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 is 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 anyone 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 the 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 to 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 observances.”
“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 a 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.