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 13
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 clergymen 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 grand-uncle’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?”