found there.  The room in which he usually sat was surrounded by
book-shelves carefully filled; nor was there a volume there which was
not entitled to its place in such a collection, both by its intrinsic
worth and exterior splendour: a pretty portable set of steps in one
corner of the room showed that those even on the higher shelves were
intended for use.  The chamber contained but two works of art:--the
one, an admirable bust of Sir Robert Peel, by Power, declared the
individual politics of our friend; and the other, a singularly long
figure of a female devotee, by Millais, told equally plainly the
school of art to which he was addicted.  This picture was not hung,
as pictures usually are, against the wall; there was no inch of wall
vacant for such a purpose: it had a stand or desk erected for its own
accommodation; and there on her pedestal, framed and glazed, stood
the devotional lady looking intently at a lily as no lady ever looked
before.

Our modern artists, whom we style Pre-Raphaelites, have delighted
to go back, not only to the finish and peculiar manner, but also to
the subjects of the early painters.  It is impossible to give them
too much praise for the elaborate perseverance with which they have
equalled the minute perfections of the masters from whom they take
their inspiration: nothing probably can exceed the painting of some of
these latter-day pictures.  It is, however, singular into what faults
they fall as regards their subjects: they are not quite content to
take the old stock groups,--a Sebastian with his arrows, a Lucia with
her eyes in a dish, a Lorenzo with a gridiron, or the Virgin with two
children.  But they are anything but happy in their change.  As a
rule, no figure should be drawn in a position which it is impossible
to suppose any figure should maintain.  The patient endurance of St
Sebastian, the wild ecstasy of St John in the Wilderness, the maternal
love of the Virgin, are feelings naturally portrayed by a fixed
posture; but the lady with the stiff back and bent neck, who looks at
her flower, and is still looking from hour to hour, gives us an idea
of pain without grace, and abstraction without a cause.

It was easy, from his rooms, to see that Tom Towers was a Sybarite,
though by no means an idle one.  He was lingering over his last cup of
tea, surrounded by an ocean of newspapers, through which he had been
swimming, when John Bold's card was brought in by his tiger.  This
tiger never knew that his master was at home, though he often knew
that he was not, and thus Tom Towers was never invaded but by his
own consent.  On this occasion, after twisting the card twice in his
fingers, he signified to his attendant imp that he was visible; and
the inner door was unbolted, and our friend announced.

I have before said that he of _The Jupiter_ and John Bold were
intimate.  There was no very great difference in their ages, for
Towers was still considerably under forty; and when Bold had been
attending the London hospitals, Towers, who was not then the great man
that he had since become, had been much with him.  Then they had often
discussed together the objects of their ambition and future prospects;
then Tom Towers was struggling hard to maintain himself, as a
briefless barrister, by shorthand reporting for any of the papers that
would engage him; then he had not dared to dream of writing leaders
for _The Jupiter_, or canvassing the conduct of Cabinet ministers.
Things had altered since that time: the briefless barrister was still
briefless, but he now despised briefs: could he have been sure of a
judge's seat, he would hardly have left his present career.  It is
true he wore no ermine, bore no outward marks of a world's respect;
but with what a load of inward importance was he charged!  It is true
his name appeared in no large capitals; on no wall was chalked up "Tom
Towers for ever;"--"Freedom of the Press and Tom Towers;" but what
member of Parliament had half his power?  It is true that in far-off
provinces men did not talk daily of Tom Towers but they read _The
Jupiter_, and acknowledged that without _The Jupiter_ life was not
worth having.  This kind of hidden but still conscious glory suited
the nature of the man.  He loved to sit silent in a corner of his club
and listen to the loud chattering of politicians, and to think how
they all were in his power;--how he could smite the loudest of them,
were it worth his while to raise his pen for such a purpose.  He loved
to watch the great men of whom he daily wrote, and flatter himself
that he was greater than any of them.  Each of them was responsible to
his country, each of them must answer if inquired into, each of them
must endure abuse with good humour, and insolence without anger.  But
to whom was he, Tom Towers, responsible?  No one could insult him;
no one could inquire into him.  He could speak out withering words,
and no one could answer him: ministers courted him, though perhaps
they knew not his name; bishops feared him; judges doubted their own
verdicts unless he confirmed them; and generals, in their councils of
war, did not consider more deeply what the enemy would do, than what
_The Jupiter_ would say. Tom Towers never boasted of _The Jupiter_;
he scarcely ever named the paper even to the most intimate of his
friends; he did not even wish to be spoken of as connected with it;
but he did not the less value his privileges, or think the less of his
own importance.  It is probable that Tom Towers considered himself
the most powerful man in Europe; and so he walked on from day to day,
studiously striving to look a man, but knowing within his breast that
he was a god.




Chapter XV

TOM TOWERS, DR ANTICANT, AND MR SENTIMENT


"Ah, Bold! how are you?  You haven't breakfasted?"

"Oh yes, hours ago.  And how are you?"

When one Esquimau meets another, do the two, as an invariable rule,
ask after each other's health? is it inherent in all human nature to
make this obliging inquiry?  Did any reader of this tale ever meet
any friend or acquaintance without asking some such question, and did
anyone ever listen to the reply?  Sometimes a studiously courteous
questioner will show so much thought in the matter as to answer it
himself, by declaring that had he looked at you he needn't have asked;
meaning thereby to signify that you are an absolute personification of
health: but such persons are only those who premeditate small effects.

"I suppose you're busy?" inquired Bold.

"Why, yes, rather;--or I should say rather not.  If I have a leisure
hour in the day, this is it."

"I want to ask you if you can oblige me in a certain matter."

Towers understood in a moment, from the tone of his friend's voice,
that the certain matter referred to the newspaper.  He smiled, and
nodded his head, but made no promise.

"You know this lawsuit that I've been engaged in," said Bold.

Tom Towers intimated that he was aware of the action which was pending
about the hospital.

"Well, I've abandoned it."

Tom Towers merely raised his eyebrows, thrust his hands into his
trowsers pockets, and waited for his friend to proceed.

"Yes, I've given it up.  I needn't trouble you with all the history;
but the fact is that the conduct of Mr Harding--Mr Harding is the--"

"Oh yes, the master of the place; the man who takes all the money and
does nothing," said Tom Towers, interrupting him.

"Well, I don't know about that; but his conduct in the matter has been
so excellent, so little selfish, so open, that I cannot proceed in the
matter to his detriment."  Bold's heart misgave him as to Eleanor as
he said this; and yet he felt that what he said was not untrue.  "I
think nothing should now be done till the wardenship be vacant."

"And be again filled," said Towers, "as it certainly would, before
anyone heard of the vacancy; and the same objection would again exist.
It's an old story, that of the vested rights of the incumbent; but
suppose the incumbent has only a vested wrong, and that the poor of
the town have a vested right, if they only knew how to get at it: is
not that something the case here?"

Bold couldn't deny it, but thought it was one of those cases which
required a good deal of management before any real good could be done.
It was a pity that he had not considered this before he crept into the
lion's mouth, in the shape of an attorney's office.

"It will cost you a good deal, I fear," said Towers.

"A few hundreds," said Bold--"perhaps three hundred; I can't help
that, and am prepared for it."

"That's philosophical.  It's quite refreshing to hear a man talking of
his hundreds in so purely indifferent a manner.  But I'm sorry you are
giving the matter up.  It injures a man to commence a thing of this
kind, and not carry it through.  Have you seen that?" and he threw
a small pamphlet across the table, which was all but damp from the
press.

Bold had not seen it nor heard of it; but he was well acquainted with
the author of it,--a gentleman whose pamphlets, condemnatory of all
things in these modern days, had been a good deal talked about of
late.

Dr Pessimist Anticant was a Scotchman, who had passed a great portion
of his early days in Germany; he had studied there with much effect,
and had learnt to look with German subtilty into the root of things,
and to examine for himself their intrinsic worth and worthlessness.
No man ever resolved more bravely than he to accept as good nothing
that was evil; to banish from him as evil nothing that was good.  'Tis
a pity that he should not have recognised the fact, that in this world
no good is unalloyed, and that there is but little evil that has not
in it some seed of what is goodly.

Returning from Germany, he had astonished the reading public by the
vigour of his thoughts, put forth in the quaintest language.  He
cannot write English, said the critics.  No matter, said the public;
we can read what he does write, and that without yawning.  And so Dr
Pessimist Anticant became popular.  Popularity spoilt him for all
further real use, as it has done many another.  While, with some
diffidence, he confined his objurgations to the occasional follies or
shortcomings of mankind; while he ridiculed the energy of the squire
devoted to the slaughter of partridges, or the mistake of some noble
patron who turned a poet into a gauger of beer-barrels, it was all
well; we were glad to be told our faults and to look forward to the
coming millennium, when all men, having sufficiently studied the works
of Dr Anticant, would become truthful and energetic.  But the doctor
mistook the signs of the times and the minds of men, instituted
himself censor of things in general, and began the great task of
reprobating everything and everybody, without further promise of any
millennium at all.  This was not so well; and, to tell the truth, our
author did not succeed in his undertaking.  His theories were all
beautiful, and the code of morals that he taught us certainly an
improvement on the practices of the age.  We all of us could, and many
of us did, learn much from the doctor while he chose to remain vague,
mysterious, and cloudy: but when he became practical, the charm was
gone.

His allusion to the poet and the partridges was received very well.
"Oh, my poor brother," said he, "slaughtered partridges a score of
brace to each gun, and poets gauging ale-barrels, with sixty pounds a
year, at Dumfries, are not the signs of a great era!--perhaps of the
smallest possible era yet written of.  Whatever economies we pursue,
political or other, let us see at once that this is the maddest of the
uneconomic: partridges killed by our land magnates at, shall we say,
a guinea a head, to be retailed in Leadenhall at one shilling and
ninepence, with one poacher in limbo for every fifty birds! our poet,
maker, creator, gauging ale, and that badly, with no leisure for
making or creating, only a little leisure for drinking, and such like
beer-barrel avocations!  Truly, a cutting of blocks with fine razors
while we scrape our chins so uncomfortably with rusty knives!  Oh, my
political economist, master of supply and demand, division of labour
and high pressure--oh, my loud-speaking friend, tell me, if so much
be in you, what is the demand for poets in these kingdoms of Queen
Victoria, and what the vouchsafed supply?"

This was all very well: this gave us some hope.  We might do better
with our next poet, when we got one; and though the partridges might
not be abandoned, something could perhaps be done as to the poachers.
We were unwilling, however, to take lessons in politics from so
misty a professor; and when he came to tell us that the heroes of
Westminster were naught, we began to think that he had written enough.
His attack upon despatch boxes was not thought to have much in it;
but as it is short, the doctor shall again be allowed to speak his
sentiments.


   Could utmost ingenuity in the management of red tape avail
   anything to men lying gasping,--we may say, all but dead;
   could despatch boxes with never-so-much velvet lining and
   Chubb's patent be of comfort to a people _in extremis_, I
   also, with so many others, would, with parched tongue, call
   on the name of Lord John Russell; or, my brother, at your
   advice, on Lord Aberdeen; or, my cousin, on Lord Derby, at
   yours; being, with my parched tongue, indifferent to such
   matters.  'Tis all one.  Oh, Derby!  Oh, Gladstone!  Oh,
   Palmerston!  Oh, Lord John!  Each comes running with serene
   face and despatch box.  Vain physicians! though there were
   hosts of such, no despatch box will cure this disorder!
   What! are there other doctors' new names, disciples who
   have not burdened their souls with tape?  Well, let us call
   again.  Oh, Disraeli, great oppositionist, man of the bitter
   brow! or, Oh, Molesworth, great reformer, thou who promisest
   Utopia.  They come; each with that serene face, and each,--
   alas, me! alas, my country!--each with a despatch box!

   Oh, the serenity of Downing Street!

   My brothers, when hope was over on the battle-field, when no
   dimmest chance of victory remained, the ancient Roman could
   hide his face within his toga, and die gracefully.  Can you
   and I do so now?  If so, 'twere best for us; if not, oh my
   brothers, we must die disgracefully, for hope of life and
   victory I see none left to us in this world below.  I for
   one cannot trust much to serene face and despatch box!


There might be truth in this, there might be depth of reasoning;
but Englishmen did not see enough in the argument to induce them
to withdraw their confidence from the present arrangements of the
government, and Dr Anticant's monthly pamphlet on the decay of the
world did not receive so much attention as his earlier works.  He did
not confine himself to politics in these publications, but roamed at
large over all matters of public interest, and found everything bad.
According to him nobody was true, and not only nobody, but nothing; a
man could not take off his hat to a lady without telling a lie;--the
lady would lie again in smiling.  The ruffles of the gentleman's
shirt would be fraught with deceit, and the lady's flounces full of
falsehood.  Was ever anything more severe than that attack of his on
chip bonnets, or the anathemas with which he endeavoured to dust the
powder out of the bishops' wigs?

The pamphlet which Tom Towers now pushed across the table was entitled
"Modern Charity," and was written with the view of proving how much in
the way of charity was done by our predecessors,--how little by the
present age; and it ended by a comparison between ancient and modern
times, very little to the credit of the latter.

"Look at this," said Towers, getting up and turning over the pages of
the pamphlet, and pointing to a passage near the end.  "Your friend
the warden, who is so little selfish, won't like that, I fear."  Bold
read as follows--


   Heavens, what a sight!  Let us with eyes wide open see the
   godly man of four centuries since, the man of the dark ages;
   let us see how he does his godlike work, and, again, how the
   godly man of these latter days does his.

   Shall we say that the former is one walking painfully
   through the world, regarding, as a prudent man, his worldly
   work, prospering in it as a diligent man will prosper, but
   always with an eye to that better treasure to which thieves
   do not creep in?  Is there not much nobility in that old
   man, as, leaning on his oaken staff, he walks down the High
   Street of his native town, and receives from all courteous
   salutation and acknowledgment of his worth?  A noble old
   man, my august inhabitants of Belgrave Square and such like
   vicinity,--a very noble old man, though employed no better
   than in the wholesale carding of wool.

   This carding of wool, however, did in those days bring with
   it much profit, so that our ancient friend, when dying,
   was declared, in whatever slang then prevailed, to cut up
   exceeding well.  For sons and daughters there was ample
   sustenance with assistance of due industry; for friends and
   relatives some relief for grief at this great loss; for aged
   dependents comfort in declining years.  This was much for
   one old man to get done in that dark fifteenth century.  But
   this was not all: coming generations of poor wool-carders
   should bless the name of this rich one; and a hospital
   should be founded and endowed with his wealth for the
   feeding of such of the trade as could not, by diligent
   carding, any longer duly feed themselves.

   'Twas thus that an old man in the fifteenth century did his
   godlike work to the best of his power, and not ignobly, as
   appears to me.

   We will now take our godly man of latter days.  He shall no
   longer be a wool-carder, for such are not now men of mark.
   We will suppose him to be one of the best of the good, one
   who has lacked no opportunities.  Our old friend was, after
   all, but illiterate; our modern friend shall be a man
   educated in all seemly knowledge; he shall, in short, be
   that blessed being,--a clergyman of the Church of England!

   And now, in what perfectest manner does he in this lower
   world get his godlike work done and put out of hand?
   Heavens! in the strangest of manners.  Oh, my brother! in a
   manner not at all to be believed, but by the most minute
   testimony of eyesight.  He does it by the magnitude of his
   appetite,--by the power of his gorge; his only occupation is
   to swallow the bread prepared with so much anxious care for
   these impoverished carders of wool,--that, and to sing
   indifferently through his nose once in the week some psalm
   more or less long,--the shorter the better, we should be
   inclined to say.

   Oh, my civilised friends!--great Britons that never will be
   slaves, men advanced to infinite state of freedom and
   knowledge of good and evil;--tell me, will you, what
   becoming monument you will erect to an highly-educated
   clergyman of the Church of England?


Bold certainly thought that his friend would not like that: he could
not conceive anything that he would like less than this.  To what a
world of toil and trouble had he, Bold, given rise by his indiscreet
attack upon the hospital!

"You see," said Towers, "that this affair has been much talked of, and
the public are with you.  I am sorry you should give the matter up.
Have you seen the first number of 'The Almshouse'?"

No; Bold had not seen "The Almshouse."  He had seen advertisements
of Mr Popular Sentiment's new novel of that name, but had in no way
connected it with Barchester Hospital, and had never thought a moment
on the subject.

"It's a direct attack on the whole system," said Towers.  "It'll go
a long way to put down Rochester, and Barchester, and Dulwich, and
St Cross, and all such hotbeds of peculation.  It's very clear that
Sentiment has been down to Barchester, and got up the whole story
there; indeed, I thought he must have had it all from you; it's very
well done, as you'll see: his first numbers always are."

Bold declared that Mr Sentiment had got nothing from him, and that he
was deeply grieved to find that the case had become so notorious.

"The fire has gone too far to be quenched," said Towers; "the building
must go now; and as the timbers are all rotten, why, I should be
inclined to say, the sooner the better.  I expected to see you get
some _éclat_ in the matter."

This was all wormwood to Bold.  He had done enough to make his friend
the warden miserable for life, and had then backed out just when the
success of his project was sufficient to make the question one of real
interest.  How weakly he had managed his business! he had already
done the harm, and then stayed his hand when the good which he had in
view was to be commenced.  How delightful would it have been to have
employed all his energy in such a cause,--to have been backed by _The
Jupiter_, and written up to by two of the most popular authors of the
day!  The idea opened a view into the very world in which he wished
to live.  To what might it not have given rise? what delightful
intimacies,--what public praise,--to what Athenian banquets and rich
flavour of Attic salt?

This, however, was now past hope.  He had pledged himself to abandon
the cause; and could he have forgotten the pledge, he had gone too far
to retreat.  He was now, this moment, sitting in Tom Towers' room with
the object of deprecating any further articles in _The Jupiter_, and,
greatly as he disliked the job, his petition to that effect must be
made.

"I couldn't continue it," said he, "because I found I was in the
wrong."

Tom Towers shrugged his shoulders.  How could a successful man be in
the wrong!  "In that case," said he, "of course you must abandon it."

"And I called this morning to ask you also to abandon it," said Bold.

"To ask me," said Tom Towers, with the most placid of smiles, and a
consummate look of gentle surprise, as though Tom Towers was well
aware that he of all men was the last to meddle in such matters.

"Yes," said Bold, almost trembling with hesitation.  "_The Jupiter_,
you know, has taken the matter up very strongly.  Mr Harding has felt
what it has said deeply; and I thought that if I could explain to you
that he personally has not been to blame, these articles might be
discontinued."

How calmly impassive was Tom Towers' face, as this innocent little
proposition was made!  Had Bold addressed himself to the doorposts in
Mount Olympus, they would have shown as much outward sign of assent or
dissent.  His quiescence was quite admirable; his discretion certainly
more than human.

"My dear fellow," said he, when Bold had quite done speaking, "I
really cannot answer for _The Jupiter_."

"But if you saw that these articles were unjust, I think that you
would endeavour to put a stop to them.  Of course nobody doubts that
you could, if you chose."

"Nobody and everybody are always very kind, but unfortunately are
generally very wrong."

"Come, come, Towers," said Bold, plucking up his courage, and
remembering that for Eleanor's sake he was bound to make his best
exertion; "I have no doubt in my own mind but that you wrote the
articles yourself, and very well written they were: it will be a great
favour if you will in future abstain from any personal allusion to
poor Harding."

"My dear Bold," said Tom Towers, "I have a sincere regard for you.
I have known you for many years, and value your friendship; I hope
you will let me explain to you, without offence, that none who
are connected with the public press can with propriety listen to
interference."

"Interference!" said Bold, "I don't want to interfere."

"Ah, but, my dear fellow, you do; what else is it?  You think that I
am able to keep certain remarks out of a newspaper.  Your information
is probably incorrect, as most public gossip on such subjects is; but,
at any rate, you think I have such power, and you ask me to use it:
now that is interference."

"Well, if you choose to call it so."

"And now suppose for a moment that I had this power, and used it as
you wish: isn't it clear that it would be a great abuse?  Certain men
are employed in writing for the public press; and if they are induced
either to write or to abstain from writing by private motives,
surely the public press would soon be of little value.  Look at the
recognised worth of different newspapers, and see if it does not
mainly depend on the assurance which the public feel that such a paper
is, or is not, independent.  You alluded to _The Jupiter_: surely you
cannot but see that the weight of _The Jupiter_ is too great to be
moved by any private request, even though it should be made to a much
more influential person than myself: you've only to think of this, and
you'll see that I am right."

The discretion of Tom Towers was boundless: there was no contradicting
what he said, no arguing against such propositions.  He took such high
ground that there was no getting on to it.  "The public is defrauded,"
said he, "whenever private considerations are allowed to have weight."
Quite true, thou greatest oracle of the middle of the nineteenth
century, thou sententious proclaimer of the purity of the press;--the
public is defrauded when it is purposely misled.  Poor public! how
often is it misled! against what a world of fraud has it to contend!

Bold took his leave, and got out of the room as quickly as he could,
inwardly denouncing his friend Tom Towers as a prig and a humbug.  "I
know he wrote those articles," said Bold to himself.  "I know he got
his information from me.  He was ready enough to take my word for
gospel when it suited his own views, and to set Mr Harding up before
the public as an impostor on no other testimony than my chance
conversation; but when I offer him real evidence opposed to his own
views, he tells me that private motives are detrimental to public
justice!  Confound his arrogance!  What is any public question but a
conglomeration of private interests?  What is any newspaper article
but an expression of the views taken by one side?  Truth! it takes an
age to ascertain the truth of any question!  The idea of Tom Towers
talking of public motives and purity of purpose!  Why, it wouldn't
give him a moment's uneasiness to change his politics to-morrow, if
the paper required it."

Such were John Bold's inward exclamations as he made his way out of
the quiet labyrinth of the Temple; and yet there was no position of
worldly power so coveted in Bold's ambition as that held by the man of
whom he was thinking.  It was the impregnability of the place which
made Bold so angry with the possessor of it, and it was the same
quality which made it appear so desirable.

Passing into the Strand, he saw in a bookseller's window an
announcement of the first number of "The Almshouse;" so he purchased a
copy, and hurrying back to his lodgings, proceeded to ascertain what
Mr Popular Sentiment had to say to the public on the subject which had
lately occupied so much of his own attention.

In former times great objects were attained by great work. When evils
were to be reformed, reformers set about their heavy task with grave
decorum and laborious argument.  An age was occupied in proving a
grievance, and philosophical researches were printed in folio pages,
which it took a life to write, and an eternity to read.  We get on
now with a lighter step, and quicker: ridicule is found to be more
convincing than argument, imaginary agonies touch more than true
sorrows, and monthly novels convince, when learned quartos fail to
do so.  If the world is to be set right, the work will be done by
shilling numbers.

Of all such reformers Mr Sentiment is the most powerful.  It is
incredible the number of evil practices he has put down: it is to
be feared he will soon lack subjects, and that when he has made the
working classes comfortable, and got bitter beer put into proper-sized
pint bottles, there will be nothing further for him left to do.  Mr
Sentiment is certainly a very powerful man, and perhaps not the less
so that his good poor people are so very good; his hard rich people
so very hard; and the genuinely honest so very honest.  Namby-pamby
in these days is not thrown away if it be introduced in the proper
quarters.  Divine peeresses are no longer interesting, though
possessed of every virtue; but a pattern peasant or an immaculate
manufacturing hero may talk as much twaddle as one of Mrs Ratcliffe's
heroines, and still be listened to.  Perhaps, however, Mr Sentiment's
great attraction is in his second-rate characters.  If his heroes and
heroines walk upon stilts, as heroes and heroines, I fear, ever must,
their attendant satellites are as natural as though one met them in
the street: they walk and talk like men and women, and live among our
friends a rattling, lively life; yes, live, and will live till the
names of their calling shall be forgotten in their own, and Buckett
and Mrs Gamp will be the only words left to us to signify a detective
police officer or a monthly nurse.

"The Almshouse" opened with a scene in a clergyman's house. Every
luxury to be purchased by wealth was described as being there: all the
appearances of household indulgence generally found amongst the most
self-indulgent of the rich were crowded into this abode.  Here the
reader was introduced to the demon of the book, the Mephistopheles of
the drama.  What story was ever written without a demon?  What novel,
what history, what work of any sort, what world, would be perfect
without existing principles both of good and evil?  The demon of "The
Almshouse" was the clerical owner of this comfortable abode.  He was
a man well stricken in years, but still strong to do evil: he was one
who looked cruelly out of a hot, passionate, bloodshot eye; who had a
huge red nose with a carbuncle, thick lips, and a great double, flabby
chin, which swelled out into solid substance, like a turkey-cock's
comb, when sudden anger inspired him: he had a hot, furrowed, low
brow, from which a few grizzled hairs were not yet rubbed off by
the friction of his handkerchief: he wore a loose unstarched white
handkerchief, black loose ill-made clothes, and huge loose shoes,
adapted to many corns and various bunions: his husky voice told
tales of much daily port wine, and his language was not so decorous
as became a clergyman.  Such was the master of Mr Sentiment's
"Almshouse."  He was a widower, but at present accompanied by two
daughters, and a thin and somewhat insipid curate.  One of the young
ladies was devoted to her father and the fashionable world, and she of
course was the favourite; the other was equally addicted to Puseyism
and the curate.

The second chapter of course introduced the reader to the more
especial inmates of the hospital.  Here were discovered eight old
men; and it was given to be understood that four vacancies remained
unfilled, through the perverse ill-nature of the clerical gentleman
with the double chin.  The state of these eight paupers was touchingly
dreadful: sixpence-farthing a day had been sufficient for their diet
when the almshouse was founded; and on sixpence-farthing a day were
they still doomed to starve, though food was four times as dear,
and money four times as plentiful.  It was shocking to find how the
conversation of these eight starved old men in their dormitory shamed
that of the clergyman's family in his rich drawing-room.  The absolute
words they uttered were not perhaps spoken in the purest English, and
it might be difficult to distinguish from their dialect to what part
of the country they belonged; the beauty of the sentiment, however,
amply atoned for the imperfection of the language; and it was really a
pity that these eight old men could not be sent through the country as
moral missionaries, instead of being immured and starved in that
wretched almshouse.

Bold finished the number; and as he threw it aside, he thought that
that at least had no direct appliance to Mr Harding, and that the
absurdly strong colouring of the picture would disenable the work from
doing either good or harm.  He was wrong.  The artist who paints for
the million must use glaring colours, as no one knew better than Mr
Sentiment when he described the inhabitants of his almshouse; and the
radical reform which has now swept over such establishments has owed
more to the twenty numbers of Mr Sentiment's novel, than to all the
true complaints which have escaped from the public for the last half
century.




Chapter XVI

A LONG DAY IN LONDON


The warden had to make use of all his very moderate powers of intrigue
to give his son-in-law the slip, and get out of Barchester without
being stopped on his road.  No schoolboy ever ran away from school
with more precaution and more dread of detection; no convict, slipping
down from a prison wall, ever feared to see the gaoler more entirely
than Mr Harding did to see his son-in-law as he drove up in the pony
carriage to the railway station, on the morning of his escape to
London.

The evening before he went he wrote a note to the archdeacon,
explaining that he should start on the morrow on his journey; that
it was his intention to see the attorney-general if possible, and to
decide on his future plans in accordance with what he heard from that
gentleman; he excused himself for giving Dr Grantly no earlier notice,
by stating that his resolve was very sudden; and having entrusted this
note to Eleanor, with the perfect, though not expressed, understanding
that it was to be sent over to Plumstead Episcopi without haste, he
took his departure.

He also prepared and carried with him a note for Sir Abraham
Haphazard, in which he stated his name, explaining that he was the
defendant in the case of "The Queen on behalf of the Wool-carders of
Barchester _v_. Trustees under the will of the late John Hiram," for
so was the suit denominated, and begged the illustrious and learned
gentleman to vouchsafe to him ten minutes' audience at any hour on the
next day.  Mr Harding calculated that for that one day he was safe;
his son-in-law, he had no doubt, would arrive in town by an early
train, but not early enough to reach the truant till he should have
escaped from his hotel after breakfast; and could he thus manage to
see the lawyer on that very day, the deed might be done before the
archdeacon could interfere.

On his arrival in town the warden drove, as was his wont, to the
Chapter Hotel and Coffee House, near St Paul's.  His visits to London
of late had not been frequent; but in those happy days when "Harding's
Church Music" was going through the press, he had been often there;
and as the publisher's house was in Paternoster Row, and the printer's
press in Fleet Street, the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House had been
convenient.  It was a quiet, sombre, clerical house, beseeming such
a man as the warden, and thus he afterwards frequented it.  Had he
dared, he would on this occasion have gone elsewhere to throw the
archdeacon further off the scent; but he did not know what violent
steps his son-in-law might take for his recovery if he were not found
at his usual haunt, and he deemed it not prudent to make himself the
object of a hunt through London.

Arrived at his inn, he ordered dinner, and went forth to the
attorney-general's chambers.  There he learnt that Sir Abraham was in
Court, and would not probably return that day.  He would go direct
from Court to the House; all appointments were, as a rule, made at the
chambers; the clerk could by no means promise an interview for the
next day; was able, on the other hand, to say that such interview was,
he thought, impossible; but that Sir Abraham would certainly be at the
House in the course of the night, where an answer from himself might
possibly be elicited.

To the House Mr Harding went, and left his note, not finding Sir
Abraham there.  He added a most piteous entreaty that he might be
favoured with an answer that evening, for which he would return.  He
then journeyed back sadly to the Chapter Coffee House, digesting his
great thoughts, as best he might, in a clattering omnibus, wedged in
between a wet old lady and a journeyman glazier returning from his
work with his tools in his lap.  In melancholy solitude he discussed
his mutton chop and pint of port.  What is there in this world more
melancholy than such a dinner?  A dinner, though eaten alone, in a
country hotel may be worthy of some energy; the waiter, if you are
known, will make much of you; the landlord will make you a bow and
perhaps put the fish on the table; if you ring you are attended to,
and there is some life about it.  A dinner at a London eating-house is
also lively enough, if it have no other attraction.  There is plenty
of noise and stir about it, and the rapid whirl of voices and rattle
of dishes disperses sadness.  But a solitary dinner in an old,
respectable, sombre, solid London inn, where nothing makes any noise
but the old waiter's creaking shoes; where one plate slowly goes and
another slowly comes without a sound; where the two or three guests
would as soon think of knocking each other down as of speaking; where
the servants whisper, and the whole household is disturbed if an order
be given above the voice,--what can be more melancholy than a mutton
chop and a pint of port in such a place?

Having gone through this Mr Harding got into another omnibus, and
again returned to the House.  Yes, Sir Abraham was there, and was
that moment on his legs, fighting eagerly for the hundred and seventh
clause of the Convent Custody Bill.  Mr Harding's note had been
delivered to him; and if Mr Harding would wait some two or three
hours, Sir Abraham could be asked whether there was any answer.
The House was not full, and perhaps Mr Harding might get admittance
into the Strangers' Gallery, which admission, with the help of five
shillings, Mr Harding was able to effect.

This bill of Sir Abraham's had been read a second time and passed into
committee.  A hundred and six clauses had already been discussed and
had occupied only four mornings and five evening sittings; nine of
the hundred and six clauses were passed, fifty-five were withdrawn
by consent, fourteen had been altered so as to mean the reverse of
the original proposition, eleven had been postponed for further
consideration, and seventeen had been directly negatived.  The hundred
and seventh ordered the bodily searching of nuns for jesuitical
symbols by aged clergymen, and was considered to be the real mainstay
of the whole bill.  No intention had ever existed to pass such a law
as that proposed, but the government did not intend to abandon it
till their object was fully attained by the discussion of this clause.
It was known that it would be insisted on with terrible vehemence by
Protestant Irish members, and as vehemently denounced by the Roman
Catholic; and it was justly considered that no further union between
the parties would be possible after such a battle.  The innocent Irish
fell into the trap as they always do, and whiskey and poplins became a
drug in the market.

A florid-faced gentleman with a nice head of hair, from the south of
Ireland, had succeeded in catching the speaker's eye by the time that
Mr Harding had got into the gallery, and was denouncing the proposed
sacrilege, his whole face glowing with a fine theatrical frenzy.

"And this is a Christian country?" said he.  (Loud cheers; counter
cheers from the ministerial benches.  "Some doubt as to that," from
a voice below the gangway.)  "No, it can be no Christian country,
in which the head of the bar, the lagal adviser (loud laughter and
cheers)--yes, I say the lagal adviser of the crown (great cheers and
laughter)--can stand up in his seat in this house (prolonged cheers
and laughter), and attempt to lagalise indacent assaults on the bodies
of religious ladies."  (Deafening cheers and laughter, which were
prolonged till the honourable member resumed his seat.)

When Mr Harding had listened to this and much more of the same kind
for about three hours, he returned to the door of the House, and
received back from the messenger his own note, with the following
words scrawled in pencil on the back of it: "To-morrow, 10 P.M.--my
chambers.--A.  H."

He was so far successful;--but 10 P.M.: what an hour Sir Abraham had
named for a legal interview!  Mr Harding felt perfectly sure that long
before that Dr Grantly would be in London.  Dr Grantly could not,
however, know that this interview had been arranged, nor could he
learn it unless he managed to get hold of Sir Abraham before that
hour; and as this was very improbable, Mr Harding determined to
start from his hotel early, merely leaving word that he should dine
out, and unless luck were much against him, he might still escape the
archdeacon till his return from the attorney-general's chambers.

He was at breakfast at nine, and for the twentieth time consulted his
Bradshaw, to see at what earliest hour Dr Grantly could arrive from
Barchester.  As he examined the columns, he was nearly petrified
by the reflection that perhaps the archdeacon might come up by the
night-mail train!  His heart sank within him at the horrid idea,
and for a moment he felt himself dragged back to Barchester without
accomplishing any portion of his object.  Then he remembered that had
Dr Grantly done so, he would have been in the hotel, looking for him
long since.

"Waiter," said he, timidly.

The waiter approached, creaking in his shoes, but voiceless.

"Did any gentleman,--a clergyman, arrive here by the night-mail
train?"

"No, sir, not one," whispered the waiter, putting his mouth nearly
close to the warden's ear.

Mr Harding was reassured.

"Waiter," said he again, and the waiter again creaked up.  "If anyone
calls for me, I am going to dine out, and shall return about eleven
o'clock."

The waiter nodded, but did not this time vouchsafe any reply; and Mr
Harding, taking up his hat, proceeded out to pass a long day in the
best way he could, somewhere out of sight of the archdeacon.

Bradshaw had told him twenty times that Dr Grantly could not be at
Paddington station till 2 P.M., and our poor friend might therefore
have trusted to the shelter of the hotel for some hours longer with
perfect safety; but he was nervous.  There was no knowing what steps
the archdeacon might take for his apprehension: a message by electric
telegraph might desire the landlord of the hotel to set a watch upon
him; some letter might come which he might find himself unable to
disobey; at any rate, he could not feel himself secure in any place
at which the archdeacon could expect to find him; and at 10 A.M. he
started forth to spend twelve hours in London.

Mr Harding had friends in town had he chosen to seek them; but he felt
that he was in no humour for ordinary calls, and he did not now wish
to consult with anyone as to the great step which he had determined
to take.  As he had said to his daughter, no one knows where the shoe
pinches but the wearer.  There are some points on which no man can be
contented to follow the advice of another,--some subjects on which
a man can consult his own conscience only.  Our warden had made up
his mind that it was good for him at any cost to get rid of this
grievance; his daughter was the only person whose concurrence appeared
necessary to him, and she did concur with him most heartily.  Under
such circumstances he would not, if he could help it, consult anyone
further, till advice would be useless.  Should the archdeacon catch
him, indeed, there would be much advice, and much consultation of a
kind not to be avoided; but he hoped better things; and as he felt
that he could not now converse on indifferent subjects, he resolved
to see no one till after his interview with the attorney-general.

He determined to take sanctuary in Westminster Abbey, so he again went
thither in an omnibus, and finding that the doors were not open for
morning service, he paid his twopence, and went in as a sightseer.
It occurred to him that he had no definite place of rest for the day,
and that he should be absolutely worn out before his interview if he
attempted to walk about from 10 A.M. to 10 P.M., so he sat himself
down on a stone step, and gazed up at the figure of William Pitt, who
looks as though he had just entered the church for the first time in
his life and was anything but pleased at finding himself there.

He had been sitting unmolested about twenty minutes when the verger
asked him whether he wouldn't like to walk round. Mr Harding didn't
want to walk anywhere, and declined, merely observing that he was
waiting for the morning service.  The verger, seeing that he was a
clergyman, told him that the doors of the choir were now open, and
showed him into a seat.  This was a great point gained; the archdeacon
would certainly not come to morning service at Westminster Abbey, even
though he were in London; and here the warden could rest quietly, and,
when the time came, duly say his prayers.

He longed to get up from his seat, and examine the music-books of the
choristers, and the copy of the litany from which the service was
chanted, to see how far the little details at Westminster corresponded
with those at Barchester, and whether he thought his own voice would
fill the church well from the Westminster precentor's seat.  There
would, however, be impropriety in such meddling, and he sat perfectly
still, looking up at the noble roof, and guarding against the coming
fatigues of the day.

By degrees two or three people entered; the very same damp old woman
who had nearly obliterated him in the omnibus, or some other just like
her; a couple of young ladies with their veils down, and gilt crosses
conspicuous on their prayer-books; an old man on crutches; a party who
were seeing the abbey, and thought they might as well hear the service
for their twopence, as opportunity served; and a young woman with her
prayer-book done up in her handkerchief, who rushed in late, and, in
her hurried entry, tumbled over one of the forms, and made such a
noise that everyone, even the officiating minor canon, was startled,
and she herself was so frightened by the echo of her own catastrophe
that she was nearly thrown into fits by the panic.

Mr Harding was not much edified by the manner of the service.  The
minor canon in question hurried in, somewhat late, in a surplice not
in the neatest order, and was followed by a dozen choristers, who were
also not as trim as they might have been: they all jostled into their
places with a quick hurried step, and the service was soon commenced.
Soon commenced and soon over,--for there was no music, and time was
not unnecessarily lost in the chanting.  On the whole Mr Harding was
of opinion that things were managed better at Barchester, though even
there he knew that there was room for improvement.

It appears to us a question whether any clergyman can go through our
church service with decorum, morning after morning, in an immense
building, surrounded by not more than a dozen listeners.  The best
actors cannot act well before empty benches, and though there is, of
course, a higher motive in one case than the other, still even the
best of clergymen cannot but be influenced by their audience; and to
expect that a duty should be well done under such circumstances, would
be to require from human nature more than human power.

When the two ladies with the gilt crosses, the old man with his
crutch, and the still palpitating housemaid were going, Mr Harding
found himself obliged to go too.  The verger stood in his way, and
looked at him and looked at the door, and so he went.  But he returned
again in a few minutes, and re-entered with another twopence.  There
was no other sanctuary so good for him.

As he walked slowly down the nave, and then up one aisle, and then
again down the nave and up the other aisle, he tried to think gravely
of the step he was about to take.  He was going to give up eight
hundred a year voluntarily; and doom himself to live for the rest of
his life on about a hundred and fifty.  He knew that he had hitherto
failed to realise this fact as he ought to do.  Could he maintain
his own independence and support his daughter on a hundred and fifty
pounds a year without being a burden on anyone?  His son-in-law was
rich, but nothing could induce him to lean on his son-in-law after
acting, as he intended to do, in direct opposition to his son-in-law's
counsel.  The bishop was rich, but he was about to throw away the
bishop's best gift, and that in a manner to injure materially the
patronage of the giver: he could neither expect nor accept anything
further from the bishop.  There would be not only no merit, but
positive disgrace, in giving up his wardenship, if he were not
prepared to meet the world without it.  Yes, he must from this time
forward bound all his human wishes for himself and his daughter to
the poor extent of so limited an income.  He knew he had not thought
sufficiently of this, that he had been carried away by enthusiasm,
and had hitherto not brought home to himself the full reality of his
position.

He thought most about his daughter, naturally.  It was true that she
was engaged, and he knew enough of his proposed son-in-law to be sure
that his own altered circumstances would make no obstacle to such a
marriage; nay, he was sure that the very fact of his poverty would
induce Bold more anxiously to press the matter; but he disliked
counting on Bold in this emergency, brought on, as it had been, by
his doing.  He did not like saying to himself, Bold has turned me
out of my house and income, and, therefore, he must relieve me of my
daughter; he preferred reckoning on Eleanor as the companion of his
poverty and exile,--as the sharer of his small income.

Some modest provision for his daughter had been long since made.  His
life was insured for three thousand pounds, and this sum was to go to
Eleanor.  The archdeacon, for some years past, had paid the premium,
and had secured himself by the immediate possession of a small
property which was to have gone to Mrs Grantly after her father's
death.  This matter, therefore, had been taken out of the warden's
hands long since, as, indeed, had all the business transactions of
his family, and his anxiety was, therefore, confined to his own life
income.

Yes.  A hundred and fifty per annum was very small, but still it might
suffice; but how was he to chant the litany at the cathedral on Sunday
mornings, and get the service done at Crabtree Parva?  True, Crabtree
Church was not quite a mile and a half from the cathedral; but he
could not be in two places at once.  Crabtree was a small village,
and afternoon service might suffice, but still this went against his
conscience; it was not right that his parishioners should be robbed
of any of their privileges on account of his poverty.  He might, to
be sure, make some arrangements for doing week-day service at the
cathedral; but he had chanted the litany at Barchester so long, and
had a conscious feeling that he did it so well, that he was unwilling
to give up the duty.

Thinking of such things, turning over in his own mind together small
desires and grave duties, but never hesitating for a moment as to the
necessity of leaving the hospital, Mr Harding walked up and down the
abbey, or sat still meditating on the same stone step, hour after
hour.  One verger went and another came, but they did not disturb him;
every now and then they crept up and looked at him, but they did so
with a reverential stare, and, on the whole, Mr Harding found his
retreat well chosen.  About four o'clock his comfort was disturbed
by an enemy in the shape of hunger.  It was necessary that he should
dine, and it was clear that he could not dine in the abbey: so he left
his sanctuary not willingly, and betook himself to the neighbourhood
of the Strand to look for food.

His eyes had become so accustomed to the gloom of the church, that
they were dazed when he got out into the full light of day, and he
felt confused and ashamed of himself, as though people were staring at
him.  He hurried along, still in dread of the archdeacon, till he came
to Charing Cross, and then remembered that in one of his passages
through the Strand he had seen the words "Chops and Steaks" on a
placard in a shop window.  He remembered the shop distinctly; it was
next door to a trunk-seller's, and there was a cigar shop on the other
side.  He couldn't go to his hotel for dinner, which to him hitherto
was the only known mode of dining in London at his own expense; and,
therefore, he would get a steak at the shop in the Strand.  Archdeacon
Grantly would certainly not come to such a place for his dinner.

He found the house easily,--just as he had observed it, between the
trunks and the cigars.  He was rather daunted by the huge quantity
of fish which he saw in the window.  There were barrels of oysters,
hecatombs of lobsters, a few tremendous-looking crabs, and a tub full
of pickled salmon; not, however, being aware of any connection between
shell-fish and iniquity, he entered, and modestly asked a slatternly
woman, who was picking oysters out of a great watery reservoir,
whether he could have a mutton chop and a potato.

The woman looked somewhat surprised, but answered in the affirmative,
and a slipshod girl ushered him into a long back room, filled with
boxes for the accommodation of parties, in one of which he took his
seat.  In a more miserably forlorn place he could not have found
himself: the room smelt of fish, and sawdust, and stale tobacco smoke,
with a slight taint of escaped gas; everything was rough and dirty,
and disreputable; the cloth which they put before him was abominable;
the knives and forks were bruised, and hacked, and filthy; and
everything was impregnated with fish.  He had one comfort, however:
he was quite alone; there was no one there to look on his dismay; nor
was it probable that anyone would come to do so.  It was a London
supper-house.  About one o'clock at night the place would be lively
enough, but at the present time his seclusion was as deep as it had
been in the abbey.

In about half an hour the untidy girl, not yet dressed for her evening
labours, brought him his chop and potatoes, and Mr Harding begged for
a pint of sherry.  He was impressed with an idea, which was generally
prevalent a few years since, and is not yet wholly removed from the
minds of men, that to order a dinner at any kind of inn, without also
ordering a pint of wine for the benefit of the landlord, was a kind of
fraud,--not punishable, indeed, by law, but not the less abominable
on that account.  Mr Harding remembered his coming poverty, and
would willingly have saved his half-crown, but he thought he had no
alternative; and he was soon put in possession of some horrid mixture
procured from the neighbouring public-house.

His chop and potatoes, however, were eatable, and having got over
as best he might the disgust created by the knives and forks, he
contrived to swallow his dinner.  He was not much disturbed: one
young man, with pale face and watery fishlike eyes, wearing his hat
ominously on one side, did come in and stare at him, and ask the
girl, audibly enough, "Who that old cock was;" but the annoyance went
no further, and the warden was left seated on his wooden bench in
peace, endeavouring to distinguish the different scents arising from
lobsters, oysters, and salmon.

Unknowing as Mr Harding was in the ways of London, he felt that he had
somehow selected an ineligible dining-house, and that he had better
leave it.  It was hardly five o'clock;--how was he to pass the time
till ten?  Five miserable hours!  He was already tired, and it was
impossible that he should continue walking so long.  He thought of
getting into an omnibus, and going out to Fulham for the sake of
coming back in another: this, however, would be weary work, and as he
paid his bill to the woman in the shop, he asked her if there were any
place near where he could get a cup of coffee.  Though she did keep a
shellfish supper-house, she was very civil, and directed him to the
cigar divan on the other side of the street.

Mr Harding had not a much correcter notion of a cigar divan than he
had of a London dinner-house, but he was desperately in want of rest,
and went as he was directed.  He thought he must have made some
mistake when he found himself in a cigar shop, but the man behind the
counter saw immediately that he was a stranger, and understood what he
wanted.  "One shilling, sir,--thank ye, sir,--cigar, sir?--ticket for
coffee, sir;--you'll only have to call the waiter.  Up those stairs,
if you please, sir.  Better take the cigar, sir,--you can always give
it to a friend, you know.  Well, sir, thank ye, sir;--as you are so
good, I'll smoke it myself."  And so Mr Harding ascended to the divan,
with his ticket for coffee, but minus the cigar.

The place seemed much more suitable to his requirements than the
room in which he had dined: there was, to be sure, a strong smell of
tobacco, to which he was not accustomed; but after the shell-fish, the
tobacco did not seem disagreeable.  There were quantities of books,
and long rows of sofas.  What on earth could be more luxurious than a
sofa, a book, and a cup of coffee?  An old waiter came up to him, with
a couple of magazines and an evening paper.  Was ever anything so
civil?  Would he have a cup of coffee, or would he prefer sherbet?
Sherbet!  Was he absolutely in an Eastern divan, with the slight
addition of all the London periodicals?  He had, however, an idea that
sherbet should be drunk sitting cross-legged, and as he was not quite
up to this, he ordered the coffee.

The coffee came, and was unexceptionable.  Why, this divan was a
paradise!  The civil old waiter suggested to him a game of chess:
though a chess player he was not equal to this, so he declined, and,
putting up his weary legs on the sofa, leisurely sipped his coffee,
and turned over the pages of his Blackwood.  He might have been so
engaged for about an hour, for the old waiter enticed him to a second
cup of coffee, when a musical clock began to play.  Mr Harding then
closed his magazine, keeping his place with his finger, and lay,
listening with closed eyes to the clock.  Soon the clock seemed to
turn into a violoncello, with piano accompaniments, and Mr Harding
began to fancy the old waiter was the Bishop of Barchester; he was
inexpressibly shocked that the bishop should have brought him his
coffee with his own hands; then Dr Grantly came in, with a basket full
of lobsters, which he would not be induced to leave downstairs in the
kitchen; and then the warden couldn't quite understand why so many
people would smoke in the bishop's drawing-room; and so he fell fast
asleep, and his dreams wandered away to his accustomed stall in
Barchester Cathedral, and the twelve old men he was so soon about to
leave for ever.

He was fatigued, and slept soundly for some time.  Some sudden stop in
the musical clock woke him at length, and he jumped up with a start,
surprised to find the room quite full: it had been nearly empty when
his nap began.  With nervous anxiety he pulled out his watch, and
found that it was half-past nine.  He seized his hat, and, hurrying
downstairs, started at a rapid pace for Lincoln's Inn.

It still wanted twenty minutes to ten when the warden found himself
at the bottom of Sir Abraham's stairs, so he walked leisurely up and
down the quiet inn to cool himself.  It was a beautiful evening at
the end of August.  He had recovered from his fatigue; his sleep and
the coffee had refreshed him, and he was surprised to find that he
was absolutely enjoying himself, when the inn clock struck ten.  The
sound was hardly over before he knocked at Sir Abraham's door, and
was informed by the clerk who received him that the great man would
be with him immediately.




Chapter XVII

SIR ABRAHAM HAPHAZARD


Mr Harding was shown into a comfortable inner sitting-room, looking
more like a gentleman's book-room than a lawyer's chambers, and there
waited for Sir Abraham.  Nor was he kept waiting long: in ten or
fifteen minutes he heard a clatter of voices speaking quickly in the
passage, and then the attorney-general entered.

"Very sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Warden," said Sir Abraham, shaking
hands with him; "and sorry, too, to name so disagreeable an hour;
but your notice was short, and as you said to-day, I named the very
earliest hour that was not disposed of."

Mr Harding assured him that he was aware that it was he that should
apologise.

Sir Abraham was a tall thin man, with hair prematurely gray, but
bearing no other sign of age; he had a slight stoop, in his neck
rather than his back, acquired by his constant habit of leaning
forward as he addressed his various audiences.  He might be fifty
years old, and would have looked young for his age, had not constant
work hardened his features, and given him the appearance of a machine
with a mind.  His face was full of intellect, but devoid of natural
expression.  You would say he was a man to use, and then have done
with; a man to be sought for on great emergencies, but ill-adapted for
ordinary services; a man whom you would ask to defend your property,
but to whom you would be sorry to confide your love.  He was bright
as a diamond, and as cutting, and also as unimpressionable.  He knew
everyone whom to know was an honour, but he was without a friend; he
wanted none, however, and knew not the meaning of the word in other
than its parliamentary sense.  A friend!  Had he not always been
sufficient to himself, and now, at fifty, was it likely that he should
trust another?  He was married, indeed, and had children, but what
time had he for the soft idleness of conjugal felicity?  His working
days or term times were occupied from his time of rising to the late
hour at which he went to rest, and even his vacations were more full
of labour than the busiest days of other men.  He never quarrelled
with his wife, but he never talked to her;--he never had time to talk,
he was so taken up with speaking.  She, poor lady, was not unhappy;
she had all that money could give her, she would probably live to be
a peeress, and she really thought Sir Abraham the best of husbands.

Sir Abraham was a man of wit, and sparkled among the brightest at
the dinner-tables of political grandees: indeed, he always sparkled;
whether in society, in the House of Commons, or the courts of law,
coruscations flew from him; glittering sparkles, as from hot steel,
but no heat; no cold heart was ever cheered by warmth from him, no
unhappy soul ever dropped a portion of its burden at his door.

With him success alone was praiseworthy, and he knew none so
successful as himself.  No one had thrust him forward; no powerful
friends had pushed him along on his road to power.  No; he was
attorney-general, and would, in all human probability, be lord
chancellor by sheer dint of his own industry and his own talent.  Who
else in all the world rose so high with so little help?  A premier,
indeed!  Who had ever been premier without mighty friends?  An
archbishop!  Yes, the son or grandson of a great noble, or else,
probably, his tutor.  But he, Sir Abraham, had had no mighty lord
at his back; his father had been a country apothecary, his mother a
farmer's daughter.  Why should he respect any but himself?  And so he
glitters along through the world, the brightest among the bright; and
when his glitter is gone, and he is gathered to his fathers, no eye
will be dim with a tear, no heart will mourn for its lost friend.

"And so, Mr Warden," said Sir Abraham, "all our trouble about this
lawsuit is at an end."

Mr Harding said he hoped so, but he didn't at all understand what Sir
Abraham meant.  Sir Abraham, with all his sharpness, could not have
looked into his heart and read his intentions.

"All over.  You need trouble yourself no further about it; of course
they must pay the costs, and the absolute expense to you and Dr
Grantly will be trifling,--that is, compared with what it might have
been if it had been continued."

"I fear I don't quite understand you, Sir Abraham."

"Don't you know that their attorneys have noticed us that they have
withdrawn the suit?"

Mr Harding explained to the lawyer that he knew nothing of this,
although he had heard in a roundabout way that such an intention had
been talked of; and he also at length succeeded in making Sir Abraham
understand that even this did not satisfy him.  The attorney-general
stood up, put his hands into his breeches' pockets, and raised his
eyebrows, as Mr Harding proceeded to detail the grievance from which
he now wished to rid himself.

"I know I have no right to trouble you personally with this matter,
but as it is of most vital importance to me, as all my happiness is
concerned in it, I thought I might venture to seek your advice."

Sir Abraham bowed, and declared his clients were entitled to the best
advice he could give them; particularly a client so respectable in
every way as the Warden of Barchester Hospital.

"A spoken word, Sir Abraham, is often of more value than volumes of
written advice.  The truth is, I am ill-satisfied with this matter
as it stands at present.  I do see--I cannot help seeing, that the
affairs of the hospital are not arranged according to the will of the
founder."

"None of such institutions are, Mr Harding, nor can they be; the
altered circumstances in which we live do not admit of it."

"Quite true--that is quite true; but I can't see that those altered
circumstances give me a right to eight hundred a year.  I don't know
whether I ever read John Hiram's will, but were I to read it now I
could not understand it.  What I want you, Sir Abraham, to tell me,
is this:--am I, as warden, legally and distinctly entitled to the
proceeds of the property, after the due maintenance of the twelve
bedesmen?"

Sir Abraham declared that he couldn't exactly say in so many words
that Mr Harding was legally entitled to, &c., &c., &c., and ended in
expressing a strong opinion that it would be madness to raise any
further question on the matter, as the suit was to be,--nay, was,
abandoned.

Mr Harding, seated in his chair, began to play a slow tune on an
imaginary violoncello.

"Nay, my dear sir," continued the attorney-general, "there is no
further ground for any question; I don't see that you have the power
of raising it."

"I can resign," said Mr Harding, slowly playing away with his right
hand, as though the bow were beneath the chair in which he was
sitting.

"What! throw it up altogether?" said the attorney-general, gazing with
utter astonishment at his client.

"Did you see those articles in _The Jupiter_?" said Mr Harding,
piteously, appealing to the sympathy of the lawyer.

Sir Abraham said he had seen them.  This poor little clergyman, cowed
into such an act of extreme weakness by a newspaper article, was to
Sir Abraham so contemptible an object, that he hardly knew how to talk
to him as to a rational being.

"Hadn't you better wait," said he, "till Dr Grantly is in town with
you?  Wouldn't it be better to postpone any serious step till you can
consult with him?"

Mr Harding declared vehemently that he could not wait, and Sir Abraham
began seriously to doubt his sanity.

"Of course," said the latter, "if you have private means sufficient
for your wants, and if this--"

"I haven't a sixpence, Sir Abraham," said the warden.

"God bless me!  Why, Mr Harding, how do you mean to live?"

Mr Harding proceeded to explain to the man of law that he meant to
keep his precentorship,--that was eighty pounds a year; and, also,
that he meant to fall back upon his own little living of Crabtree,
which was another eighty pounds.  That, to be sure, the duties of the
two were hardly compatible; but perhaps he might effect an exchange.
And then, recollecting that the attorney-general would hardly care to
hear how the service of a cathedral church is divided among the minor
canons, stopped short in his explanations.

Sir Abraham listened in pitying wonder.  "I really think, Mr Harding,
you had better wait for the archdeacon.  This is a most serious
step,--one for which, in my opinion, there is not the slightest
necessity; and, as you have done me the honour of asking my advice, I
must implore you to do nothing without the approval of your friends.
A man is never the best judge of his own position."

"A man is the best judge of what he feels himself.  I'd sooner beg my
bread till my death than read such another article as those two that
have appeared, and feel, as I do, that the writer has truth on his
side."

"Have you not a daughter, Mr Harding--an unmarried daughter?"

"I have," said he, now standing also, but still playing away on his
fiddle with his hand behind his back.  "I have, Sir Abraham; and she
and I are completely agreed on this subject."

"Pray excuse me, Mr Harding, if what I say seems impertinent; but
surely it is you that should be prudent on her behalf.  She is young,
and does not know the meaning of living on an income of a hundred and
sixty pounds a year.  On her account give up this idea.  Believe me,
it is sheer Quixotism."

The warden walked away to the window, and then back to his chair; and
then, irresolute what to say, took another turn to the window.  The
attorney-general was really extremely patient, but he was beginning to
think that the interview had been long enough.

"But if this income be not justly mine, what if she and I have both to
beg?" said the warden at last, sharply, and in a voice so different
from that he had hitherto used, that Sir Abraham was startled.  "If
so, it would be better to beg."

"My dear sir, nobody now questions its justness."

"Yes, Sir Abraham, one does question it,--the most important of all
witnesses against me;--I question it myself.  My God knows whether or
no I love my daughter; but I would sooner that she and I should both
beg, than that she should live in comfort on money which is truly the
property of the poor.  It may seem strange to you, Sir Abraham, it is
strange to myself, that I should have been ten years in that happy
home, and not have thought of these things till they were so roughly
dinned into my ears.  I cannot boast of my conscience, when it
required the violence of a public newspaper to awaken it; but, now
that it is awake, I must obey it.  When I came here, I did not know
that the suit was withdrawn by Mr Bold, and my object was to beg
you to abandon my defence.  As there is no action, there can be no
defence; but it is, at any rate, as well that you should know that
from to-morrow I shall cease to be the warden of the hospital.  My
friends and I differ on this subject, Sir Abraham, and that adds much
to my sorrow; but it cannot be helped."  And, as he finished what he
had to say, he played up such a tune as never before had graced the
chambers of any attorney-general.  He was standing up, gallantly
fronting Sir Abraham, and his right arm passed with bold and rapid
sweeps before him, as though he were embracing some huge instrument,
which allowed him to stand thus erect; and with the fingers of his
left hand he stopped, with preternatural velocity, a multitude of
strings, which ranged from the top of his collar to the bottom of
the lappet of his coat.  Sir Abraham listened and looked in wonder.
As he had never before seen Mr Harding, the meaning of these wild
gesticulations was lost upon him; but he perceived that the gentleman
who had a few minutes since been so subdued as to be unable to speak
without hesitation, was now impassioned,--nay, almost violent.

"You'll sleep on this, Mr Harding, and to-morrow--"

"I have done more than sleep upon it," said the warden; "I have lain
awake upon it, and that night after night.  I found I could not sleep
upon it: now I hope to do so."

The attorney-general had no answer to make to this; so he expressed
a quiet hope that whatever settlement was finally made would be
satisfactory; and Mr Harding withdrew, thanking the great man for
his kind attention.

Mr Harding was sufficiently satisfied with the interview to feel a
glow of comfort as he descended into the small old square of Lincoln's
Inn.  It was a calm, bright, beautiful night, and by the light of
the moon, even the chapel of Lincoln's Inn, and the sombre row of
chambers, which surround the quadrangle, looked well.  He stood still
a moment to collect his thoughts, and reflect on what he had done,
and was about to do.  He knew that the attorney-general regarded him
as little better than a fool, but that he did not mind; he and the
attorney-general had not much in common between them; he knew also
that others, whom he did care about, would think so too; but Eleanor,
he was sure, would exult in what he had done, and the bishop, he
trusted, would sympathise with him.

In the meantime he had to meet the archdeacon, and so he walked slowly
down Chancery Lane and along Fleet Street, feeling sure that his work
for the night was not yet over.  When he reached the hotel he rang the
bell quietly, and with a palpitating heart; he almost longed to escape
round the corner, and delay the coming storm by a further walk round
St Paul's Churchyard, but he heard the slow creaking shoes of the old
waiter approaching, and he stood his ground manfully.




Chapter XVIII

THE WARDEN IS VERY OBSTINATE


"Dr Grantly is here, sir," greeted his ears before the door was well
open, "and Mrs Grantly.  They have a sitting-room above, and are
waiting up for you."

There was something in the tone of the man's voice which seemed to
indicate that even he looked upon the warden as a runaway schoolboy,
just recaptured by his guardian, and that he pitied the culprit,
though he could not but be horrified at the crime.

The warden endeavoured to appear unconcerned, as he said, "Oh, indeed!
I'll go upstairs at once;" but he failed signally.  There was,
perhaps, a ray of comfort in the presence of his married daughter;
that is to say, of comparative comfort, seeing that his son-in-law
was there; but how much would he have preferred that they should both
have been safe at Plumstead Episcopi!  However, upstairs he went,
the waiter slowly preceding him; and on the door being opened the
archdeacon was discovered standing in the middle of the room, erect,
indeed, as usual, but oh! how sorrowful! and on the dingy sofa behind
him reclined his patient wife.

"Papa, I thought you were never coming back," said the lady; "it's
twelve o'clock."

"Yes, my dear," said the warden.  "The attorney-general named ten for
my meeting; to be sure ten is late, but what could I do, you know?
Great men will have their own way."

And he gave his daughter a kiss, and shook hands with the doctor, and
again tried to look unconcerned.

"And you have absolutely been with the attorney-general?" asked the
archdeacon.

Mr Harding signified that he had.

"Good heavens, how unfortunate!"  And the archdeacon raised his huge
hands in the manner in which his friends are so accustomed to see him
express disapprobation and astonishment.  "What will Sir Abraham think
of it?  Did you not know that it is not customary for clients to go
direct to their counsel?"

"Isn't it?" asked the warden, innocently.  "Well, at any rate, I've
done it now.  Sir Abraham didn't seem to think it so very strange."

The archdeacon gave a sigh that would have moved a man-of-war.

"But, papa, what did you say to Sir Abraham?" asked the lady.

"I asked him, my dear, to explain John Hiram's will to me.  He
couldn't explain it in the only way which would have satisfied me,
and so I resigned the wardenship."

"Resigned it!" said the archdeacon, in a solemn voice, sad and low,
but yet sufficiently audible,--a sort of whisper that Macready would
have envied, and the galleries have applauded with a couple of rounds.
"Resigned it!  Good heavens!"  And the dignitary of the church sank
back horrified into a horsehair arm-chair.

"At least I told Sir Abraham that I would resign; and of course I must
now do so."

"Not at all," said the archdeacon, catching a ray of hope.  "Nothing
that you say in such a way to your own counsel can be in any way
binding on you; of course you were there to ask his advice.  I'm sure
Sir Abraham did not advise any such step."

Mr Harding could not say that he had.

"I am sure he disadvised you from it," continued the reverend
cross-examiner.

Mr Harding could not deny this.

"I'm sure Sir Abraham must have advised you to consult your friends."

To this proposition also Mr Harding was obliged to assent.

"Then your threat of resignation amounts to nothing, and we are just
where we were before."

Mr Harding was now standing on the rug, moving uneasily from one foot
to the other.  He made no distinct answer to the archdeacon's last
proposition, for his mind was chiefly engaged on thinking how he could
escape to bed.  That his resignation was a thing finally fixed on, a
fact all but completed, was not in his mind a matter of any doubt; he
knew his own weakness; he knew how prone he was to be led; but he was
not weak enough to give way now, to go back from the position to which
his conscience had driven him, after having purposely come to London
to declare his determination: he did not in the least doubt his
resolution, but he greatly doubted his power of defending it against
his son-in-law.

"You must be very tired, Susan," said he: "wouldn't you like to go to
bed?"

But Susan didn't want to go till her husband went.  She had an idea
that her papa might be bullied if she were away: she wasn't tired at
all, or at least she said so.

The archdeacon was pacing the room, expressing, by certain nods of his
head, his opinion of the utter fatuity of his father-in-law.

"Why," at last he said,--and angels might have blushed at the rebuke
expressed in his tone and emphasis,--"Why did you go off from
Barchester so suddenly?  Why did you take such a step without giving
us notice, after what had passed at the palace?"

The warden hung his head, and made no reply: he could not condescend
to say that he had not intended to give his son-in-law the slip; and
as he had not the courage to avow it, he said nothing.

"Papa has been too much for you," said the lady.

The archdeacon took another turn, and again ejaculated, "Good
heavens!" this time in a very low whisper, but still audible.

"I think I'll go to bed," said the warden, taking up a side candle.

"At any rate, you'll promise me to take no further step without
consultation," said the archdeacon.  Mr Harding made no answer, but
slowly proceeded to light his candle.

"Of course," continued the other, "such a declaration as that you made
to Sir Abraham means nothing.  Come, warden, promise me this.  The
whole affair, you see, is already settled, and that with very little
trouble or expense.  Bold has been compelled to abandon his action,
and all you have to do is to remain quiet at the hospital."  Mr
Harding still made no reply, but looked meekly into his son-in-law's
face.  The archdeacon thought he knew his father-in-law, but he was
mistaken; he thought that he had already talked over a vacillating man
to resign his promise.  "Come," said he, "promise Susan to give up
this idea of resigning the wardenship."

The warden looked at his daughter, thinking probably at the moment
that if Eleanor were contented with him, he need not so much regard
his other child, and said, "I am sure Susan will not ask me to break
my word, or to do what I know to be wrong."

"Papa," said she, "it would be madness in you to throw up your
preferment.  What are you to live on?"

"God, that feeds the young ravens, will take care of me also," said Mr
Harding, with a smile, as though afraid of giving offence by making
his reference to scripture too solemn.

"Pish!" said the archdeacon, turning away rapidly.  "If the ravens
persisted in refusing the food prepared for them, they wouldn't be
fed."  A clergyman generally dislikes to be met in argument by any
scriptural quotation; he feels as affronted as a doctor does, when
recommended by an old woman to take some favourite dose, or as a
lawyer when an unprofessional man attempts to put him down by a
quibble.

"I shall have the living of Crabtree," modestly suggested the warden.

"Eighty pounds a year!" sneered the archdeacon.

"And the precentorship," said the father-in-law.

"It goes with the wardenship," said the son-in-law.  Mr Harding was
prepared to argue this point, and began to do so, but Dr Grantly
stopped him.  "My dear warden," said he, "this is all nonsense.
Eighty pounds or a hundred and sixty makes very little difference.
You can't live on it,--you can't ruin Eleanor's prospects for ever.
In point of fact, you can't resign; the bishop wouldn't accept it;
the whole thing is settled.  What I now want to do is to prevent any
inconvenient tittle-tattle,--any more newspaper articles."

"That's what I want, too," said the warden.

"And to prevent that," continued the other, "we mustn't let any talk
of resignation get abroad."

"But I shall resign," said the warden, very, very meekly.

"Good heavens!  Susan, my dear, what can I say to him?"

"But, papa," said Mrs Grantly, getting up, and putting her arm through
that of her father, "what is Eleanor to do if you throw away your
income?"

A hot tear stood in each of the warden's eyes as he looked round upon
his married daughter.  Why should one sister who was so rich predict
poverty for another?  Some such idea as this was on his mind, but he
gave no utterance to it.  Then he thought of the pelican feeding its
young with blood from its own breast, but he gave no utterance to
that either; and then of Eleanor waiting for him at home, waiting to
congratulate him on the end of all his trouble.

"Think of Eleanor, papa," said Mrs Grantly.

"I do think of her," said her father.

"And you will not do this rash thing?"  The lady was really moved
beyond her usual calm composure.

"It can never be rash to do right," said he.  "I shall certainly
resign this wardenship."

"Then, Mr Harding, there is nothing before you but ruin," said the
archdeacon, now moved beyond all endurance.  "Ruin both for you and
Eleanor.  How do you mean to pay the monstrous expenses of this
action?"

Mrs Grantly suggested that, as the action was abandoned, the costs
would not be heavy.

"Indeed they will, my dear," continued he.  "One cannot have the
attorney-general up at twelve o'clock at night for nothing;--but of
course your father has not thought of this."

"I will sell my furniture," said the warden.

"Furniture!" ejaculated the other, with a most powerful sneer.

"Come, archdeacon," said the lady, "we needn't mind that at present.
You know you never expected papa to pay the costs."

"Such absurdity is enough to provoke Job," said the archdeacon,
marching quickly up and down the room.  "Your father is like a child.
Eight hundred pounds a year!--eight hundred and eighty with the
house,--with nothing to do.  The very place for him.  And to throw
that up because some scoundrel writes an article in a newspaper!
Well;--I have done my duty.  If he chooses to ruin his child I cannot
help it;" and he stood still at the fire-place, and looked at himself
in a dingy mirror which stood on the chimney-piece.

There was a pause for about a minute, and then the warden, finding
that nothing else was coming, lighted his candle, and quietly said,
"Good-night."

"Good-night, papa," said the lady.

And so the warden retired; but, as he closed the door behind him, he
heard the well-known ejaculation,--slower, lower, more solemn, more
ponderous than ever,--"Good heavens!"




Chapter XIX

THE WARDEN RESIGNS


The party met the next morning at breakfast; and a very sombre affair
it was,--very unlike the breakfasts at Plumstead Episcopi.

There were three thin, small, dry bits of bacon, each an inch long,
served up under a huge old plated cover; there were four three-cornered
bits of dry toast, and four square bits of buttered toast; there was
a loaf of bread, and some oily-looking butter; and on the sideboard
there were the remains of a cold shoulder of mutton.  The archdeacon,
however, had not come up from his rectory to St Paul's Churchyard to
enjoy himself, and therefore nothing was said of the scanty fare.

The guests were as sorry as the viands;--hardly anything was said over
the breakfast-table.  The archdeacon munched his toast in ominous
silence, turning over bitter thoughts in his deep mind.  The warden
tried to talk to his daughter, and she tried to answer him; but they
both failed.  There were no feelings at present in common between
them.  The warden was thinking only of getting back to Barchester, and
calculating whether the archdeacon would expect him to wait for him;
and Mrs Grantly was preparing herself for a grand attack which she was
to make on her father, as agreed upon between herself and her husband
during their curtain confabulation of that morning.

When the waiter had creaked out of the room with the last of the
teacups, the archdeacon got up and went to the window as though to
admire the view.  The room looked out on a narrow passage which runs
from St Paul's Churchyard to Paternoster Row; and Dr Grantly patiently
perused the names of the three shopkeepers whose doors were in view.
The warden still kept his seat at the table, and examined the pattern
of the tablecloth; and Mrs Grantly, seating herself on the sofa, began
to knit.

After a while the warden pulled his Bradshaw out of his pocket, and
began laboriously to consult it.  There was a train for Barchester at
10 A.M.  That was out of the question, for it was nearly ten already.
Another at 3 P.M.; another, the night-mail train, at 9 P.M.  The three
o'clock train would take him home to tea, and would suit very well.

"My dear," said he, "I think I shall go back home at three o'clock
to-day.  I shall get home at half-past eight.  I don't think there's
anything to keep me in London."

"The archdeacon and I return by the early train to-morrow, papa; won't
you wait and go back with us?"

"Why, Eleanor will expect me tonight; and I've so much to do; and--"

"Much to do!" said the archdeacon sotto voce; but the warden heard
him.

"You'd better wait for us, papa."

"Thank ye, my dear!  I think I'll go this afternoon."  The tamest
animal will turn when driven too hard, and even Mr Harding was
beginning to fight for his own way.

"I suppose you won't be back before three?" said the lady, addressing
her husband.

"I must leave this at two," said the warden.

"Quite out of the question," said the archdeacon, answering his wife,
and still reading the shopkeepers' names; "I don't suppose I shall be
back till five."

There was another long pause, during which Mr Harding continued to
study his Bradshaw.

"I must go to Cox and Cummins," said the archdeacon at last.

"Oh, to Cox and Cummins," said the warden.  It was quite a matter of
indifference to him where his son-in-law went.  The names of Cox and
Cummins had now no interest in his ears.  What had he to do with Cox
and Cummins further, having already had his suit finally adjudicated
upon in a court of conscience, a judgment without power of appeal
fully registered, and the matter settled so that all the lawyers in
London could not disturb it.  The archdeacon could go to Cox and
Cummins, could remain there all day in anxious discussion; but what
might be said there was no longer matter of interest to him, who was
so soon to lay aside the name of warden of Barchester Hospital.

The archdeacon took up his shining new clerical hat, and put on his
black new clerical gloves, and looked heavy, respectable, decorous,
and opulent, a decided clergyman of the Church of England, every
inch of him.  "I suppose I shall see you at Barchester the day after
to-morrow," said he.

The warden supposed he would.

"I must once more beseech you to take no further steps till you see my
father; if you owe me nothing," and the archdeacon looked as though he
thought a great deal were due to him, "at least you owe so much to my
father;" and, without waiting for a reply, Dr Grantly wended his way
to Cox and Cummins.

Mrs Grantly waited till the last fall of her husband's foot was heard,
as he turned out of the court into St Paul's Churchyard, and then
commenced her task of talking her father over.

"Papa," she began, "this is a most serious business."

"Indeed it is," said the warden, ringing the bell.

"I greatly feel the distress of mind you must have endured."

"I am sure you do, my dear;"--and he ordered the waiter to bring him
pen, ink, and paper.

"Are you going to write, papa?"

"Yes, my dear;--I am going to write my resignation to the bishop."

"Pray, pray, papa, put it off till our return;--pray put it off till
you have seen the bishop;--dear papa! for my sake, for Eleanor's!--"

"It is for your sake and Eleanor's that I do this.  I hope, at least,
that my children may never have to be ashamed of their father."

"How can you talk about shame, papa?" and she stopped while the waiter
creaked in with the paper, and then slowly creaked out again; "how can
you talk about shame? you know what all your friends think about this
question."

The warden spread his paper on the table, placing it on the
meagre blotting-book which the hotel afforded, and sat himself
down to write.

"You won't refuse me one request, papa?" continued his
daughter; "you won't refuse to delay your letter for two short
days?  Two days can make no possible difference."

"My dear," said he naïvely, "if I waited till I got to Barchester, I
might, perhaps, be prevented."

"But surely you would not wish to offend the bishop?" said she.

"God forbid!  The bishop is not apt to take offence, and knows me too
well to take in bad part anything that I may be called on to do."

"But, papa--"

"Susan," said he, "my mind on this subject is made up; it is not
without much repugnance that I act in opposition to the advice of such
men as Sir Abraham Haphazard and the archdeacon; but in this matter
I can take no advice, I cannot alter the resolution to which I have
come."

"But two days, papa--"

"No;--nor can I delay it.  You may add to my present unhappiness by
pressing me, but you cannot change my purpose; it will be a comfort
to me if you will let the matter rest": and, dipping his pen into the
inkstand, he fixed his eyes intently on the paper.

There was something in his manner which taught his daughter to
perceive that he was in earnest; she had at one time ruled supreme in
her father's house, but she knew that there were moments when, mild
and meek as he was, he would have his way, and the present was an
occasion of the sort.  She returned, therefore, to her knitting, and
very shortly after left the room.

The warden was now at liberty to compose his letter, and, as it was
characteristic of the man, it shall be given at full length.  The
official letter, which, when written, seemed to him to be too formally
cold to be sent alone to so dear a friend, was accompanied by a
private note; and both are here inserted.

The letter of resignation ran as follows:--


                       CHAPTER HOTEL, ST.  PAUL's,
                       LONDON,
                       August, 18--

   My LORD BISHOP,


   It is with the greatest pain that I feel myself constrained
   to resign into your Lordship's hands the wardenship of the
   hospital at Barchester, which you so kindly conferred upon
   me, now nearly twelve years since.

   I need not explain the circumstances which have made this
   step appear necessary to me.  You are aware that a question
   has arisen as to the right of the warden to the income which
   has been allotted to the wardenship; it has seemed to me
   that this right is not well made out, and I hesitate to
   incur the risk of taking an income to which my legal claim
   appears doubtful.

   The office of precentor of the cathedral is, as your
   Lordship is aware, joined to that of the warden; that is to
   say, the precentor has for many years been the warden of the
   hospital; there is, however, nothing to make the junction of
   the two offices necessary, and, unless you or the dean and
   chapter object to such an arrangement, I would wish to keep
   the precentorship.  The income of this office will now be
   necessary to me; indeed, I do not know why I should be
   ashamed to say that I should have difficulty in supporting
   myself without it.

   Your Lordship, and such others as you may please to consult
   on the matter, will at once see that my resignation of
   the wardenship need offer not the slightest bar to its
   occupation by another person.  I am thought in the wrong by
   all those whom I have consulted in the matter; I have very
   little but an inward and an unguided conviction of my own
   to bring me to this step, and I shall, indeed, be hurt to
   find that any slur is thrown on the preferment which your
   kindness bestowed on me, by my resignation of it.  I, at
   any rate for one, shall look on any successor whom you may
   appoint as enjoying a clerical situation of the highest
   respectability, and one to which your Lordship's nomination
   gives an indefeasible right.

   I cannot finish this official letter without again thanking
   your Lordship for all your great kindness, and I beg to
   subscribe myself--

   Your Lordship's most obedient servant,

                       SEPTIMUS HARDING,

                       Warden of Barchester Hospital,
                       and Precentor of the Cathedral.


He then wrote the following private note:--


   My DEAR BISHOP,

   I cannot send you the accompanying official letter without
   a warmer expression of thanks for all your kindness than
   would befit a document which may to a certain degree be
   made public.  You, I know, will understand the feeling,
   and, perhaps, pity the weakness which makes me resign
   the hospital.  I am not made of calibre strong enough to
   withstand public attack.  Were I convinced that I stood
   on ground perfectly firm, that I was certainly justified
   in taking eight hundred a year under Hiram's will, I
   should feel bound by duty to retain the position, however
   unendurable might be the nature of the assault; but, as I
   do not feel this conviction, I cannot believe that you will
   think me wrong in what I am doing.

   I had at one time an idea of keeping only some moderate
   portion of the income; perhaps three hundred a year, and of
   remitting the remainder to the trustees; but it occurred to
   me, and I think with reason, that by so doing I should place
   my successors in an invidious position, and greatly damage
   your patronage.

   My dear friend, let me have a line from you to say that
   you do not blame me for what I am doing, and that the
   officiating vicar of Crabtree Parva will be the same to
   you as the warden of the hospital.

   I am very anxious about the precentorship: the archdeacon
   thinks it must go with the wardenship; I think not, and,
   that, having it, I cannot be ousted.  I will, however, be
   guided by you and the dean.  No other duty will suit me so
   well, or come so much within my power of adequate
   performance.

   I thank you from my heart for the preferment which I am now
   giving up, and for all your kindness, and am, dear bishop,
   now as always--

                       Yours most sincerely,
                       SEPTIMUS HARDING

   LONDON,--AUGUST, 18--


Having written these letters and made a copy of the former one for the
benefit of the archdeacon, Mr Harding, whom we must now cease to call
the warden, he having designated himself so for the last time, found
that it was nearly two o'clock, and that he must prepare for his
journey.  Yes, from this time he never again admitted the name by
which he had been so familiarly known, and in which, to tell the
truth, he had rejoiced.  The love of titles is common to all men,
and a vicar or fellow is as pleased at becoming Mr Archdeacon or
Mr Provost, as a lieutenant at getting his captaincy, or a city
tallow-chandler in becoming Sir John on the occasion of a Queen's
visit to a new bridge.  But warden he was no longer, and the name of
precentor, though the office was to him so dear, confers in itself
no sufficient distinction; our friend, therefore, again became Mr
Harding.

Mrs Grantly had gone out; he had, therefore, no one to delay him by
further entreaties to postpone his journey; he had soon arranged his
bag, and paid his bill, and, leaving a note for his daughter, in which
he put the copy of his official letter, he got into a cab and drove
away to the station with something of triumph in his heart.

Had he not cause for triumph?  Had he not been supremely successful?
Had he not for the first time in his life held his own purpose
against that of his son-in-law, and manfully combated against great
odds,--against the archdeacon's wife as well as the archdeacon?  Had
he not gained a great victory, and was it not fit that he should step
into his cab with triumph?

He had not told Eleanor when he would return, but she was on the
look-out for him by every train by which he could arrive, and the
pony-carriage was at the Barchester station when the train drew up
at the platform.

"My dear," said he, sitting beside her, as she steered her little
vessel to one side of the road to make room for the clattering omnibus
as they passed from the station into the town, "I hope you'll be able
to feel a proper degree of respect for the vicar of Crabtree."

"Dear papa," said she, "I am so glad."

There was great comfort in returning home to that pleasant house,
though he was to leave it so soon, and in discussing with his daughter
all that he had done, and all that he had to do.  It must take some
time to get out of one house into another; the curate at Crabtree
could not be abolished under six months, that is, unless other
provision could be made for him; and then the furniture:--the most of
that must be sold to pay Sir Abraham Haphazard for sitting up till
twelve at night.  Mr Harding was strangely ignorant as to lawyers'
bills; he had no idea, from twenty pounds to two thousand, as to the
sum in which he was indebted for legal assistance.  True, he had
called in no lawyer himself; true, he had been no consenting party to
the employment of either Cox and Cummins, or Sir Abraham; he had never
been consulted on such matters;--the archdeacon had managed all this
himself, never for a moment suspecting that Mr Harding would take upon
him to end the matter in a way of his own.  Had the lawyers' bills
been ten thousand pounds, Mr Harding could not have helped it; but
he was not on that account disposed to dispute his own liability.
The question never occurred to him; but it did occur to him that he
had very little money at his banker's, that he could receive nothing
further from the hospital, and that the sale of the furniture was his
only resource.

"Not all, papa," said Eleanor pleadingly.

"Not quite all, my dear," said he; "that is, if we can help it. We
must have a little at Crabtree,--but it can only be a little; we
must put a bold front on it, Nelly; it isn't easy to come down from
affluence to poverty."

And so they planned their future mode of life; the father taking
comfort from the reflection that his daughter would soon be freed from
it, and she resolving that her father would soon have in her own house
a ready means of escape from the solitude of the Crabtree vicarage.

When the archdeacon left his wife and father-in-law at the Chapter
Coffee House to go to Messrs Cox and Cummins, he had no very defined
idea of what he had to do when he got there.  Gentlemen when at law,
or in any way engaged in matters requiring legal assistance, are very
apt to go to their lawyers without much absolute necessity;--gentlemen
when doing so, are apt to describe such attendance as quite
compulsory, and very disagreeable.  The lawyers, on the other hand,
do not at all see the necessity, though they quite agree as to the
disagreeable nature of the visit;--gentlemen when so engaged are
usually somewhat gravelled at finding nothing to say to their learned
friends; they generally talk a little politics, a little weather, ask
some few foolish questions about their suit, and then withdraw, having
passed half an hour in a small dingy waiting-room, in company with
some junior assistant-clerk, and ten minutes with the members of the
firm; the business is then over for which the gentleman has come up
to London, probably a distance of a hundred and fifty miles. To be
sure he goes to the play, and dines at his friend's club, and has a
bachelor's liberty and bachelor's recreation for three or four days;
and he could not probably plead the desire of such gratifications as
a reason to his wife for a trip to London.

Married ladies, when your husbands find they are positively obliged to
attend their legal advisers, the nature of the duty to be performed is
generally of this description.

The archdeacon would not have dreamt of leaving London without going
to Cox and Cummins; and yet he had nothing to say to them.  The game
was up; he plainly saw that Mr Harding in this matter was not to be
moved; his only remaining business on this head was to pay the bill
and have done with it; and I think it may be taken for granted,
that whatever the cause may be that takes a gentleman to a lawyer's
chambers, he never goes there to pay his bill.

Dr Grantly, however, in the eyes of Messrs Cox and Cummins,
represented the spiritualities of the diocese of Barchester, as Mr
Chadwick did the temporalities, and was, therefore, too great a man to
undergo the half-hour in the clerk's room.  It will not be necessary
that we should listen to the notes of sorrow in which the archdeacon
bewailed to Mr Cox the weakness of his father-in-law, and the end
of all their hopes of triumph; nor need we repeat the various
exclamations of surprise with which the mournful intelligence was
received.  No tragedy occurred, though Mr Cox, a short and somewhat
bull-necked man, was very near a fit of apoplexy when he first
attempted to ejaculate that fatal word--resign!

Over and over again did Mr Cox attempt to enforce on the archdeacon
the propriety of urging on Mr Warden the madness of the deed he was
about to do.

"Eight hundred a year!" said Mr Cox.

"And nothing whatever to do!" said Mr Cummins, who had joined the
conference.

"No private fortune, I believe," said Mr Cox.

"Not a shilling," said Mr Cummins, in a very low voice, shaking his
head.

"I never heard of such a case in all my experience," said Mr Cox.

"Eight hundred a year, and as nice a house as any gentleman could wish
to hang up his hat in," said Mr Cummins.

"And an unmarried daughter, I believe," said Mr Cox, with much moral
seriousness in his tone.  The archdeacon only sighed as each separate
wail was uttered, and shook his head, signifying that the fatuity of
some people was past belief.

"I'll tell you what he might do," said Mr Cummins, brightening up.
"I'll tell you how you might save it:--let him exchange."

"Exchange where?" said the archdeacon.

"Exchange for a living.  There's Quiverful, of Puddingdale;--he has
twelve children, and would be delighted to get the hospital.  To
be sure Puddingdale is only four hundred, but that would be saving
something out of the fire: Mr Harding would have a curate, and still
keep three hundred or three hundred and fifty."

The archdeacon opened his ears and listened; he really thought the
scheme might do.

"The newspapers," continued Mr Cummins, "might hammer away at
Quiverful every day for the next six months without his minding
them."

The archdeacon took up his hat, and returned to his hotel, thinking
the matter over deeply.  At any rate he would sound Quiverful.  A man
with twelve children would do much to double his income.




Chapter XX

FAREWELL


On the morning after Mr Harding's return home he received a note from
the bishop full of affection, condolence, and praise.  "Pray come to
me at once," wrote the bishop, "that we may see what had better be
done; as to the hospital, I will not say a word to dissuade you; but I
don't like your going to Crabtree: at any rate, come to me at once."

Mr Harding did go to him at once; and long and confidential was the
consultation between the two old friends.  There they sat together
the whole long day, plotting to get the better of the archdeacon, and
to carry out little schemes of their own, which they knew would be
opposed by the whole weight of his authority.

The bishop's first idea was, that Mr Harding, if left to himself,
would certainly starve,--not in the figurative sense in which so many
of our ladies and gentlemen do starve on incomes from one to five
hundred a year; not that he would be starved as regarded dress coats,
port wine, and pocket-money; but that he would positively perish of
inanition for want of bread.

"How is a man to live, when he gives up all his income?" said the
bishop to himself.  And then the good-natured little man began to
consider how his friend might be best rescued from a death so horrid
and painful.

His first proposition to Mr Harding was, that they should live
together at the palace.  He, the bishop, positively assured Mr Harding
that he wanted another resident chaplain,--not a young working
chaplain, but a steady, middle-aged chaplain; one who would dine and
drink a glass of wine with him, talk about the archdeacon, and poke
the fire.  The bishop did not positively name all these duties, but
he gave Mr Harding to understand that such would be the nature of the
service required.

It was not without much difficulty that Mr Harding made his friend see
that this would not suit him; that he could not throw up the bishop's
preferment, and then come and hang on at the bishop's table; that he
could not allow people to say of him that it was an easy matter to
abandon his own income, as he was able to sponge on that of another
person.  He succeeded, however, in explaining that the plan would not
do, and then the bishop brought forward another which he had in his
sleeve.  He, the bishop, had in his will left certain moneys to Mr
Harding's two daughters, imagining that Mr Harding would himself want
no such assistance during his own lifetime.  This legacy amounted to
three thousand pounds each, duty free; and he now pressed it as a gift
on his friend.

"The girls, you know," said he, "will have it just the same when
you're gone,--and they won't want it sooner;--and as for the interest
during my lifetime, it isn't worth talking about.  I have more than
enough."

With much difficulty and heartfelt sorrow, Mr Harding refused also
this offer.  No; his wish was to support himself, however poorly,--not
to be supported on the charity of anyone.  It was hard to make the
bishop understand this; it was hard to make him comprehend that
the only real favour he could confer was the continuation of his
independent friendship; but at last even this was done.  At any rate,
thought the bishop, he will come and dine with me from time to time,
and if he be absolutely starving I shall see it.

Touching the precentorship, the bishop was clearly of opinion that it
could be held without the other situation,--an opinion from which no
one differed; and it was therefore soon settled among all the parties
concerned, that Mr Harding should still be the precentor of the
cathedral.

On the day following Mr Harding's return, the archdeacon reached
Plumstead full of Mr Cummins's scheme regarding Puddingdale and Mr
Quiverful.  On the very next morning he drove over to Puddingdale,
and obtained the full consent of the wretched clerical Priam, who was
endeavouring to feed his poor Hecuba and a dozen of Hectors on the
small proceeds of his ecclesiastical kingdom.  Mr Quiverful had no
doubts as to the legal rights of the warden; his conscience would be
quite clear as to accepting the income; and as to _The Jupiter_, he
begged to assure the archdeacon that he was quite indifferent to any
emanations from the profane portion of the periodical press.

Having so far succeeded, he next sounded the bishop; but here he was
astonished by most unexpected resistance.  The bishop did not think
it would do.  "Not do, why not?" and seeing that his father was not
shaken, he repeated the question in a severer form: "Why not do, my
lord?"

His lordship looked very unhappy, and shuffled about in his chair,
but still didn't give way; he thought Puddingdale wouldn't do for Mr
Harding; it was too far from Barchester.

"Oh! of course he'll have a curate."

The bishop also thought that Mr Quiverful wouldn't do for the
hospital; such an exchange wouldn't look well at such a time; and,
when pressed harder, he declared he didn't think Mr Harding would
accept of Puddingdale under any circumstances.

"How is he to live?" demanded the archdeacon.

The bishop, with tears in his eyes, declared that he had not the
slightest conception how life was to be sustained within him at all.

The archdeacon then left his father, and went down to the hospital;
but Mr Harding wouldn't listen at all to the Puddingdale scheme.  To
his eyes it had no attraction; it savoured of simony, and was likely
to bring down upon him harder and more deserved strictures than any he
had yet received: he positively declined to become vicar of
Puddingdale under any circumstances.

The archdeacon waxed wroth, talked big, and looked bigger; he said
something about dependence and beggary, spoke of the duty every man
was under to earn his bread, made passing allusions to the follies of
youth and waywardness of age, as though Mr Harding were afflicted by
both, and ended by declaring that he had done.  He felt that he had
left no stone unturned to arrange matters on the best and easiest
footing; that he had, in fact, so arranged them, that he had so
managed that there was no further need of any anxiety in the matter.
And how had he been paid?  His advice had been systematically
rejected; he had been not only slighted, but distrusted and avoided;
he and his measures had been utterly thrown over, as had been Sir
Abraham, who, he had reason to know, was much pained at what had
occurred.  He now found it was useless to interfere any further, and
he should retire.  If any further assistance were required from him,
he would probably be called on, and should be again happy to come
forward.  And so he left the hospital, and has not since entered it
from that day to this.

And here we must take leave of Archdeacon Grantly.  We fear that he is
represented in these pages as being worse than he is; but we have had
to do with his foibles, and not with his virtues.  We have seen only
the weak side of the man, and have lacked the opportunity of bringing
him forward on his strong ground.  That he is a man somewhat too fond
of his own way, and not sufficiently scrupulous in his manner of
achieving it, his best friends cannot deny.  That he is bigoted in
favour, not so much of his doctrines as of his cloth, is also true:
and it is true that the possession of a large income is a desire that
sits near his heart.  Nevertheless, the archdeacon is a gentleman and
a man of conscience; he spends his money liberally, and does the work
he has to do with the best of his ability; he improves the tone of
society of those among whom he lives.  His aspirations are of a
healthy, if not of the highest, kind.  Though never an austere man,
he upholds propriety of conduct both by example and precept.  He
is generous to the poor, and hospitable to the rich; in matters of
religion he is sincere, and yet no Pharisee; he is in earnest, and yet
no fanatic.  On the whole, the Archdeacon of Barchester is a man doing
more good than harm,--a man to be furthered and supported, though
perhaps also to be controlled; and it is matter of regret to us that
the course of our narrative has required that we should see more of
his weakness than his strength.

Mr Harding allowed himself no rest till everything was prepared for
his departure from the hospital.  It may be as well to mention that he
was not driven to the stern necessity of selling all his furniture: he
had been quite in earnest in his intention to do so, but it was soon
made known to him that the claims of Messrs Cox and Cummins made no
such step obligatory.  The archdeacon had thought it wise to make use
of the threat of the lawyer's bill, to frighten his father-in-law into
compliance; but he had no intention to saddle Mr Harding with costs,
which had been incurred by no means exclusively for his benefit.
The amount of the bill was added to the diocesan account, and was,
in fact, paid out of the bishop's pocket, without any consciousness
on the part of his lordship.  A great part of his furniture he did
resolve to sell, having no other means to dispose of it; and the
ponies and carriage were transferred, by private contract, to the use
of an old maiden lady in the city.

For his present use Mr Harding took a lodging in Barchester, and
thither were conveyed such articles as he wanted for daily use:--his
music, books, and instruments, his own arm-chair, and Eleanor's pet
sofa; her teapoy and his cellaret, and also the slender but still
sufficient contents of his wine-cellar.  Mrs Grantly had much wished
that her sister would reside at Plumstead, till her father's house
at Crabtree should be ready for her; but Eleanor herself strongly
resisted this proposal.  It was in vain urged upon her, that a lady
in lodgings cost more than a gentleman; and that, under her father's
present circumstances, such an expense should be avoided.  Eleanor had
not pressed her father to give up the hospital in order that she might
live at Plumstead Rectory and he alone in his Barchester lodgings;
nor did Eleanor think that she would be treating a certain gentleman
very fairly, if she betook herself to the house which he would be the
least desirous of entering of any in the county.  So she got a little
bedroom for herself behind the sitting-room, and just over the little
back parlour of the chemist, with whom they were to lodge.  There was
somewhat of a savour of senna softened by peppermint about the place;
but, on the whole, the lodgings were clean and comfortable.

The day had been fixed for the migration of the ex-warden, and all
Barchester were in a state of excitement on the subject.  Opinion
was much divided as to the propriety of Mr Harding's conduct.  The
mercantile part of the community, the mayor and corporation, and
council, also most of the ladies, were loud in his praise.  Nothing
could be more noble, nothing more generous, nothing more upright.
But the gentry were of a different way of thinking,--especially the
lawyers and the clergymen.  They said such conduct was very weak and
undignified; that Mr Harding evinced a lamentable want of _esprit de
corps_, as well as courage; and that such an abdication must do much
harm, and could do but little good.

On the evening before he left, he summoned all the bedesmen into his
parlour to wish them good-bye.  With Bunce he had been in frequent
communication since his return from London, and had been at much
pains to explain to the old man the cause of his resignation, without
in any way prejudicing the position of his successor.  The others,
also, he had seen more or less frequently; and had heard from most of
them separately some expression of regret at his departure; but he had
postponed his farewell till the last evening.

He now bade the maid put wine and glasses on the table; and had the
chairs arranged around the room; and sent Bunce to each of the men to
request they would come and say farewell to their late warden.  Soon
the noise of aged scuffling feet was heard upon the gravel and in the
little hall, and the eleven men who were enabled to leave their rooms
were assembled.

"Come in, my friends, come in," said the warden;--he was still warden
then.  "Come in, and sit down;" and he took the hand of Abel Handy,
who was the nearest to him, and led the limping grumbler to a chair.
The others followed slowly and bashfully; the infirm, the lame, and
the blind: poor wretches! who had been so happy, had they but known
it!  Now their aged faces were covered with shame, and every kind word
from their master was a coal of fire burning on their heads.

When first the news had reached them that Mr Harding was going to
leave the hospital, it had been received with a kind of triumph;--his
departure was, as it were, a prelude to success.  He had admitted his
want of right to the money about which they were disputing; and as it
did not belong to him, of course, it did to them.  The one hundred a
year to each of them was actually becoming a reality; and Abel Handy
was a hero, and Bunce a faint-hearted sycophant, worthy neither honour
nor fellowship.  But other tidings soon made their way into the old
men's rooms.  It was first notified to them that the income abandoned
by Mr Harding would not come to them; and these accounts were
confirmed by attorney Finney.  They were then informed that Mr
Harding's place would be at once filled by another.  That the new
warden could not be a kinder man they all knew; that he would be a
less friendly one most suspected; and then came the bitter information
that, from the moment of Mr Harding's departure, the twopence a day,
his own peculiar gift, must of necessity be withdrawn.

And this was to be the end of all their mighty struggle,--of their
fight for their rights,--of their petition, and their debates, and
their hopes!  They were to change the best of masters for a possible
bad one, and to lose twopence a day each man!  No; unfortunate as this
was, it was not the worst, or nearly the worst, as will just now be
seen.

"Sit down, sit down, my friends," said the warden; "I want to say a
word to you and to drink your healths, before I leave you.  Come up
here, Moody, here is a chair for you; come, Jonathan Crumple;"--and by
degrees he got the men to be seated.  It was not surprising that they
should hang back with faint hearts, having returned so much kindness
with such deep ingratitude.  Last of all of them came Bunce, and with
sorrowful mien and slow step got into his accustomed seat near the
fire-place.

When they were all in their places, Mr Harding rose to address them;
and then finding himself not quite at home on his legs, he sat down
again.  "My dear old friends," said he, "you all know that I am going
to leave you."

There was a sort of murmur ran round the room, intended, perhaps, to
express regret at his departure; but it was but a murmur, and might
have meant that or anything else.

"There has been lately some misunderstanding between us. You have
thought, I believe, that you did not get all that you were entitled
to, and that the funds of the hospital have not been properly disposed
of.  As for me, I cannot say what should be the disposition of these
moneys, or how they should be managed, and I have therefore thought it
best to go."

"We never wanted to drive your reverence out of it," said Handy.

"No, indeed, your reverence," said Skulpit.  "We never thought it
would come to this.  When I signed the petition,--that is, I didn't
sign it, because--"

"Let his reverence speak, can't you?" said Moody.

"No," continued Mr Harding; "I am sure you did not wish to turn me
out; but I thought it best to leave you.  I am not a very good hand at
a lawsuit, as you may all guess; and when it seemed necessary that our
ordinary quiet mode of living should be disturbed, I thought it better
to go.  I am neither angry nor offended with any man in the hospital."

Here Bunce uttered a kind of groan, very clearly expressive of
disagreement.

"I am neither angry nor displeased with any man in the hospital,"
repeated Mr Harding, emphatically.  "If any man has been wrong,--and
I don't say any man has,--he has erred through wrong advice.  In this
country all are entitled to look for their own rights, and you have
done no more.  As long as your interests and my interests were at
variance, I could give you no counsel on this subject; but the
connection between us has ceased; my income can no longer depend on
your doings, and therefore, as I leave you, I venture to offer to you
my advice."

The men all declared that they would from henceforth be entirely
guided by Mr Harding's opinion in their affairs.

"Some gentleman will probably take my place here very soon, and I
strongly advise you to be prepared to receive him in a kindly spirit
and to raise no further question among yourselves as to the amount of
his income.  Were you to succeed in lessening what he has to receive,
you would not increase your own allowance.  The surplus would not go
to you; your wants are adequately provided for, and your position
could hardly be improved."

"God bless your reverence, we knows it," said Spriggs.

"It's all true, your reverence," said Skulpit.  "We sees it all now."

"Yes, Mr Harding," said Bunce, opening his mouth for the first time;
"I believe they do understand it now, now that they've driven from
under the same roof with them such a master as not one of them will
ever know again,--now that they're like to be in sore want of a
friend."

"Come, come, Bunce," said Mr Harding, blowing his nose and manoeuvring
to wipe his eyes at the same time.

"Oh, as to that," said Handy, "we none of us never wanted to do Mr
Harding no harm; if he's going now, it's not along of us; and I don't
see for what Mr Bunce speaks up agen us that way."

"You've ruined yourselves, and you've ruined me too, and that's why,"
said Bunce.

"Nonsense, Bunce," said Mr Harding; "there's nobody ruined at all.
I hope you'll let me leave you all friends; I hope you'll all drink
a glass of wine in friendly feeling with me and with one another.
You'll have a good friend, I don't doubt, in your new warden; and if
ever you want any other, why after all I'm not going so far off but
that I shall sometimes see you;" and then, having finished his speech,
Mr Harding filled all the glasses, and himself handed each a glass to
the men round him, and raising his own said:--

"God bless you all! you have my heartfelt wishes for your welfare.
I hope you may live contented, and die trusting in the Lord Jesus
Christ, and thankful to Almighty God for the good things he has given
you.  God bless you, my friends!" and Mr Harding drank his wine.

Another murmur, somewhat more articulate than the first, passed round
the circle, and this time it was intended to imply a blessing on Mr
Harding.  It had, however, but little cordiality in it.  Poor old
men! how could they be cordial with their sore consciences and shamed
faces? how could they bid God bless him with hearty voices and a true
benison, knowing, as they did, that their vile cabal had driven him
from his happy home, and sent him in his old age to seek shelter under
a strange roof-tree?  They did their best, however; they drank their
wine, and withdrew.

As they left the hall-door, Mr Harding shook hands with each of the
men, and spoke a kind word to them about their individual cases and
ailments; and so they departed, answering his questions in the fewest
words, and retreated to their dens, a sorrowful repentant crew.

All but Bunce, who still remained to make his own farewell.  "There's
poor old Bell," said Mr Harding; "I mustn't go without saying a word
to him; come through with me, Bunce, and bring the wine with you;"
and so they went through to the men's cottages, and found the old man
propped up as usual in his bed.

"I've come to say good-bye to you, Bell," said Mr Harding, speaking
loud, for the old man was deaf.

"And are you going away, then, really?" asked Bell.

"Indeed I am, and I've brought you a glass of wine; so that we may
part friends, as we lived, you know."

The old man took the proffered glass in his shaking hands, and drank
it eagerly.  "God bless you, Bell!" said Mr Harding; "good-bye, my old
friend."

"And so you're really going?" the man again asked.

"Indeed I am, Bell."

The poor old bed-ridden creature still kept Mr Harding's hand in his
own, and the warden thought that he had met with something like warmth
of feeling in the one of all his subjects from whom it was the least
likely to be expected; for poor old Bell had nearly outlived all human
feelings.  "And your reverence," said he, and then he paused, while
his old palsied head shook horribly, and his shrivelled cheeks sank
lower within his jaws, and his glazy eye gleamed with a momentary
light; "and your reverence, shall we get the hundred a year, then?"

How gently did Mr Harding try to extinguish the false hope of money
which had been so wretchedly raised to disturb the quiet of the dying
man!  One other week and his mortal coil would be shuffled off; in
one short week would God resume his soul, and set it apart for its
irrevocable doom; seven more tedious days and nights of senseless
inactivity, and all would be over for poor Bell in this world; and
yet, with his last audible words, he was demanding his moneyed rights,
and asserting himself to be the proper heir of John Hiram's bounty!
Not on him, poor sinner as he was, be the load of such sin!

Mr Harding returned to his parlour, meditating with a sick heart
on what he had seen, and Bunce with him.  We will not describe the
parting of these two good men, for good men they were.  It was in
vain that the late warden endeavoured to comfort the heart of the old
bedesman; poor old Bunce felt that his days of comfort were gone.  The
hospital had to him been a happy home, but it could be so no longer.
He had had honour there, and friendship; he had recognised his master,
and been recognised; all his wants, both of soul and body, had been
supplied, and he had been a happy man.  He wept grievously as he
parted from his friend, and the tears of an old man are bitter.
"It is all over for me in this world," said he, as he gave the last
squeeze to Mr Harding's hand; "I have now to forgive those who have
injured me;--and to die."

And so the old man went out, and then Mr Harding gave way to his grief
and he too wept aloud.




Chapter XXI

CONCLUSION

Our tale is now done, and it only remains to us to collect the
scattered threads of our little story, and to tie them into a seemly
knot.  This will not be a work of labour, either to the author or
to his readers; we have not to deal with many personages, or with
stirring events, and were it not for the custom of the thing, we might
leave it to the imagination of all concerned to conceive how affairs
at Barchester arranged themselves.

On the morning after the day last alluded to, Mr Harding, at an early
hour, walked out of the hospital, with his daughter under his arm, and
sat down quietly to breakfast at his lodgings over the chemist's shop.
There was no parade about his departure; no one, not even Bunce, was
there to witness it; had he walked to the apothecary's thus early to
get a piece of court plaster, or a box of lozenges, he could not have
done it with less appearance of an important movement.  There was a
tear in Eleanor's eye as she passed through the big gateway and over
the bridge; but Mr Harding walked with an elastic step, and entered
his new abode with a pleasant face.

"Now, my dear," said he, "you have everything ready, and you can
make tea here just as nicely as in the parlour at the hospital."  So
Eleanor took off her bonnet and made the tea.  After this manner did
the late Warden of Barchester Hospital accomplish his flitting, and
change his residence.

It was not long before the archdeacon brought his father to discuss
the subject of a new warden.  Of course he looked upon the nomination
as his own, and he had in his eye three or four fitting candidates,
seeing that Mr Cummins's plan as to the living of Puddingdale could
not be brought to bear.  How can I describe the astonishment which
confounded him, when his father declared that he would appoint no
successor to Mr Harding?  "If we can get the matter set to rights, Mr
Harding will return," said the bishop; "and if we cannot, it will be
wrong to put any other gentleman into so cruel a position."

It was in vain that the archdeacon argued and lectured, and even
threatened; in vain he my-lorded his poor father in his sternest
manner; in vain his "good heavens!" were ejaculated in a tone that
might have moved a whole synod, let alone one weak and aged bishop.
Nothing could induce his father to fill up the vacancy caused by Mr
Harding's retirement.

Even John Bold would have pitied the feelings with which the
archdeacon returned to Plumstead: the church was falling, nay, already
in ruins; its dignitaries were yielding without a struggle before the
blows of its antagonists; and one of its most respected bishops, his
own father,--the man considered by all the world as being in such
matters under his, Dr Grantly's, control,--had positively resolved to
capitulate, and own himself vanquished!

And how fared the hospital under this resolve of its visitor?  Badly
indeed.  It is now some years since Mr Harding left it, and the
warden's house is still tenantless.  Old Bell has died, and Billy
Gazy; the one-eyed Spriggs has drunk himself to death, and three
others of the twelve have been gathered into the churchyard mould.
Six have gone, and the six vacancies remain unfilled!  Yes, six have
died, with no kind friend to solace their last moments, with no
wealthy neighbour to administer comforts and ease the stings of death.
Mr Harding, indeed, did not desert them; from him they had such
consolation as a dying man may receive from his Christian pastor; but
it was the occasional kindness of a stranger which ministered to them,
and not the constant presence of a master, a neighbour, and a friend.

Nor were those who remained better off than those who died.
Dissensions rose among them, and contests for pre-eminence; and
then they began to understand that soon one among them would be the
last,--some one wretched being would be alone there in that now
comfortless hospital,--the miserable relic of what had once been so
good and so comfortable.

The building of the hospital itself has not been allowed to go to
ruins.  Mr Chadwick, who still holds his stewardship, and pays the
accruing rents into an account opened at a bank for the purpose, sees
to that; but the whole place has become disordered and ugly.  The
warden's garden is a wretched wilderness, the drive and paths are
covered with weeds, the flower-beds are bare, and the unshorn lawn is
now a mass of long damp grass and unwholesome moss.  The beauty of the
place is gone; its attractions have withered.  Alas! a very few years
since it was the prettiest spot in Barchester, and now it is a
disgrace to the city.

Mr Harding did not go out to Crabtree Parva.  An arrangement was made
which respected the homestead of Mr Smith and his happy family, and
put Mr Harding into possession of a small living within the walls of
the city.  It is the smallest possible parish, containing a part of
the Cathedral Close and a few old houses adjoining.  The church is a
singular little Gothic building, perched over a gateway, through which
the Close is entered, and is approached by a flight of stone steps
which leads down under the archway of the gate.  It is no bigger
than an ordinary room,--perhaps twenty-seven feet long by eighteen
wide,--but still it is a perfect church.  It contains an old carved
pulpit and reading-desk, a tiny altar under a window filled with dark
old-coloured glass, a font, some half-dozen pews, and perhaps a dozen
seats for the poor; and also a vestry.  The roof is high pitched, and
of black old oak, and the three large beams which support it run down
to the side walls, and terminate in grotesquely carved faces,--two
devils and an angel on one side, two angels and a devil on the other.
Such is the church of St Cuthbert at Barchester, of which Mr Harding
became rector, with a clear income of seventy-five pounds a year.

Here he performs afternoon service every Sunday, and administers the
Sacrament once in every three months.  His audience is not large; and,
had they been so, he could not have accommodated them: but enough come
to fill his six pews, and on the front seat of those devoted to the
poor is always to be seen our old friend Mr Bunce, decently arrayed in
his bedesman's gown.

Mr Harding is still precentor of Barchester; and it is very rarely
the case that those who attend the Sunday morning service miss the
gratification of hearing him chant the Litany, as no other man in
England can do it.  He is neither a discontented nor an unhappy
man; he still inhabits the lodgings to which he went on leaving the
hospital, but he now has them to himself.  Three months after that
time Eleanor became Mrs Bold, and of course removed to her husband's
house.

There were some difficulties to be got over on the occasion of the
marriage.  The archdeacon, who could not so soon overcome his grief,
would not be persuaded to grace the ceremony with his presence, but he
allowed his wife and children to be there.  The marriage took place
in the cathedral, and the bishop himself officiated.  It was the last
occasion on which he ever did so; and, though he still lives, it is
not probable that he will ever do so again.

Not long after the marriage, perhaps six months, when Eleanor's
bridal-honours were fading, and persons were beginning to call her Mrs
Bold without twittering, the archdeacon consented to meet John Bold at
a dinner-party, and since that time they have become almost friends.
The archdeacon firmly believes that his brother-in-law was, as a
bachelor, an infidel, an unbeliever in the great truths of our
religion; but that matrimony has opened his eyes, as it has those of
others.  And Bold is equally inclined to think that time has softened
the asperities of the archdeacon's character.  Friends though they
are, they do not often revert to the feud of the hospital.

Mr Harding, we say, is not an unhappy man: he keeps his lodgings, but
they are of little use to him, except as being the one spot on earth
which he calls his own.  His time is spent chiefly at his daughter's
or at the palace; he is never left alone, even should he wish to be
so; and within a twelvemonth of Eleanor's marriage his determination
to live at his own lodging had been so far broken through and
abandoned, that he consented to have his violoncello permanently
removed to his daughter's house.

Every other day a message is brought to him from the bishop.  "The
bishop's compliments, and his lordship is not very well to-day, and
he hopes Mr Harding will dine with him."  This bulletin as to the old
man's health is a myth; for though he is over eighty he is never ill,
and will probably die some day, as a spark goes out, gradually and
without a struggle.  Mr Harding does dine with him very often, which
means going to the palace at three and remaining till ten; and
whenever he does not the bishop whines, and says that the port wine is
corked, and complains that nobody attends to him, and frets himself
off to bed an hour before his time.

It was long before the people of Barchester forgot to call Mr Harding
by his long well-known name of Warden.  It had become so customary to
say Mr Warden, that it was not easily dropped.  "No, no," he always
says when so addressed, "not warden now, only precentor."




