Barchester Towers..............................................................................................................................................1

Anthony Trollope .....................................................................................................................................1

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

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 waysWho was to be the new Bishop?

The death of old Dr Grantly, who had for many years filled the chair with meek authority, took place exactly

as the ministry of Lord was going to give place to that 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

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 was

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

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

Lazaruswhich is, by the bye, in many respects the most comfortable, as well as the richest college at

Oxford,was the archdeacon's most intimate friend and most trusted counsellor. On the occasion of the

prime minister's visit, Dr Grantly was of course present, and the meeting was very gracious. On the following

morning Dr Gwynne, the master, told the archdeacon that in his opinion the matter was settled.

At this time the bishop was quite on his last legs; but the ministry was also 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

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 diningroom, 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

The ministry were to be out within five days: his father was to be dead withinNo, 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 that 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 of

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 twentyfour hours, but during the short periods of his waking moments, he knew both his son and his

dear friend Mr Harding, the archdeacon's fatherinlaw, 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

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

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 soninlaw. He was

standing close beside the archdeacon before he was perceived, and would have also 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

'God bless you, my dears,'said the bishop with feeble voice as he woke'God bless youmay God bless

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 thinknay, 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

'My lord's no more,' said Mrs Phillips, turning round and curtseying with a solemn face; 'His lordship's gone

'It's a great relief, archdeacon,' said Mr Harding, 'A great reliefdear good, excellent old man. Oh that our

'Surely,' said Mrs Phillips. 'The Lord be praised for all his mercies; but, for a meek, mild, gentlespoken

Christian, his lordship was' and Mrs Phillips, with unaffected but easy grief, put up her white apron to her

'You cannot but rejoice that it is over,' said Mr Harding, still counselling 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, to dally with the fact of the bishop's

deathuseless to lose perhaps everything for the pretence of a foolish sentiment.

But how was he to act while his fatherinlaw stood there holding his hand? How, without appearing

unfeeling, was he to forget his father in the bishopto overlook what he had lost, and think only of what he

'No; I suppose not,' said he, at last, in answer to Mr Harding. 'We have all expected it for so long.'

Mr Harding took him by the arm and led him from the room. 'We will see him again tomorrow morning,'

said he; 'We had better leave the room now to the woman.' 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

'I! Oh yes; certainly: I'll do it, 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.'

'There,' said he. 'Just take that to the telegraph office at the railway station, and give it 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

halfacrown.' And the archdeacon put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the necessary sum.

Mr Harding felt very much like an errandboy, 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.

'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

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 to 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

'But, archdeacon,' said, he turning back, 'I forgot to tell youthe ministry are out.'

'Out!' ejaculated the archdeacon, in a tone which too plainly showed the anxiety of his 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

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 some one, 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

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 seacoal 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

He opened the cover in which the message was enclosed, and having read it, he took his pen and wrote on the

Thus terminated our unfortunate friend's chance of possessing the glories of a bishopric.

The names of many divines were given in the papers as that of the bishop elect. The British Grandmother

This was a heavy blow to Dr Grantly, but he was not doomed to see himself superseded by his friend. The

Anglican Devotee put forward confidently the claims of a great London preacher of austere doctrines; and

The Eastern Hemisphere, an evening paper supposed to possess much official knowledge, declared in favour

of an eminent naturalist, a gentleman most completely versed in the knowledge of rocks and minerals, but

supposed by many to hold on religious subjects no special doctrines whatever. The Jupiter, that daily paper

which, as we all know, is the only true source of infallibly correct information on all subjects, for a while was

silent, but at last spoke out. The merits of all these candidates were discussed and somewhat irreverently

Dr Proudie was the man. Just a month after the demise of the late bishop, Dr Proudie kissed the Queen's hand

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

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 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 firstrate embassy; and a poor

novelist when he attempts to rival Dickens or rise above Fitzjames, commits no fault, though he may be

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

Our archdeacon was worldlywho among us is not so? He was ambitiouswho among us is ashamed to

own that 'last infirmity of noble minds!' He was avaricious, my readers will say. Noit was not for 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 a

bishop. But he certainly did desire to play first fiddle; he did desire to sit in full lawn sleeves amongst the

peers of the realm; and he did desire, if the truth must be out, to be called 'My Lord' by the reverend brethren.

His hopes, however, were they innocent or sinful, were not fated to be realised; and Dr Proudie was

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 upon 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 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 the pressure of these attacks, Mr Harding had

resigned his wardenship, though strongly recommended to abstain from doing so, both by his friends and 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 emoluments which had hitherto been supposed to be joined, as a matter of course, to the

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

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 readingroom 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 its kind had so

much research been joined with such exalted musical ability, and asserting that the name of Harding would

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 underlying fame promised to our friend was clearly intended to be

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 remnants 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, and it appeared as though the hospital at Barchester would fall into abeyance, unless the

powers that be should take some steps towards putting it once more into working order.

During the past five years the powers that be had not overlooked Barchester Hospital, and sundry political

doctors had taken the matter in hand. Shortly after Mr Harding's resignation, the Jupiter had very clearly

shown what ought to be done. In about half a column it had distributed the income, rebuilt the building, put

an end to all bickerings, regenerated kindly feeling, provided for Mr Harding, and placed the whole thing on a

footing which could not but be satisfactory to the city and Bishop of Barchester, and to the nation at large.

The wisdom of this scheme was testified by the number of letters which "Common Sense", "Veritas", and

"One that loves fair play," sent to the Jupiter, all expressing admiration and amplifying on the details given. It

is singular enough that no adverse letter appeared at all, and, therefore, none of course was written.

But Cassandra was not believed, and even the wisdom of the Jupiter sometimes falls on deaf ears. Though

other plans did not put themselves forward in the columns of the Jupiter, reformers of church charities were

not slack to make known in various places their different nostrums for setting Hiram's Hospital on its feet

again. A learned bishop took occasion, in the Upper House, to allude to the matter, intimating that he had

communicated on the subject with his right reverend brother of Barchester. The radical member for

Staleybridge had suggested that the funds should be alienated for the education of the agricultural poor of the

country, and he amused the House by some anecdotes touching the superstition and habits of the

agriculturists in question. A political pamphleteer had produced a few dozen pages, which he called 'Who are

Hiram's heirs?' intending to give an infallible rule for the governance of 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 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

reread, 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 fortyfive gentlemen would

take on themselves to make a law altering the whole purport of the 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

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, each with 1s 2d a day; that there should be a matron with a house

and L 70 a year; a steward with L 150 a year, who should have the spiritual guidance of that appertaining to

the male sex. The bishop, dean, and warden, were, as formerly, to appoint in turn the recipients of the charity,

and the bishop was to appoint the officers. There was nothing said as to the wardenship being held by the

precentor of the cathedral, nor a word as to Mr Harding's right to the situation.

It was not, however, till some months after the death of the old bishop, and almost immediately consequent

on the installation of his successor, that notice was given that the reform was about to be carried out. The new

law and the new bishop were among the earliest works of a new ministry, or rather of a ministry who, having

for a while given place to their opponents, had then returned to power; and the death of Dr Grantly occurred,

Poor Eleanor Bold! How well does that widow's cap become her, and the solemn gravity with which she

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

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 firstrate abilities, that attempt at being better than his

neighbours which jarred so painfully on the feelings of his acquaintances, did not injure him in the estimation

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

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 not 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

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

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 into his face from her knees, he 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 reecho the word with true

sisterly energy; and Mary Boldbut 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

And in this 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 everrunning 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 they are 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

I would not, however, have it imagined that Mrs Bold forgot her husband. She really 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 infant tongue would make his first effort in calling her by the sweetest name a woman

can hear. And so Eleanor's bosom became tranquil, and she set about her new duties eagerly and gratefully.

As regards the concerns of the world, John Bold had left his widow in prosperous circumstances. He had

bequeathed to her all that he possessed, and that comprised an income much exceeding what she or her

friends thought necessary for her. It amounted to nearly a thousand a year; and when she reflected on its

extent, her dearest hope was to hand it over, not only unimpaired, but increased, to her husband's son, to her

own darling, to the little man who now lay sleeping on her knee, happily ignorant of the cares which were to

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 house of his own, and so remained in the lodgings he had first selected over a

This narrative is supposed to commence immediately after the installation of Dr Proudie. I will not describe

the ceremony, as I do not precisely understand its nature. I am ignorant whether a bishop be chaired like a

member of parliament, or carried in a gilt coach like a lord mayor, or sworn in like a justice of the 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 every thing was properly done, and that nothing fit or becoming to a young bishop was omitted on

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 observations 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 a Irish baron by his mother's side, and his wife was the niece of a Scottish 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 a preacher to the royal beefeaters, curator of theological

manuscripts in the Ecclesiastical Courts, chaplain of the Queen's Yeomanry Guard, and almoner to his Royal

His residence in the metropolis, rendered necessary by the duties entrusted to him, his high connections, and

the peculiar talents and nature of the man, recommended him to persons in power; and Dr Proudie became

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 a

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 rectornowhere were the

When, however, Dr Whately was made an archbishop, and Dr Hampden some years afterwards regius

professor, many wise divines saw that a change was taking place in men's minds, and that more liberal ideas

would henceforward be suitable to the priests as well as to the laity. Clergymen began to be heard of who had

ceased to anathematise papists on the one hand, or vilify dissenters on the other. It appeared clear that high

church principles, as they are called, were no longer to be the 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

Such a man at such a time was found to be useful, and Dr Proudie's name began to appear in the newspapers.

He was made one of a commission who went over to Ireland to arrange matters preparative to the working of

the national board; he became honorary secretary to another commission nominated to inquire into the

revenues of cathedral chapters; and had had something to do with both the regium donum and the Maynooth

It must not be 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

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. His 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

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

Dr Proudie was an ambitious man, and before he was well consecrated Bishop of Barchester, he had begun to

look up to archepiscopal 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 the

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 the people of Barchester. Dr Grantly had always lived there; and in truth it

was hard for a bishop to be popular after Dr Grantly. His income had averaged L 9000 a year; his successor

was to be rigidly limited to L 5000. He had but one child on whom to spend his money; Dr Proudie had seven

or eight. He had been a man of few personal expenses, and they had been confined to the tastes of a moderate

gentleman; but Dr Proudie had to maintain a position in fashionable society, and had that to do with

comparatively small means. Dr Grantly had certainly kept his carriages, as became a bishop; but his carriage,

horses, and coachmen, 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

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

In person Dr Proudie is a goodlooking 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

Dr Proudie may well be said to have been a fortunate man, for he was not born to wealth, and he is now

bishop of Barchester; but nevertheless he has his cares. He has a large family, of whom the three eldest are

daughters, now all grown up and fit for fashionable life; and he has a wife. It is not my intention to breathe a

word against the character of Mrs Proudie, but still I cannot think that with all her virtues she adds much to

her husband's happiness. The truth is that in matters domestic she rules supreme over her titular lord, and

rules with a rod of iron. Nor is this all. Things domestic Dr Proudie might have abandoned to her, if not

voluntarily, yet willingly. But Mrs Proudie is not satisfied with such home dominion, and stretches her power

over all his movements, and will not even abstain from things spiritual. In fact, the bishop is henpecked.

The archdeacon's wife, in her happy home at Plumstead, knows how to assume the full privileges of her rank,

and express her own mind in becoming tone and place. But Mrs Grantly's sway, if sway she has, is easy and

beneficent. She never shames her husband; before the world she is a pattern of obedience; her voice is never

loud, nor her looks sharp: doubtless she values power, and has not unsuccessfully striven to acquire it; but she

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

selfjustification; and is aware that submission produces the nearest approach to peace which his own house

Mrs Proudie has not been able to sit at the boards and committees to which her husband has been called by

the state; nor, as he often reflects, can she make her voice heard in the House of Lords. It may be that she will

refuse to him permission to attend to this branch of a bishop's duties; it may be that she will insist on his close

attendance to his own closet. He has never whispered a word on the subject to living ears, but he has already

made his fixed resolve. Should such an attempt be made he will rebel. Dogs have turned against their masters,

and even Neapolitans against their rulers, when oppression has been too severe. And Dr Proudie feels within

himself that if the cord be drawn too tight, he also can muster courage and resist.

The state of vassalage in which our bishop had 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, andwe may say auburn hair, they all inherit. They

think somewhat too much of their grand uncles, who have not hitherto returned the compliment by thinking

much of them. But now that their father is a bishop, it is probable that family ties will be drawn closer.

Considering their connection with the church, they entertain but few prejudices against the pleasures of the

world; and have certainly not distressed their parents, as too many English girls have lately done, by any

enthusiastic wish to devote themselves to the seclusion of a protestant nunnery. Dr Proudie's sons are still at

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 the 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 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 soulstirring 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 sixfoot hero who escorts Mrs Proudie to her pew in red plush breeches, if he

slips away to the neighbouring beershop, 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 the 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

Mr Slope, however, on his first introduction must not be brought before the public at the tail of a chapter.

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

presumed 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

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 MA, 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

Having been thus familiarly thrown among the Misses Proudie, it was 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

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 that their high

birth and social advantages, expected for them matches of a different sort. Neither the gentleman nor the lady

found it necessary to enlighten her. Olivia's two sisters had each known of the affair, so had all the servants,

so had all the people living in the adjoining houses on either side; but Mrs Proudie had been kept in the dark.

Mr Slope soon comforted himself with the reflection that, as he had been selected as chaplain to the bishop, it

would probably be in his power to get the good things in the bishop's gift, without troubling himself with the

bishop's daughter; and he found himself able to endure the pangs of rejected love. As he sat himself down in

the railway carriage, confronting the bishop and Mrs Proudie, as they started on their first journey to

Barchester, he began to form in his own mind a plan of his future life. He knew well his patron's strong

points, but he knew the weak ones as well. He understood correctly enough to what attempts the new bishop's

high spirit would soar, and he rightly guessed that public life would better suit the great man's taste, than the

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

mindMrs 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 the wife, inspire courage into the unhappy

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 WesleyanMethodists 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 fullbreasted black silk waistcoat is with him a symbol of Satan; and a profane

jestbook 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 mouthit 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 his power over the female heart. To him, the

revelation of God appears 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 that fell from the divine lips on the

mountain'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth''Blessed are the merciful, for the 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

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 wellformed; though I

myself should have liked it better if it did not possess a somewhat spongy, porous appearance, as though it

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 Slopesuch 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 wellused, wellfed minor canons, who have grown into

But not as a mere associate for those 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

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 priestgoverned, though they have probably never confessed as 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 on 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 a quite 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 of 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 is careful to meddle with none who are too strong in intellect, or too weak in flesh, he

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 dinnerparties, or dreaded the dangers of a moderate claretjug;

consequently dinnerparties and claretjugs 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

Of Mr Slope's conduct much cannot be said, as his grand career is yet to commence; but it may be presumed

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 exacted and

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 outin thy eating

and thy drinking,' ccWith the rich, experience has already taught him 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 priestly charmer 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.

It was known that Dr Proudie would immediately have to reappoint to the wardenship of the hospital under

the act of Parliament to which allusion has been made; but no one imagined that any choice was left to

himno 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 the greatest of mortals, that important atom of humanity, that little god upon

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 conversation in such

an interview. In the affair of the consecration of 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

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

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

His lordship was at home, and the two visitors were shown through the accustomed hall into the wellknown

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, and

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 away. 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

buffcoloured trumpery moreen which Mrs Proudie had deemed good enough for her husband's own room in

Our friends found Dr Proudie sitting on the old bishop's chair, looking very nice in his new apron; they

found, too, Mr Slope standing on the hearthrug, persuasive and eager, just as the archdeacon used to stand;

but on the sofa they also found Mrs Proudie, an innovation for which a precedent might be in vain be sought

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 it 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 the 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 pockethandkerchief. 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 duties as well,' suggested Mr Slope. Mr

Harding acknowledged the diminutive incumbency of St Cuthbert's. Mr Slope then left him alone, having

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 thatto that and to 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 selfassured, 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

'Do you reside in Barchester, Dr Grantly?' asked the lady with the 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

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

Dr Grantly again bowed, but said nothing. He could have bought every single 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 their marriage; whereas Mrs Proudie

had been hitherto jobbed about the streets of London at so much a month during the season; and at other

'Are the arrangements with reference to the Sabbathday schools generally pretty good in your

'Sabbathday schools!' repeated the archdeacon with an affectation of surprise. 'Upon my word, I can't tell; it

This was almost a fib on the part of the Archdeacon, for Mrs Grantly has a very nice school. To be sure it is

not a Sunday School exclusively, and is not so designated; but that exemplary lady always attends there an

hour before church, and hears the children say their catechism, and sees that they are clean and tidy for

church, with their hands washed, and their shoes tied; and Grisel and Florinda, her daughters, carry thither a

basket of large buns, baked on the Saturday afternoon, and distribute them to all the children not especially

under disgrace, which buns are carried home after church with considerable content, and eaten hot at tea,

being then split and toasted. The children of Plumstead would indeed open their eyes if they heard their

Mr Slope merely opened his eyes wider, and slightly shrugged his shoulders. He was not, however, prepared

'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 trains 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, their 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?'

Mr Harding thought that all porters and stokers, guards, breaksmen, pointsmen ought to have an opportunity

'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 by 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 the palace repairs had been such as to meet his wishes.

'Yes, yes,' said his lordship; upon the whole he thought soupon the whole, he didn't know that there was

much ground for complaint; the architect, perhaps, might havebut 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

'Perhaps so,' said the other; 'indeed, I've no doubt of it; but visitors, you know, often require so much

accommodation. There are 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 coachhouse, Dr Grantly,' continued Mr Slope; 'there is really hardly any room for a second carriage

'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 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

Mr Slope had, moreover, observed that the locks of the outhouses were very imperfect: he might specify the

Mrs Proudie had also seen that those on the doors of the servants' bedrooms were in an equally bad condition;

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 very sorry, however, that so many things had been found amiss: and then he

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 crossexamination as the iniquity

of Sabbatical amusements. Over and over again had she thrown out her 'surely, surely,' at Mr Harding's

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,

it they differed, in silence. But Mrs Proudie interrogated him, and then lectured. 'Neither thou, nor thy son,

nor thy daughter, nor thy man servant, nor thy maid servant,' said she, impressively, and more than once, as

though Mr Harding had forgotten the words. She shook her finger at him as she quoted the favourite law, as

though menacing him with punishment; and then called upon him categorically to state whether he did not

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 so may 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 for 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

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

And now, had I the pen of a might 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 to the close. The road from the palace door turns to the left, through the spacious

Till they had 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 eventhat mild and

'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 from

the uplifted beaver as it were a cloud of wrath, and the safetyvalve of his anger opened, and emitted a

visible steam, preventing positive explosion and probably 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

'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 Barchesterbred living thing should like Mr Slope!

The archdeacon thereupon forgot himself. I will not follow his example, nor shock my readers by transcribing

the term in which he expressed his feelings as to the lady who had been named. The ravens and the last

lingering notes of the clock bells were less scrupulous, and repeated in corresponding echoes the very

improper exclamation. The archdeacon again raised his hat; and another salutary escape of steam was

There was a pause, during which the precentor tried to realise the fact that the wife of the bishop of

Barchester had been thus designated, in the close of the cathedral, by the lips of its own archdeacon: but he

'The bishop seems a quiet man enough,' suggested Mr Harding, having acknowledged to himself his own

'Idiot!' exclaimed the doctor, who for the nonce was not capable of more than spasmodic attempts at

'Well, he did not seem very bright,' said Mr Harding, 'and yet he has always had the reputation of a clever

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

If he, our archdeacon, refused to combat, Mr Slope would walk triumphant over the field, and have the

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;

toBah! 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.

'Bishop! NoI'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

'Like him!' again shouted the doctor, and the assenting ravens again cawed an echo; 'of course you don't like

'Yeswhat are we to do with him? How are we to treat him? There he is, and there he'll stay. He has put his

foot in that palace, and he will never take it out again till he's driven. How are we to get rid of him?'

'Not do harm!Well I think you'll find yourself of a different opinion before a month is gone. What would

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

'Impudent scoundrel!' he exclaimed after a while. 'To dare to crossexamine me about Sunday schools in the

diocese, and Sunday travelling too: I never in my life met his equal for sheer impudence. Why, he must have

'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 clergyman disreputable. It is not the dissenters or the papists that we

should fear, but the set of canting, lowbred 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

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

Hitherto Barchester had escaped the taint of any extreme rigour of church doctrine. The clergymen of the city

and the neighbourhood, though very well inclined to promote highchurch 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 not 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 at 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

It was true that he could not himself intone the service, but he could pressure the cooperation 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 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

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

'Yes, she shall call there; but it shall be once and once only. I dare say "the horses" won't find it convenient to

'I don't suppose Eleanor need call. I don't think Eleanor would get on at all well with Mrs Proudie.'

'Not the least necessity in life,' replied the archdeacon, not without the reflection that a ceremony which was

necessary for his wife, might not be at all binding on the widow of John Bold. 'Not the slightest reason on

earth why she should do so, if she doesn't like it. For myself, I don't think that any decent young woman

And so the two clergymen parted. Mr Harding going to his daughter's house, and the archdeacon seeking the

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 accuratelydefined 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 de 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

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 Honourable and Reverend Dr Vesey Stanhope, who at this time was very busy on the shores of Lake

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 summerday considerations; and the vicarchoral,

who was to take his place in the pulpit, by no means objected to having his word 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

On this occasion the new bishop took his seat for the first time in the throne allotted to him. New scarlet

cushions and drapery had been prepared, with new gilt binding and new fringe. The old carved oakwood of

the throne, ascending with its numerous grotesque pinnacles, halfway up to the rood 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 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

The service was certainly 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 of 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 precept 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

'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 the 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 for either a

It would not be becoming were I to travesty a sermon, or even 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 the reverence that is due to the cloth. I may question the infallibility of the teachers,

but I hope that I shall not therefore be accused of doubt as to the thing to be taught.

Mr Slope, in commencing his sermon, showed no slight tact in his ambiguous manner of hinting that, humble

as he was himself, he stood there as the mouthpiece of the illustrious divine who sat opposite to him; and

having presumed 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 on were exactly those which were most distasteful to the clergy of the diocese, and

most averse to their practices and opinions; and that all those peculiar habits and privileges which have

always been dear to highchurch priests, to that party which is now scandalously called the highanddry

church, were ridiculed, abused, and anathematised. Now, the clergymen of the diocese of Barchester are all of

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 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 the 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 not but unknown in the diocese; and from thence he came round to

the undue preponderance, which he asserted, music 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 faithshould not only believe, but digestnot 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

Here was a sermon to be preached before Mr Archdeacon Grantly, Mr Precentor Harding, and the rest of

them! Before a whole dean and chapter assembled in their own cathedral! Before men who had grown old in

the exercise of their peculiar services, with a full conviction of their excellence for all intended purposes!

This too from such a man, a clerical parvenu, a man without a cure, a mere chaplain, an intruder among them;

a fellow raked up, so said Dr Grantly, from the gutters of Marylebone! They had to sit through it! None of

them, not even Dr Grantly, could close his ears, nor leave the house of God during the hours of service. They

were under an obligation of listening, and that too, without any immediate power of reply.

There is, perhaps, no greater hardship at present inflicted on mankind in civilised and free countries than the

necessity of listening to sermons. No one but a preaching clergyman has, in these realms, the power of

compelling audiences to sit silent, and be tormented. No one but a preaching clergyman can revel in

platitudes, truisms, and untruisms, (sic) and yet receive, as his undisputed privilege, the same respectful

demeanour as though words of impassioned eloquence, or persuasive logic, fell from his lips. Let a professor

of law or physic find his place in a lectureroom, 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 per force by none but the jury, prisoner, and

gaoler (sic). A member of parliament can be coughed down or counted out. Towncouncillors 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

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 selfconfident 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 prayerbook is good, nay, you yourself would be

acceptable, if you would read to me some portion of those timehonoured 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 (sic) and

denouncings (sic), your humming and hawing, your ohing and ahing, your black gloves and your white

handkerchief. To me, it all means nothing; and hours are too precious to be so wastedif one could only

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 selfexaltation. 'I have preached nine

sermons this week, four the week before. I have preached twentythree sermons this month. It is really too

much.' '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 itwould that you could be made to feel it.' But he never

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 found form one enraged parson to another, with widespread nostrils from which already burst

forth fumes of indignation, and with many shufflings (sic) of the feet and uneasy motions of the body, which

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

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 the 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 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 chaplain, 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

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

may of the Barchesterians, to go on as they had done in their old humdrum way, giving ear to none of the

religious changes which were moving the world without. People in advance of the age now had new ideas,

and it was quite time that Barchester should go in advance. Mr Slope might be right. Sunday certainly had to

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; Sabbathday

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 hard work to the

young mind as bookkeeping is to the elderly; and that quite as little feeling of worship enters into 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

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 manthat is, no gentlemancould possibly be attracted by

Mr Slope, or consent to sit at the feet of so abhorrent a Gamaliel. Ladies are sometimes less nice in their

appreciation of physical disqualification; and, provided that a man speak to them well, they will listen,

though he speak from a mouth never so deformed and hideous. Wilkes was most fortunate as a lover; and the

damp, sandyhaired, saucereyed, redfisted 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 them 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 L 400 a year, should look after the loaves and

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

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 have been 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: 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 firegrate, and the tails of his frock coat supported over his two arms. His hands were in his breeches

'It is quite clear that this man must not be allowed to preach again in the 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 ourswith 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 to 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, oldfashioned, and useless! I

don't know whether to most 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 ushere within the walls of our own loved cathedralhere where we have for so many

years exercised our ministry, without schism and with good repute. Such an attack upon us, coming from

'Abominable,' groaned the dean. 'Abominable,' muttered the meagre doctor. 'Abominable,' reechoed the

chancellor, uttering a 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 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 invariable 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

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

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 fargoing advocates for strong measures, declared that this 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 himthe enthusiastically religious young ladies, and the middleaged

spinsters desirous of a moveof 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

Dr and Mrs Proudie at once returned to London. They thought it expedient not to have to encounter any

personal applications 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 very few clergy who would receive him, visiting the houses of the poor,

inquiring into all people, prying into everything, and searching with the minutest eye into all palatial

dilapidation. He did not, however, make any immediate attempt to preach again in the cathedral.

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 sisterinlaw. On the first outbreak of the wrath of the

denizens of the close, none had been more animated against the intruder than those 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

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

drawingroom 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 drawingroom, and they

had not 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

In this manner was Mr Slope received. But when he left, he was allowed by each lady to take her hand, and to

make his adieux as gentlemen do who have been graciously entertained! Yes; he shook hands with them, and

was curtseyed out courteously, the buttoned page opening the door, as he would have done for the best canon

of them all. He had touched the baby's little hand and blessed him with a fervid blessing; he had spoken to the

widow of her early sorrows, and Eleanor's silent tears had not rebuked him; he had told Mary Bold that her

devotion would be rewarded, and Mary Bold had heard the praise without disgust. And how had he done all

this? How had he so quickly turned aversion into, at any rate, acquaintance? How had he overcome the

enmity with which those 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

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 drawingroom 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 of so highly as it did of Mr Harding. And so he went on, unsaying a great deal of his

sermon, expressing his highest admiration for the precentor's musical talents, eulogising the father and the

daughter and the sisterinlaw, 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

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 he eyes rather wider than usual when he heard what had

occurred, but he said little; he could not agree in any praise of Mr Slope, and it was not his practice to say

much evil of any one. He did not, however, like the visit, and simpleminded 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 house and his twelve bedesmen.

'This new act of parliament, that is to put us all on our feet again,' continued he, 'settles my income at four

'Four hundred and fifty,' said she, 'instead of eight hundred! Well; that is rather shabby. But still, papa, you'll

'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 drawingroom. '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 ofI 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

'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

'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 the 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; and old man, now over ninety, who had long

'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

'She won't want to be managed. She'll be a great lady herself, I suppose. But, papa, where will the matron

'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

Mr Harding explained that he thought there was no doubt; that the archdeacon had declared as much, saying

that the bishop and his chaplain between them had not the power to appoint any once else, even if they had

the will to do so, and sufficient impudence to carry out such a will. The archdeacon was of the 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

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 satisfied that his fatherinlaw's conduct had not been pusillanimous and

undignified. He looked also on this reduction of the warden's income as a 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

But though he felt that the glory and honour of the situation of warden of Barchester hospital was 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 the 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 fatherinlaw, who had at present little more than L 200 per annum for all his wants, should

Mr Harding had, accordingly, made up his mind that he would return to his old house 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.

'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, that 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

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,

'I think you do, papa. I think he intended no personal disrespect to you when he preached the sermon which

'I never supposed that 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's of God's services, as conducted in conformity with the rules of the

'But might it not be that he thought it his duty to express his dissent from that which you, and the dean, and

'It can hardly be the duty of any young man rudely to assail the religious convictions of his elders of 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

'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 to urbane and

courteous conduct among men, than any other study which men 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

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

It is now three months since Dr Proudie began his reign, and changes had already been affected 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

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 cooperation 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 the want of

feeling was, in most of them, accompanied by so great an amount of good nature that their neighbours failed

to perceive how indifferent to them was the happiness and wellbeing 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

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 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 everythingexcept 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

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 fiftyfive, 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 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 condescended to construct a decoration.

But when we have said that Mrs Stanhope knew how to dress, and used her knowledge daily, we have said

all. Other purpose in life she had none. It was something, indeed, that she did not interfere with the purposes

of others. In early life she had undergone great trials with reference to the doctor's dinners; but for the last ten

or twelve years her eldest daughter Charlotte had taken that labour off her hands, and she had had little to

trouble her;little, that is, till the edict for this terrible English journey had gone forth; since, then, indeed,

her life had been laborious enough. For such a one, the toil of being carried from the shores of Como to the

city of Barchester is more than labour enough, let the cares 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 thirtyfive 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 grace 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

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 wellbeing, 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 as 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

Miss Stanhope was a clever woman, able to talk on most subjects, and quite indifferent as to what the subject

was. She prided herself on her freedom from English prejudice, and she might have added, from feminine

delicacy. On religion she was a pure freethinker, and with much want of true affection, delighted to throw out

her own views before the troubled mind of her father. To have shaken what remained of his Church of

England faith would have gratified her much; but the idea of his abandoning his preferment in the church had

never once presented itself to her mind. How could he indeed, when he had no income from any other

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 seventeen years of age, and had been allowed to make the most of her surpassing beauty in the

saloons of Milan, and among the crowded villas along the shores of the Lake of Como. She had become

famous for adventures in which her character was just not lost, and had destroyed the hearts of a dozen

cavaliers without once being touched in her own. Blood had flowed in quarrels about her charms, and she

heard of these encounters with pleasurable excitement. It had been told of her that on one occasion she had

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 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

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 trousseaux. 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

She had fallen, she said, in ascending a ruin and had fatally injured the sinews of her knee; so fatally, that

when she stood she lost eight inches of her accustomed height; so fatally, that when she essayed to move, she

could only drag herself painfully along, with protruded hip and extended foot in a manner less graceful than

that of a hunchback. She had consequently made up her mind, once and for ever, that she would never stand,

Stories were not slow to follow her, averring that she had been cruelly illused 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 illused 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 comfortable 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 for 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 more so at twentyeight than they had

been at eighteen. What wonder that with such charms still glowing in her face, and with such deformity

destroying her figure, she should resolve to be seen, but only to be seen reclining on a sofa.

Her resolve had not been carried out without difficulty. She had still frequented the opera at Milan; she had

still been seen occasionally in the saloons of the noblesse; she had caused herself to be carried in and out

from her carriage, and that in such a manner as in 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 a while.

Madeline affected all manner of rich and quaint devices in the garniture of her room, her person, and her

feminine belongings. In nothing was this more apparent than in the visiting card which she had prepared for

her use. For such an article one would say that she, in her present state, could have but small need, seeing

how improbable it was that she should make a morning call; but not such was her own opinion. Her card was

surrounded by a deep border of gilding; on this she had imprinted, in three lines:

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. Paul Neroni 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

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

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 any one, 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

Ethelbert Stanhope was in some respects like his younger sister, but he was less inestimable as a man than

she was as a woman. His great fault was an entire absence of that principle which should have induced him,

as the son of a man without fortune, to earn his own bread. Many attempts had been made to get him to do so,

but these had all been frustrated, not so much by idleness on his part, as by a disinclination to exert himself in

any way not to his taste. He had been educated at Eton, and had been intended for the Church, but had left

Cambridge in disgust after a single term, and notified to his father his intention to study for the bar.

Preparatory to that, he thought it well that he should attend a German university, and consequently went to

Leipzig. There he remained two years, and brought away a knowledge of German and a taste for the fine arts.

He still, however, intended himself for the bar, took chambers, engaged himself to sit at the feet of a learned

pundit, and spent a season in London. He there found that all his aptitudes inclined him to the life of an artist,

and he determined to live by painting. With this object he retired 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 Sidonis, 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 hope of

gold as large as lions; so that the Judaised Ethelbert was again obliged to draw on the revenues of the

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

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 much 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

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

When the family started for England he had resolved not to be left behind, and with the assistance of his elder

sister had earned his point against his father's wishes. It was necessary, he said, that he should come to

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 thing you would forget. His light hair was very long and silky, coming down over

his coat. His beard had been prepared in the 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 wellmade, and his voice was of particular sweetness.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

He was habitually addicted to making love to ladies, and did so without scruple of conscience, or any idea

that such a practice was amiss. He had no heart to touch himself, and was literally unaware that humanity was

subject to such infliction. He had not thought much about it; but, had he been asked, would have said, that

illtreating 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

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 not 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 selfrespect, no desire to be other than a drone in a 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,

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 the prebendaries, one of her

rectors, one of her pillars of strength; and was, moreover, counted on, as a sure ally, both by Proudies and

He himself was the brother of one peer, and his wife was the sister of anotherand 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 new comer would range himself under his banners.

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

The bishop and his wife had only spent three or four days in Barchester on the occasion of their first visit. His

lordship had, as we have seen, taken his seat on his throne; but his demeanour there, into which it had been

his intention to infuse much hierarchical 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 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

'Bishop, did you ever hear a more sublime, more spiritmoving, more appropriate discourse than that?'

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 illtimed, impertinent and vexatious.

'No, no,' replied the bishop. 'No, I can't say I disapprovea 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

'I hope it will,' said she. 'I am sure it was well deserved. Did you ever in your life, bishop, hear anything so

like playacting 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 playacting here now;' and so the lady rang for lunch.

This bishop knew more about cathedrals and deans, and precentors and church services than his wife did, and

also more of the 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 that my staying here will be very

The bishop knew that to this proposal his wife would not object; and he also felt that by thus retreating from

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 assay 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 partyor 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 the 'Bishop of Barchester's Sabbathday Schools,' gave notice of a proposed 'Bishop of

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

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 Londonthey were dated from Bruton Street, and were dispatched by the odious

Sabbathbreaking 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 now there arose considerable agitation among the Grantleyites whether or not they would attend the

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. 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 take their wives. Mr Harding

was especially bidden to go, resolving in his heart to keep himself 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

And the Stanhopes would be there, one and all. Even the lethargic mother would so far bestir herself on such

an occasion. They had only just arrived. The card was at the residence waiting for them. No one in Barchester

had seen them; and what better opportunity could they have of showing themselves to the Barchester world?

Some few old friends, such as the archdeacon and his wife, had called, and had found the doctor and his

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

'Indeed, I shall,' she said to her sister who had greatly 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

Papa was told, and felt that he could do nothing but yield. He also felt that it was useless of him now to be

ashamed of his children. Such as they were, they had become such under his auspices; as he had made his

bed, so he must lie upon it; as he had sown his seed, so must he reap his corn. He did not indeed utter such

reflections in such language, but such was the gist of his thoughts. It was not because Madeline was a cripple

that he shrank from seeing her 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 it from

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 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 to 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 Slopea sofa should be kept in the large drawingroom, immediately at the top of the grand stairs,

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 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

There were four rooms opening into each other on the first floor of the house, which were denominated the

drawingrooms, the receptionroom, and Mrs Proudie's boudoir. In olden days one of these had been Bishop

Grantly's bedroom, and another his common, sittingroom 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 diningroom, should they arrive in too large a flock to be admitted to his small sanctum. He had

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 to one, and at halfpast 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 halfpast nine the bishop and his wife and their three daughters entered the great receptionroom, 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

'Bishop,' said the lady, as his lordship sat himself down, 'don't sit on that sofa, if you please; it is to be kept

The bishop jumped up and seated himself on a canebottomed chair. 'A lady?' he inquired meekly; 'do you

'Nonsense, Netta, what stuff you talk,' said Olivia. 'She has got legs, but she can't use them. She has always to

'Laws, how odd!' said Augusta. 'Always carried about by four men! I'm quite sure I wouldn't like it. Am I

right behind, mama? 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,

'But,' rejoined the bishop, who was dying with curiosity about the mysterious lady and her legs, 'who is it that

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 up stairs three steps at a time.

'La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni,' whispered back the daughter; 'and mind you don't let any one sit upon

'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

drawingroom!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

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 encumbrance. 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

drawingroom before. The five Barchester doctors were all there, and old Scalpen, the retired apothecary and

toothdrawer, who was first taught to consider himself as belonging to the higher orders by the receipt of the

bishop's card. Then came the archdeacon and his wife, with their elder daughter Griselda, a slim pale retiring

girl of seventeen, who kept close to her mother, and looked out on the world with quiet watchful eyes, one

And so the room became full, and knots were formed, and every new comer paid his respects to my lord and

passed on, not presuming to occupy too much of the great man's attention. The archdeacon shook hands very

heartily with 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 fiveandtwenty ladies and five

'Why doesn't she come?' said the bishop to himself. His mind was so preoccupied with the signora, that he

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 drawingroom, knew that his daughter was coming, and retired to the furthest corner, where

he might not see her entrance. Mrs Proudie parked 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

He was, however, nearly knocked down and trampled on by the cortege that he encountered on the hall steps.

He got himself picked up as well as he could, and followed the cortege up stairs. 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

drawingroom, 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

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

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 loosefitting common black cloth morning coat. He had a jaunty wellpleased clean

face, on which no atom of beard appeared, and he wore round his neck a loose black silk neckhandkerchief.

The bishop assayed to make him a bow, but the man, who was welltrained, took no notice of him, and

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 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

'Bishop of Barchester, I presume?' said Bertie Stanhope, putting out his hand, frankly; 'I am delighted to

In truth they were. They had been crowded up behind the head of the sofa: the bishop in waiting to receive

his guest, and the other in carrying her; and they now had hardly room to move themselves.

The bishop gave his hand quickly, and made a 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.

'Not at all!' the bishop was delighted to have the opportunity of welcoming the Signora Vicinironiso at

least he saidand 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 Vicinironior count, or

prince, as it might be. It was wonderful what good English he spoke. There was just a twang of foreign

'Nonot long,' said the bishop, and tried again to make his way between the back of the sofa and a heavy

'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 tried 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

'The work of a bishop of the Church of England,' said Dr Proudie, with considerable dignity, 'is not easy. The

'Is it?' said Bertie, opening wide his wonderful blue eyes. 'Well; I never was afraid of responsibility. I once

'That is, a parsona parson first, you know, and a bishop afterwards. If I had once begun, I'd have stuck to it.

'Now, there's my father,' continued Bertie; 'he hasn't stuck to it. I fancy he didn't like saying the same thing so

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, immoveable rector, if

'He's in the room somewhere,' said Bertie, 'and he'll turn up soon. By the bye, do you know much about the

At last the bishop saw a way out. 'I beg your pardon,' said he; 'but I'm forced to go round the room.'

'WellI 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

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

'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 halfway 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

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 fuseea cloud of dust arises to

We know what was the wrath of Juno when her beauty was despised. We know too what storms of passion

even celestial minds can yield. As Juno may have looked at Paris on Mount Ida, so did Mrs Proudie look on

'Oh, you idiot, Bertie!' said the signora, seeing what had been done, and what were the consequences.

'Idiot,' reechoed 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

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

'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

'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,

'It's not me; it's the cursed sofa,' said Bertie, looking imploringly in her face, and holding both his hands to

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 saidand it is beyond the power of prose to tell of the fire that flashed from her eyes.

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 receptionrooms in a manner not altogether devoid of

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, sirnot mine. But perhaps you are waiting for preferment, and

Whereupon there was a laugh against the fat rector, in which both the bishop and the chaplain joined; and

'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

'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 dinnerparties 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

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 this deep obligation for the trouble she had taken, and wondered

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

The signora just touched the corner of her eyes with the most lovely of pockethandkerchiefs. Yes, she

saidshe had been very sorely triedtried, 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 the

infantthe 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,

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

'The blood of Tiberius,' said the signora, in all but a whisper; 'the blood of Tiberius flows in her veins. She is

The bishop had heard of the last of the Visigoths, and had floating in his brain some indistinct idea of the last

of the Mohicans, but to have the last of the Neros thus brought before him for a blessing was very staggering.

Still he liked the lady: she had a proper way of thinking, and talked with more propriety than her brother. But

who were they? It was now quite clear that that blue madman with the silky beard was not a Prince

Vicinironi. The lady was married, and was of course one of the Vicinironis by right of the husband. So the

'Oh,' said the bishop, shaking his head; 'she is much too youngvery 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

'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

'No,' said the signora, 'I would not allow her to learn lessons such as those in a land ridden 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

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.

'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 her 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.

'It isn't Vicinironi, papa,' said Netta; 'but Vesey Neroni, and she's Dr 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

Dr Proudie tripped out into the adjoining room, in which were congregated a crowd of Grantlyite clergymen,

among whom the archdeacon was standing preeminent, while the old dean was sitting nearly buried in a

huge armchair by the fireplace. 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

'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

'No,' said the archdeacon; 'you've only drawn our teeth and cut out our tongues; you've allowed us still to

'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?'

'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

'Talking of professors,' said a soft clear voice close behind the chancellor's elbow; 'how much you

The bishop looking round, perceived that abominable young Stanhope had pursued him. The dean stared at

him, as though he was some unearthly apparition; so also did two or three prebendaries and minor canons.

'German professors!' groaned out the chancellor, as though his nervous system had received a shock which

'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

'Have you got good water out at Plumstead, Mr Archdeacon?' said the bishop by way of changing the

'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

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

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

'Oh, Mr Harding,' said the bishop, overtaking the cidevant warden; 'I wanted to say one word about the

'Of course,' continued the bishop; 'there can be only one man whom I could wish to see in that situation. I

'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 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

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 that he tried to argue himself back to an easy

Mr Slope in the mean time 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 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

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

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

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 saidnothinganything. 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 fernsand before she could answer him he left her wedged between the door and

'You are not leaving us, Mr Slope,' said the watchful lady of the house, seeing her slave escaping towards the

'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

'I couldn't get out, madam, if Madeline were starving for her supper,' said he; 'I'm physically fixed, unless I

The lady's anger was increased by seeing that her daughter 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 drawingroom,

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

When she reached the room above, she found it absolutely deserted, except for the guilty pair. The signora

was sitting very comfortably up for her supper, and Mr Slope was leaning over her and administering to her

wants. They had been discussing the merits of Sabbathday schools, and the lady 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

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

Mr Slope muttered something in reply, and prepared to go down stairs. 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.

'Yesalwaysmadam,' said Mrs Proudie, returning; 'always the samealways equally adverse to the

impropriety of conduct of every description;' and she stalked back through the room again, following Mr

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

'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

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 diningroom, and then the bishop observing that the 'lady' was alone in the

drawingroom, 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 not

'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 to bring it me. I fear, however, he put himself to more

Mrs Proudie looked at her, but said nothing. The meaning of her look might have been translated: 'If ever you

find yourself within these walls again, I'll give you leave to be as impudent and affected, and as mischievous

At last the carriage returned with the three Italian servants, and la Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni was

The lady of the palace retired to her chamber by no means contented with the result of her first grand party at

Two or three days after the party, Mr Harding received a note, begging him to call on Mr Slope, at the palace,

at an early hour the following morning. There was nothing uncivil in the communication, and yet the tone of

"My dear Mr Harding, Will you favour me by calling on me at the palace tomorrow morning at 9.30am. 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.

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 reread the note before him. He answered it, as follows:

And on the following morning, punctually at halfpast nine, he knocked at the palace door, and asked for Mr

The bishop had one small room allotted to him on the groundfloor, and Mr Slope had another. Into this

latter Mr Harding was shown, and asked to sit down. Mr Slope was not yet there. The exwarden 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 for 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 his eyes 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, in truth, the time for it had gone by. He felt as though the

world were sinking from his feet; as though this, this was the time for him to turn with confidence to 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

Nevertheless, he did not like to be thus kept waiting. If Mr Slope did not really wish to see him at halfpast

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 all illhumour. Perhaps Mr Slope

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 airy superiority which this man assumed, did go against the grain of Mr Harding; and yet he did not

know how to resent it. The whole tendency of his mind and disposition was opposed to any

contraassumption 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

'About the hospital, Mr Harding,' began Mr Slope, speaking of it as the head of college at Cambridge might

Mr Harding crossed one leg over the other, and then one hand over the other on the top of them, and looked

'It's to be filled up again,' said Mr Slope. Mr Harding said that he had understood so.

'Of course, you know, the income is 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 L 450. I think

on the whole the bishop was right; for though the service 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 comfortable to the extent of the ecclesiastical means at our disposal will

'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

Mr Harding still rubbed his hands, and still sat silent, gazing up into Mr Slope's unprepossessing face.

'Then, as to 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

Mr Harding thought of the happy, easy years he had passed in his old house; of the wornout, aged men

whom he had succoured; of his good intentions; and of his work, which had certainly been of the lightest. He

thought of those 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

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 exwarden; and so it was understood by Mr Harding. The colour rose in

'You should 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 superintended the doing of the work, and the paying of the wages,

are bound to see that this rule is carried out. New men, Mr Harding, are now needed, and are now

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, selflauding men, of whom Mr Slope was so good an example.

'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 Sabbathday

'No, Mr Harding, not for the old men, but for the benefit of the children of such of the poor of Barchester as it

may suit. The bishop will expect that you shall attend this school, and the teachers shall be under your

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 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.'

'Indeed, it would be difficult to find seats for the women; and, on the whole, Mr Harding, I may as well say at

once, that for people of that class the cathedral service does not appear to me to be the most useful,even if

'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 will accord with his lordship's views, it will give me very great pleasure to be the

'If such unfortunately should be the case, which I can hardly conceive, I presume your own feelings will

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 those 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

'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

'I hardly expected such an argument from you, or I may say the suggestion of such a line of conduct,' said Mr

'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

'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 very 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 that 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

'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.

'Not at all,' said Mrs Proudie; 'you little know how determined the whole set of them are to withstand your

'Yes,' said Mr Slope, 'if he can hold it without the slightest acknowledgement of your lordship's jurisdiction.'

'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

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 injuries of their own sufferings, and which is generally proportioned

in it strength to the extent of cruelty with which martyrs are treated. He had admitted to his daughter that he

wanted the comfort of his old home, and yet he could have returned to his lodgings in the High Street, if not

with exultation, at least with satisfaction, had that been all. But the venom of the chaplain's harangue had

'New men are carrying out new measures, and are eating 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 ear 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 every thing that is established. Let the joke be ever so bad, ever so

untrue to the real principles of joking; nevertheless we must laughor 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 now measures, long credit and few scruples, great success and wonderful ruin, such are

now the tastes of Englishmen who know how to live. Alas, alas! under the 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

'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 selfaccusations 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 selfreliance. When he

heard himself designated as rubbish by the Slopes of the world, he had no other recourse than to make inquiry

within his own bosom as to the truth of the designation. Alas, alas! the evidence seemed generally to go

He had professed to himself in the bishop's parlour that in these coming sources of the sorrow of the 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 had 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

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, would 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

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.

'I came to tell you, my dear,' said he, 'that I am going out to Plumstead: you won't come with me, I suppose?'

'I suppose I shall tonight: I must consult the archdeacon about this weary hospital. Ah me! I wish I had never

'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

'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

'Mr Slope wishes to supply it by making me his schoolmaster. But as I am hardly fit for such work, I intend to

'Oh, papa! Mr Slope doesn't intend that. He was here yesterday, and what he intends'

'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 classand it all seemed so very. But, oh, papa! I shall be so miserable if I find that I have

'Nothing wrong at all, my dear,' said he, gently, very gently rejecting his daughter's caresses. 'There can be

nothing wrong in your wishing to make yourself useful; indeed, you ought to do so by all means. Every one

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

'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.'

'As for myself, my dear,' continued he, 'we know the old proverb"It's a bad thing teaching an old dog new

tricks." I must decline the Sunday school, and shall therefore probably decline the hospital also. But I will

first see your brotherinlaw.' So he took up his hat, kissed the baby, and withdrew, leaving Eleanor in as

All this was a great aggravation to his misery. He had so few with whom to sympathise, that he could not

afford to be cut off from the one whose sympathy was of the most value to him. And yet it seemed probable

that this would be the case. He did not own to himself that he wished his daughter to hate Mr Slope; yet had

she expressed such a feeling there would have been very little bitterness in the rebuke he would have given

her for so uncharitable a state of mind. The fact, however, was that she was on friendly terms with Mr Slope,

that she coincided with his views, adhered at once to his plans, and listened with delight to his teaching. Mr

Harding hardly wished his daughter to hate the man, but he would have preferred that to her loving him.

He walked away to the inn to order a fly, went home to put up his carpet bag, and then started for Plumstead.

There was, at any rate, no danger that the archdeacon would fraternise with Mr Slope; but then he would

recommend internecine war, public appeals, loud reproaches, and all the paraphernalia of open battle. Now

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 combatting the

Proudie faction, of supporting the old church interest of the close, of keeping in her own set much 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 every one connected with the late bishop, and that his assumed dominion in the

diocese was a spiritual injury to her husband. Hitherto people had little guessed how bitter Mrs Grantly could

be. She lived on the best of terms with all the rectors' wives around her. She had been popular with all the

ladies connected with the close. Though much the wealthiest of the ecclesiastical matrons of the county, she

had so managed her affairs that her carriage and horses had given umbrage to none. She had never thrown

herself among the county grandees so as to excite the envy of other clergymen's wives. She had never talked

too loudly of earls and countesses, or boasted that she gave her governess sixty pounds a year, or her cook

seventy. Mrs Grantly had lived the life of a wise, discreet, peacemaking woman; and the people of

Barchester were surprised at the amount of military vigour she displayed as general of the feminine

Mrs Grantly soon learnt that her sister Eleanor had promised to assist Mr Slope in the affairs of the hospital;

'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

'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

'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?'

'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

'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

'But you don't really mean to say that you suppose Eleanor has ever thought of marrying Mr Slope? Why, Mr

'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

This was quite a new phase of the affair to poor Mr Harding. To have thrust upon him as his soninlaw, 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

'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 of about your welfare and your position, as she clearly has done? At the bishop's party the other night, I

'I thought Mr Slope seemed to talk to nobody there but that daughter of Stanhope's,' said Mr Harding, wishing

'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

And as to him, it must 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 widely open to everything 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 attended his error; but it was not till after the interview with him and Mr

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 fatherinlaw with a sort of jovial earnestness that was usual with him when things on which

'It's all settled, my dear,' said he to his wife as he washed his hands in his dressingroom, 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

'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 good humour.'

'Wellhe 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's 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

St Ewold is not a rich piece of prefermentit 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

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

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 Barchester. There were wheels within wheels in this affair. For some time past Mr Arabin had been

engaged in a tremendous controversy with no less a person than Mr Slope, respecting the apostolic

succession. These two gentlemen had never seen each other, but they had been extremely bitter in print. Mr

Slope had endeavoured to strengthen his cause by calling Mr Arabin an owl, and Mr Arabin had retaliated by

hinting that Mr Slope was an infidel. This battle had been commenced in the columns of the daily Jupiter, a

powerful newspaper, the manager of which was very friendly to Mr Slope's view of the case. The matter,

however, had become too tedious for the readers of the Jupiter, and a little note had therefore been appended

to one of Mr Slope's most telling rejoinders, in which it had been stated that no further letters from the

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

selfdevotion 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

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 Dr Proudie

would be forced to institute into a living, immediately under his own nose, the enemy of his favourite

All through the 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

fatherinlaw that he ought to visit Dr Gwynne at Lazarus, and launched out again in praise of Dr Arabin.

'Oh!' said Griselda. Had her father said eighty, Mr Arabin would not have appeared to her to be very much

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 fatherinlaw 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

'Neither can 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

'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

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

'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

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

is your duty to do. You know that 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

'Dr Gwynne does not reflect how much older a man I am now than when he last saw me.'

'Oldnonsense!' said the archdeacon; 'you never thought yourself old till you listened to the impudent trash

'And seventyfive if you live till November ten years,' said the archdeacon. 'And you bid fair to be as

efficient then as you were ten years ago. But for heaven's sake let us have no pretence in this matter. Your

plea of old age is only a pretence. But you're not drinking your wine. It is only a pretence. The fact is, you are

half afraid of this Slope, and would rather subject yourself to comparative poverty and discomfort, than come

'Nor I neitherbut 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

lilylivered as to fall into this trap which he has baited for you, and let him take the very bread out of your

Mr Harding did not like being called lilylivered, and was rather inclined to resent it. 'I doubt there is any

'If honest men did not squabble for money, in this 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 wellbeing

'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 Sundayschools 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

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

They therefore went into the drawingroom in good humour with each other, and the evening passed

pleasantly in prophetic discussion on the future wars of Arabin and Slope. The frogs had 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

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 in Barchester. And then certainly he was startled. The

'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

Now in this matter, the widow Bold was scandalously illtreated by her relatives. She had spoken to the man

three or four times, and had expressed her willingness to teach in a Sundayschool. Such was the full extent

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

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 good will of the bishop in his favour, and during the

discussion on the matter, it was unnatural that the pecuniary resources of Mr Harding and his family should

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, ifif

'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

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

'I meant the widowed daughter,' said the other. 'Mrs Bold has twelve hundred a year of her own, and I

'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 fatherinlaw comfortably provided with the good things of this world? Would it

not, moreover, be much more easy for him to gain his daughter, if he did all in his power to forward his

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

And thus he rode home, meditating the many things in his mind. It occurred to him that Mrs Bold was

sisterinlaw 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

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 Signora Neroni was perpetually before his eyes. It would be too

much to say that Mr Slope was lost in love, but yet he thought, and kept continually thinking, that he had

never seen so beautiful a woman. He was a man whose nature was open to such impulses, and the wiles of the

Italianised charmer had been thoroughly successful in imposing upon his thoughts. We will not talk of 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

drawingroom, 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

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 the 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. Mr Slope had never been an immoral man. Indeed, he had resisted temptations to

immorality with a strength of purpose that was creditable to him. He had early in life devoted himself to

works which were not compatible with the ordinary pleasures of youth, and he had abandoned such pleasures

not without a struggle. It must therefore be conceived that he did not admit to himself that he warmly admired

the beauty of a married woman without heartfelt stings of conscience; and to pacify that conscience, he had to

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 selfsacrifice would be necessary. He would have to give up his friendship with the signora, his

resistance to Mr Harding, his antipathyno, he found on mature selfexamination, that he could not bring

himself to give up his antipathy to Dr Grantly. He would marry the lady as the enemy of her brotherinlaw,

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

selfsacrifice, he would do so; but if not, he would woo the daughter in opposition to the father. But in no

He saw his horse taken round to the stable, and immediately went forth to commence his inquiries. To give

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 notable, then yawning, then turning over a book or two, and evidently at a loss how

'Orders!' said he; 'who on earth is there at Barchester to give some orders? Who among the people here could

'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 BarchesterI suppose half the people here don't know

'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.'

'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

'I suppose I must regard myself as a young raven, and look for heavenly manna; besides, we have all got

'Yesyou'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

'At any rate,' said he, 'I won't marry one without; wives with money a'nt so easy to get nowadays; the

'And a parson will pick up the wife I meant for you, if you do not look quickly about it; the wife I mean is

'I don't see that,' said Bertie. 'But however, he may live for meI don't wish to kill him; only, it must be

'God knows I am not unreasonable,' said he, 'nor yet opinionated; and if you'll arrange it 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

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 so, by warm eulogiums on Eleanor's beauty, when the signora was brought into

the drawingroom. 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 the 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

'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 sayWhat is it to you

Bertie was sorry when he saw that she was hurt by what he said, and he came and squatted on the floor close

'Come, Mad, I was only joking; you know that. But in sober earnest, Lotte is advising me to marry. She wants

me to marry Mrs Bold. She's a widow with lots of tin, a fine baby, a beautiful complexion, and the George

and Dragon hotel up in High Street. By Jove, Lotte, if I marry her, I'll keep the public house myselfit's just

'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

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

'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

'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 the prejudices of

'What you mean is, that it's very hard for a fool not to be a fool,' said Madeline.

Bertie Stanhope had 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 AngloItalian freedom from

'I fancy,' said he, 'that if I were to die, and then walk, I should think that my widow looked better in one of

'Yesand 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 shehelmets, 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

'If it be true that she has got twelve hundred a year quite at her own disposal, and she be not utterly vulgar in

her manners, I would advise you to marry her. I dare say she is to be had for the asking; and as you are not

going to marry her for love, it doesn't much matter whether she is goodlooking or not. As to your really

'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,

'Then, in God's name, let him marry Mrs Bold,' said Madeline. And so it was settled between them.

But let the gentlehearted 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 realised? Are not promises

all but made of delightful horrors, in lieu of which the writer produces nothing but 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

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 the picture before which was hung Mrs Radcliffe'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, and inappropriate coffin,

And then, how grievous a thing it is to have the pleasure of your novel destroyed by the illconsidered

triumph of a previous reader. 'Oh, you needn't be alarmed, for Augusta, of course, she accepts Gustavus in the

end.' 'How very illnatured 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 illnature of your sister. There shall be no secret that

she can tell you. Nay, take the last chapter, if you pleaselearn from its pages all the results of our troubled

story, and the story shall have lost none of its interest, if indeed, there be any interest in it to lose.

Our doctrine is, that the author and the reader should move along together in full confidence with each other.

Let the personages of the drama undergo ever so completely 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

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

'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum,' continued Mary Bold, taking up the second part in the

The only audience at the concert was the baby, who however gave such vociferous applause, that the

'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum: hasn't he got lovely legs?' said the rapturous mother.

'H'm, 'm, 'm, 'm, 'm,' simmered Mary, burying her lips in the little fellow's fat neck, by way of kissing him.

'H'm, 'm, 'm, 'm, 'm,' simmered the mamma, burying her lips also in his fat round short legs. 'He's a dawty

little bold darling, so he is; and he has the nicest little pink legs in all the world, so he has;' and the simmering

and the kissing went on over again, and as though the ladies were very hungry, and determined to eat him.

'Well, then, he's his own mother's own darling: well, he shalloh, oh,Mary, Marydid you ever see?

What am I to do? My 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,

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 eyes 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 be 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 halfhour 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

At this moment the door opened, and Mr Slope was announced. Up jumped Eleanor, and with a sudden quick

motion of her hands pushed back her hair over her shoulders. It would have been perhaps better for her that

she had not, for she thus showed more of her confusion than she would have done had she remained as she

was. Mr Slope, however, immediately recognised the 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 was 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 the 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

He had therefore taken the 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 her 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

threeandtwenty) 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

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 rule 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

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 the 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

This was too much in unison with his lordship'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

'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 am sure of that, Mr Slope, I am quite sure of that;' said the bishop mollified: 'and I really think that Mr

'Upon my word, I am 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 his 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

And thus the poor bishop was left in a dreadfully undecided state as to what he should do. His mind,

however, slightly inclined itself to the appointment of Mr Harding, seeing that by such a step, he should have

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

'I have to apologise for calling at so very early an hour,' began Mr Slope, 'but I was really so anxious to speak

Eleanor muttered something in which the words 'certainly', and 'of course', and 'not early at all', were just

audible, and then apologised for her own appearance, declaring with a smile, that her baby was becoming

'He's a great bit naughty boy,' said she to the child; 'and we must sent 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

'And where the masters don't have such beautiful long hair to be dishevelled,' said Mr Slope, taking up the

Eleanor thought he might as well have left the compliment alone; but she said nothing and looked nothing,

'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 the opportunity of getting herself out of the room.

'I am glad, Mrs Bold, to have the opportunity of having ten minutes' conversation with you alone,' began Mr

'My question is this, Mrs Bold; is your father really anxious to get back to the hospital?'

'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 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,

'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 illjudged,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

'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

'Of course,' said he. 'In that interview Mr Harding left the impression on my mind that he did not wish to

'How could that be?' said Eleanor, at last stirred up to forget the cold propriety of demeanour which she had

'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 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

'I fear Miss Bold's step,' said Mr Slope, 'would it be asking too great a favour to beg you toI know you can

Eleanor did not like the word manage, but still she went out, and asked Mary to leave them alone for another

'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

'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 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 not choice but to

'Offered the place to Mr Quiverful!' repeated Eleanor, her eyes suffused with tears. 'Then, Mr Slope, there is

'No, my friendnot 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 returningof 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 selfdenying honesty, if he can

have them without restraints on his conduct to what 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 Sabbathday 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 those things now. One thing is clear; we mustdo what

we can to annul this rash offer the bishop 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

'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 he 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 fatherquite 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

'Why should not my father see him?' said Eleanor. She had once before in her life interfered with 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

'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 he has cause of anger against your father. I fear an interview would

'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.'

'Ah!' said he, 'that would be useless; you would then only be your father's messenger. Does anything occur to

yourself? Something must be done. Your father shall not be ruined by so ridiculous a misunderstanding.'

Eleanor said that nothing occurred to her, but that it was very hard; and the tears came to her eyes and rolled

down her cheeks. Mr Slope would have given much to have had the privilege of drying them; but he had tact

enough to know that he had still a great deal to do before he could even hope for any privilege with Mrs Bold.

'It cuts me to the heart to see you so grieved,' said he. 'But pray let me assure you that your father's interests

shall not be sacrificed if it be possible for me to protect them. I will tell the bishop openly what are the facts. I

will explain to him that he has hardly the right to appoint any other than your father, and will show him that if

he does so he will be guilty of great injusticeand 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 charitable to all men, who seldom

spoke ill of any one, had warned 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, and she did not know why, that there was something about him

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 themat any rate before

they are merited. But this I do want, Mrs Bold, that I may make 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

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

'That will be nothing unless they are such as will sympathise with my feelings; unless they are such as I can

reverence and admireand 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 that some

'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. My 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

'On the whole I think I do,' said Eleanor. 'I think I do believe that he means welland 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

All this time things were going on 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 even

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 allied 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. He walked up and down his little study, almost thinking that the time had

come when he would be able to appropriate to his own use the big room upstairs, in which his predecessor

As he resolved 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 morrowwould his lordship have the

kindness to name the hour? Dr Grantly's proposed visit would have reference to the reappointment of Mr

Harding to the wardenship of Hiram's hospital. The bishop having read this note was informed that the

Here at once a great opportunity offered itself to the bishop of acting on his own responsibility. He bethought

himself 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 the hour for doing so. Having watched from his studywindow that the

messenger got safely off the premises with this despatch, he began to turn over in his mind what step he

Tomorrow he would have to declare to the archdeacon either that Mr Harding should have the appointment,

or that he should not have it. The bishop felt that he could not honestly throw over Mr Quiverful without

informing Mrs Proudie, and he resolved at last to brave the lioness in her own 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

Not without many misgivings did he find himself in Mrs Proudie's boudoir. He had at first thought of sending

for her. But it was not at all impossible that she might choose to take such a message amiss, and then also it

might be some protection to him to have his daughters present at the interview. He found her sitting with her

account books before her nibbling the end of her pencil evidently mersed in pecuniary difficulties, and

harassed in mind by the multiplicity of palatial expenses, and the heavy cost of episcopal grandeur. Her

daughters were around her. Olivia was reading a novel, Augusta was crossing a note to her bosom friend in

Baker Street, and Netta was working diminutive coach wheels for the bottom of a petticoat. If the bishop

could get the better of his wife in her present mood, he would be a man indeed. He might then consider

victory his own for ever. After all, in such cases the matter between husband and wife stands much the same

as it does between two boys at the same school, two cocks in the same yard, or two armies on the same

continent. The conqueror once is generally the conqueror for ever after. The prestige of victory is everything.

'Ahemmy dear,' began the bishop, 'if you are disengaged, I wished to speak to you.' Mrs Proudie put her

pencil down carefully at the point to which she had dotted her figures, marked down in her memory the sum

she had arrived at, and then looked up, sourly enough, into her helpmate's face. 'If you are busy, another time

will do as well,' continued the bishop, whose courage like Bob Acres' had oozed out, now that he found

'Wellit was about those Quiverfulsbut 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

'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

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 final smell of gunpowder expect faith in any ally. Thou thyself hast sought the battlefield; 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 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 is 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 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 wouldst 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

All this passed within the bishop's bosom while Mrs Proudie stall sat with her fixed pencil, and the figures of

her sum still enduring on the tablets of her memory. 'L4 17s 7d,' she said to herself. 'Of course Mr Quiverful

'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

'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 good to Mr Quiverful'

'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 down

stairs, 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 have taken him by

'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

'There you're wrong,' said Mrs Proudie; 'he's not vulgar at all; and what is more, he is a soulstirring,

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

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

He merely remarked that he would of course carry out the bishop's views, and that he was quite sure that if

the bishop trusted to his own judgment things in the diocese would certainly be well ordered. Mr Slope knew

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. Any one would have

'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 her was improper. I cannot believe that you would wish to give offence in

my drawingroom, Mr Slope; but I owe it to myself and my daughters to tell you that I disapprove your

Mr Slope opened wide his huge protruding eyes, and stared out of them with a look of welldignified

surprise. 'Why, Mrs Proudie,' said he, 'I did but fetch her something to eat when she was hungry.'

'And you have called on her since,' continued she, looking at the culprit with the stern look of a detective

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

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

'Undoubtedly I did,' said Mr Slope, 'but that was because nobody else happened to be in the room. Surely it

'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, Slope, and you may

believe me that that signora, as she calls herself, is not a fitting companion for a strict evangelical, unmarried

How Mr Slope would have liked to laugh at her, had he dared! But he did not dare. So he merely said, 'I can

'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 upon 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.'

'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

An angry spot showed itself upon Mr Slope's cheeks, and it was with difficulty that he controlled himself. But

'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 concerning 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

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 would

Early on the following morning, Mr Slope was summoned to the bishop's dressingroom, 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 dressingroom in rather a combative disposition; but he found the bishop

in the most placid and gentle 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

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 dressingroom 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 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

It would be calumny on Mrs Proudie to suggest that she was sitting in her bedroom with her ear at the

keyhole during this interview. She had within her a spirit of decorum which prevented her from descending to

such baseness. To put her ear to a keyhole or to listen at a chink, was a trick for a housemaid.

Mrs Proudie knew this, and therefore she did not do it; but she stationed herself as near to the door as she

well could, that she might, if possible, get the advantage which the housemaid would have had, without

It was little, however, that she heard, and that little was only sufficient to deceive her. She saw nothing of that

friendly pressure, perceived nothing of that concluded bargain; she did not even dream of the treacherous

resolves which those two false men had made together to upset her in the pride of her station, to dash the cup

from her lip before she had drank of it, to seep 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 into 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 The bishop was ill in his room, and very greatly regretted, cMr Slope had been

charged with the bishop's views, and if agreeable to the archdeacon, would do himself the honour 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

'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 any one else could in truth be prevented by illness from keeping an appointment. He regarded all such

Dr Grantly desired to be driven to his fatherinlaw'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 he found him.

The archdeacon was fuming with rage when he got into the drawingroom, and had by this time nearly

'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.'

'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

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

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 be called on to lower myself in the world's

esteem an my own by coming in contact with such a man as that? I have hitherto lived among gentlemen, and

Poor Mr Harding knew well 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

'I was talking for a full hour yesterday with Mr Slope,' said she, with some little assumption of dignity, 'and I

'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 you have no friends left who can

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 lovemaking or lovereceiving 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

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 inlaw. Indeed, she had never accustomed

herself to be very abject before him, and they had never been confidential allies. 'I do not in 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 views were about the

'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

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 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 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 a man whom of all men he disliked the most, he would meet his fate as best he might.

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. His indecision, his weakness, his

proneness to be led by others, his want of selfconfidence, 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

'She'll marry that man as sure as two and two makes 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

'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 drawingroom, and so they both walked forth and discussed the matter in all the bearings under

the elm trees of the close. Mr Harding also explained to his soninlaw 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 tartufe! 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 on the other's arm. 'It would, perhaps, be better for you to lose the

'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

Nothing would have pleased him better than to be allowed to escape from the trouble and difficulty in such a

'Nonono! We'll do no such thing,' said Dr Grantly; 'we'll still have the hospital. I hardly doubt but that

we'll have it. But not by Mr Slope's assistance. If that be necessary, we'll lose it; but we'll have it, spite of his

teeth, if we can. Arabin will be at Plumstead tomorrow; you must come over and talk to him.'

The two now turned into the cathedral library, which was used by the clergymen of the close as a sort of

ecclesiastical clubroom, for writing sermons and sometimes letters; also for reading theological works, and

sometimes magazines and newspapers. The theological works were not disturbed, perhaps, quite as often as

from the appearance of the building the outside public might have been led to expect. Here the two allies

settled on their course of action. The archdeacon wrote a letter to the bishop, strongly worded, but still

respectful, in which he put forward his fatherinlaw'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 me made no mention

whatsoever. It was then settled that Mr Harding should go 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

Eleanor was not a little surprised when her brotherinlaw 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

'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

'Oh, no,' said Eleanor; 'Miss Stanhope said there was to be nobody at all. But she had learnt that Mary had left

me for a few weeks, and she had learnt from some one that I play chess, and so she came over on purpose to

'Well, that's very friendly,' said the exwarden. 'They certainly do look more like foreigners than English

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

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 the either side for them to look at; and, if there was none, they

endured the shade with an indifference which, if not stoical, answered the end at which the Stoics aimed. Old

Stanhope could not but feel that he had illperformed 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 L 3000 a year, and yet they had among them no other provision than their

mother's fortune of L 10,000. He had not only spent his income, but was in debt. Yet, with all this, he seldom

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 her

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 sweettempered, but she possessed

much enduring courage; she seldom complainednever, indeed, to her family. Though she had a cause for

affliction which would have utterly broken down the heart of most women as beautiful as she and as devoid

of all religious support, yet, she bore her suffering in silence, or alluded to it only to elicit the sympathy and

stimulate the admiration of the men with whom she flirted. As to Bertie, one would have imagined from the

sound of his voice and the gleam of his eye that he had not a sorrow nor a care in the world. Nor had he. He

was incapable of anticipating tomorrow's griefs. The prospect of future want no more disturbed his appetite

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 breakfastparlour, and

Charlotte would soon follow and give him 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 down stairs 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

'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

'Nothing, indeed!' said he, looking at the figures, which in Milanese denominations were certainly monstrous.

'I wish he had with all my heartif you would have paid it. I see enough in it, to know that three quarters of

'And I suppose he has nothing 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 L

700, being the amount of a bill discounted in favour of Mr Ethelbert Stanhope, and now overdue for a period

Charlotte read the letter, slowly folded it up, and put it under the edge of the teatray.

'I suppose he has nothing to amuse him but discounting bills with Jews. Does he think I'll pay that?'

'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

'I suppose it won't much matter either,' said the father, 'if he goes to prison and rots there. It seems to me that

Dr Stanhope spoke the custom of his youth. But his daughter, though she 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

It is thus, thou great family of Sidoniait is thus that we Gentiles treat thee, when, in our most extreme need,

thou and thine have aided us with mountains of gold as big as lionsand occasionally with winewarrants

'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,'

'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

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 little 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 teatray. Bertie saw and understood, and with the quiet motion of a cat

abstracted the letter, and made himself acquainted with its contents. The doctor, however, had seen him, deep

as he appeared to be mersed in his eggshell, and said in his harshest voice, 'Well, sir, do you know that

'Yes, sir,' said Bertie. 'I have a sort of acquaintance with him, but none that can justify him in troubling you.

'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 L

'Well,' said Bertie, 'I think I should be inclined to dispute the amount, if I were in a condition to pay him such

'Has he your bill for L 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 L 150.'

'Why, sir; the commission was L 100, or so, and I took the remainder in pavingstones and rockinghorses.'

'Oh, sir, I suppose they are in London somewherebut 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

'I'll tell you what,' said she. 'If you don't take care, you will find yourself loose upon the world without even a

Bertie stroked his big beard, sipped his tea, chatted over his misfortunes in a half comic, half serious tone,

and ended by promising his sister that he would do his very best to make himself agreeable to the widow

Bold. Then Charlotte followed her father to his own room and softened down his wrath, and persuaded him to

say nothing more about the Jew bill discounter, at any rate for a few weeks. He even went so far as to say he

would pay the L 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

They all met together in the drawingroom 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 drawingroom

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 and benedictory manner that went to her heart at

She had not been seated for above five minutes when the door again opened, and Mr Slope was announced.

She felt rather surprised, because she was told that nobody was to be there, and it was very evident from the

manner of some of them that Mr Slope was unexpected. But still there was not much in it. In such invitations

a bachelor or two more or less are always spoken of as nobodies, and there was no reason why Mr Slope

should not drink tea at Dr Stanhope's as well as Eleanor herself. He, however, was very much surprised and

not very much gratified at finding that his own embryo spouse made one of the party. He had come there to

gratify himself by gazing on Madame Neroni's beauty, and listening to and returning her flattery: and though

he had not owned as much to himself, he still felt that if he spent the evening as he had intended to do, he

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 criticism on him in that respect, and felt no annoyance of any

kind, when she found herself seated between Bertie and Charlotte Stanhope. She had not suspicion of Mr

Slope's intentions; she had no suspicion even of the suspicion of other people; but still she felt well pleased

And she was not illpleased 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 lady 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

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 to look at it. To tell the truth, there was but one there

who cared much about the moon's beauty, and that one was not Charlotte; but she knew how valuable an aid

to her purpose the chaste goddess might become, and could easily create a little enthusiasm for the purpose of

the moment. Eleanor and Bertie were soon with her. The doctor was now quiet in his arm chair, and Mrs

'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,

'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 role 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 woman 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

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 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 without the sort of

sanction which Charlotte gave to all her flirtations and intrigues. Charlotte's eye told her that she must give

But Charlotte's eyes said nothing of the sort to Mr Slope. He had no objection at all to the teteatete with

the signora, which the departure of the other three would allow him, and gently whispered to her, 'I shall not

'Oh, yes,' said she; 'gopray 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

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 was of course out of the

question. Indeed, his fate was very soon settled, for no sooner had he reached the halldoor, than Miss

Stanhope put her hand within his arm, and Bertie walked off with Eleanor just as naturally as though she

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

passersby can look down into the gardens of Hiram's hospital; and her Charlotte and Mr Slope, who were in

advance, stopped till the other two came up to them. Mr Slope knew that the gableends 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

'This is a very pretty place, Mrs Bold,' said Charlotte; 'by far the prettiest place near Barchester. I wonder

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 truthtelling 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.

Eleanor made no immediate reply. Much such a question passed 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?'

'But it must be a matter of course,' said Bertie; 'that is, if your father wishes it; who else on earth could hold it

Eleanor quietly made her companion to 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 on 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,' said she, 'is

hardly inclined to trust him; they all say he is so arrogant to the old clergyman 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

They strolled up the top of the hill, and then returned through the fields by a footpath which leads by a small

wooden bridge, or rather a plank with a rustic rail to it, over the river to the other side of the cathedral from

that at which they had started. They had thus walked round the bishop's grounds, through which the river

runs, and round the cathedral and adjacent fields, and it was past eleven before they reached the doctor's door.

'It is very late,' said Eleanor, 'it will be a shame to disturb your mother 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 do not come in and see her. Come, Bertie, take Mrs Bold's bonnet from her.'

They went up stairs, 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 restingplace 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 inarticulate tongueformed 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

Charlotte hurried and skurried about the room hither and thither, doing, or pretending to do many things; and

then saying something about seeing her mother, ran up stairs. Eleanor was then left alone with Bertie, and she

hardly felt and hour fly by her. To give Bertie his due credit, he could not have played his cards better. He did

not make love to her, nor sigh, nor look languishing; but he was amusing and familiar, yet respectful; and

when he left Eleanor at her own door at one o'clock, which he did by the bye with the assistance of the now

jealous Slope, she thought he was one of the most agreeable men, and the Stanhopes decidedly the most

The Reverend Francis Arabin, fellow of Lazarus, late professor of poetry at Oxford, and present vicar of St

Ewold, in the diocese of Barchester, must now be introduced personally to the reader. And as he will fill a

conspicuous place in this volume, it is desirable that he should be made to stand before the reader's eye by the

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

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

There is no royal road to learning; no short cut to the acquirement of any 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 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

Of his doings in the world, and of the sort of fame which he has achieved, enough has already been 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

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 his tutor. He became a member of a vigorous debating society, and

rendered himself remarkable there for humorous energy. Though always in earnest, yet his earnestness was

always droll. To be true in his ideas, unanswerable in his syllogisms, and just in his aspirations was not

enough for him. He had failed, failed in his own opinion as well as that of others when others came to know

him, if he could not reduce the arguments of his opponents to an absurdity, and conquer both by wit and

reason. To say that his object was ever to raise a laugh, would be most untrue. He hated such common and

unnecessary evidence of satisfaction on the part of his hearers. A joke that required to be laughed at was, with

him, not worth uttering. He could appreciate by a keener sense than that of his ears the success of his wit, and

would see in the eyes of his auditory whether or no he was understood and appreciated.

He had been a religious lad before he left school. That is, he had addicted himself to a party of 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 its supporters who would otherwise have been

inattentive to the matter, and teaches men to think about religion. How great an amount of good of this

description has followed that movement of the Church of England which commenced with the publication of

As a boy young Arabin took up the cudgels on the side of the Tractarians, and at Oxford he sat for a while at

the feet of the great Newman. To this cause he lent all his faculties. For it he concocted verses, for it he made

speeches, for it he scintillated the brightest sparks of his quiet wit. For it he ate and drank and dressed, and

had his being. In due process of time he took his degree, and wrote himself B.A., but he did not do so with

any remarkable amount of academical eclat. He had occupied himself too much with high church matters,

and the polemics, politics, and outward demonstrations usually concurrent with high churchmanship, to

devote himself with sufficient vigour to the acquisition of a double first. He was not a double first, nor even a

first class man; but he revenged himself on the university by putting first and double firsts out of fashion for

the year, and laughing down a species of pedantry which at the age of twentythree leaves no room in a

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 the 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

And now came the moment of his great danger. After many mental struggles, and an agony of doubt which

may be well surmised, the great prophet of the Tractarians confessed himself a Roman Catholic. Mr Newman

left the Church of England, and with him carried many a waverer. He did not carry off Mr Arabin, but the

escape which that gentleman had was a very narrow one. He left Oxford for a while that he might meditate in

complete peace on the step which appeared for him to be all but unavoidable, and shut himself up in a little

village on the seashore of one of our remotest counties, that he might learn by communing with his own

soul whether or no he could with a safe conscience remain within the pale of his mother church.

Things would have gone badly with him there had he been left entirely to himself. Every thing 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; but it cost him much to get over the idea of 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, selfdenial, 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 early 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

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 on the spot which he had selected. But

Providence was good to him; and there, in that all but desolate place, on the stormbeat shore of that distant

sea, he met one who gradually changed 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 the 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

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 a 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

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 Thirtynine 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 a very young men, was inclined to attribute a good deal of it to vanity. Dr

Gwynne himself, though a religious man, was also a thoroughly practical man of the world, and he regarded

with no favourable eye the tenets of any one who looked on the two things as incompatible. When he found

Mr Arabin was a half Roman, he began to regret all that he 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 which 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 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 selfconfident 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

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, high for beauty, and the formation of the forehead too

massive and heavy: but his 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

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 then

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

Such was Mr Arabin, the new vicar of St Ewold, who is going to stay with the Grantlys, at Plumstead

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 preeminence of the exalted Green, the two girls went to sleep in each other's arms, contented with

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 any one 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

'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 matteroffact,

archdeacon, when it suits your purpose, that one can't trust oneself to any facon de parler. I've no doubt Mr

Arabin is a very valuable manat 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

'Of all the men that I know intimately,' said the archdeacon, 'Arabin is, in my opinion, the most free from any

'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 brazedfaced enough. When standing on a

platform in Exeter Hall, no man would be less mazed than he by the eyes of the crowd before him; for such

was the work which his profession had called on him to perform; but he shrank from a strong expression of

opinion in general society, and his doing so not uncommonly made it appear that he considered the company

not worth the trouble of his energy. He was averse to dictate when the place did not seem to him to justify

dictation; and as those subjects on which people wished to hear him speak were such as he was accustomed to

treat with decision, he generally shunned the traps there were laid to allure him into discussion, and, by doing

so, not unfrequently subjected himself to such charges as those brought against him by Mrs Grantly.

Mr Arabin, as he sat at his open window, enjoying the delicious moonlight and gazing at the 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 illnaturedly 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

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

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 was 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, those 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 drawingroom, with its pretty windows

opening on to lawns and flowerbeds, the apparel of the comfortable house, andabove allthe air of

It will be said that no time can have been fitted for such desires on his part as this, 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 to secure them their deserved reward, had taken

him at his word. And now, if the truth must out, he felt himself disappointeddisappointed 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

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

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 an income of some L 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

And here, may I beg the reader not to be hard in the 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. Also, for a doctrine which can find no believing pupils and no

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, but when such a conviction was too late to be of service to him. He discovered,

when much was 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 diningroom, in which his friends could drink his wine, and the

power of walking up in 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 of 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 thought 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 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 drawingroom, 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 award of lawn duly mown for him to be 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.

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

There was not much sisterly confidence between them. Mrs Grantly was ten years older than Eleanor, and

had been married while Eleanor was yet a child. They had never, therefore, poured into each other's ears their

hopes and loves; and now that one was a wife and the other a widow, it was not probable that they would

begin to do so. They lived too much asunder to be able to fall into that kind of intercourse which makes

confidence between sisters almost a necessity; and, moreover, that which is so easy at eighteen is often very

difficult at twentyeight. Mrs Grantly knew this, and did not, therefore, expect confidence from her sister;

and yet she longed to ask her whether in real truth Mr Slope was agreeable to her.

It was by no means difficult to turn the conversation to Mr Slope. That gentleman had become so famous at

Barchester, had so much to do with all clergymen connected with the city, and was so specially concerned in

the affairs of Mr Harding, that it would have been odd if Mr Harding's daughters had not talked about him.

Mrs Grantly was soon abusing him, which she did with her whole heart; and Mrs Bold was nearly as eager to

defend him. She positively disliked the man, would have been delighted to learn that he had taken himself off

so that she should never see him again, had indeed almost a fear of him, and yet she constantly found herself

taking his part. The abuse of other people, and abuse of a nature that she felt to be unjust, imposed that

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 was one of the party.

'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

The archdeacon of course heard before dinner that Eleanor had remained the day before at 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 guests at the Stanhopes, and he did not hesitate to accuse her of deceit. Moreover, the

fact, or rather the presumed fact, of her being deceitful on such a matter, spoke but too plainly in evidence

'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 forugh!'

'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

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

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 parsonages of the parish, joined in.

Eleanor also knew them, but spoke 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 brotherinlaw.

Her first idea on reaching her bedroom was that a much more pleasant 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

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

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 grounds of the parish church. Mr Arabin

declared that he should look on such tenets on the part of the 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 estate 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 oldest 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

'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

When they were joined by the archdeacon on the gravel before the vicarage, they descended again to grave

dullness. Not that Archdeacon Grantly was a dull man; but his frolic humours were of a cumbrous kind; and

his wit, when he was witty, did not generally extend itself to his auditory. On the present occasion, he was

soon making speeches about wounded roofs and walls, which he declared to be in want of some surgeon's art.

There was not a partition that he did not tap, nor a block of chimneys that he did not narrowly examine; all

waterpipes, flues, cisterns, and sewers underwent his examination; and he even descended, in the care of his

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 herself had not been priestess of a parish twenty years for

'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 up stairs, 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

'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

'That's as it may be. The same complaint which you make of me for battling with another clergyman of our

own church, the Mahometan 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 Mahometan should

'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

'More scandal would fall on the church if there were no such contentions. We have but one way to avoid

themthat 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

'No,' said he, 'not necessarily the Church of Rome; but of a church with a head. Had it pleased God to

vouchsafe to us such a church our path would have been easy. But easy paths have not been thought good for

us.' He paused and stood silent for a while, thinking of the time when he had so nearly sacrificed all he had,

his powers of mind, his free agency, the fresh running waters of his mind's fountain, his very inner self, for an

easy path in which no fighting would be needed; and then he continued: 'What you say is partly true; our

contentions do bring on us some scandal. The outer world, though it constantly reviles us for our human

infirmities, and throws in our teeth the fact that being clergymen we are still no more then men, demands of

us that we should do our work with godlike perfection. There is nothing godlike about us: we differ from

each other with the acerbity common to manwe 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 become 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

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 power in the strains that 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 nonmilitant 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

'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 oppositionto thunder forth

accusations against men in power; show up the worst side of every thing 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.'

'Pardon me, you do, Mrs Boldyou 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

began 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 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;

Eleanor only half followed him in his raillery; but she caught his meaning. 'I know I ought to apologise for

presuming to criticise you,' she said; 'but I was thinking with sorrow of the illwill that has lately come

'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

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 is 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

'What is it, archdeacon?' said the vicar, running down stairs, 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 those 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

Mr Arabin assented, and promised that the cellar should be reconstructed according to the archdeacon's

'The grate is really very bad,' said Mrs Grantly; 'I am sure the priestess won't approve of it, when she is

brought here to the scene of future duties. Really, Mr Arabin, no priestess accustomed to such an excellent

'If there must be a priestess at St Ewold's at all, Mrs Grantly, I think we shall 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 wellcooked dinner, and the grate shall certainly be changed.'

By this time the archdeacon had again ascended, and was now in the diningroom. '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 diningroom, that is, remodel it altogether; look here, it is just sixteen feet by fifteen; did

anybody ever hear of a diningroom of such proportions?' and the archdeacon stepped the room longways

and crossways with ponderous steps, as though a certain amount of ecclesiastical dignity could be imparted

even to such an occupation as that by the manner of doing it. 'Barely sixteen; you may call it a square.'

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 guests, nearly black with perpetual rubbing, and as bright as a mirror. Now round dinner

tables are generally of oak, or else of such new construction as not to have acquired the peculiar hue which

was so pleasing to him. He connected them with what he called the nasty new fangled method of leaving

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 calicoprinters chiefly used them,

and perhaps a few literary lions more conspicuous for their wit than their gentility. He was a little flurried at

the idea of such an article, being introduced into the diocese by a protege of his own, and at the instigation of

'A round dinnertable,' 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

'But it seems to me, archdeacon, that I can't very well lengthen the room without pulling down the wall, and if

I pull down the wall, I must build it up again; then if I throw out a bow on this side, I must do the same on the

other, then if I do it for the ground floor, I must carry it up to the floor above. That will be putting a new front

to the house, and will cost, I suppose, a couple of hundred pounds. The ecclesiastical commissioners will

hardly assist me when they hear that my grievance consists in having a diningroom only sixteen feet long.'

The archdeacon proceeded to explain that nothing would be easier than adding six feet to the front of the

diningroom, without touching any other of 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

Forty pounds, he said, was a matter of serious moment to him, and his friends, if under such circumstances

they would be goodnatured 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 have both the rooms enlarged?'

'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 emptyhanded.'

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 commission 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

Having gone through their work effectively, and systematically, the party returned to Plumstead well satisfied

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 readingdesk, and that Mr Harding should take

the archdeacon's duty at Plumstead Church. Mrs Grantly had her school and her buns to attend to, and

professed that she could not be spared; but Mrs Bold was to accompany them. It was further agreed also, that

they would lunch at the squire's house, and return home after the afternoon service.

Wilfred Thorne, Esq., of Ullathorne, was the squire of St Ewold's; or rather the squire of Ullathorne; for the

domain of the modern landlord was of wider notoriety than the fame of the ancient saint. He was a fair

specimen of what that race has come to in our days, which a century ago was, as we are told, fairly

represented by Squire Western. If that representation be a true one, few classes of men can have made faster

strides in improvement. Mr Thorne, however, was a man possessed of quite a sufficient number of foibles to

lay him open to much ridicule. He was still a bachelor, being about fifty, and was not a little proud of his

person. When living at home at Ullathorne there was not much room for such pride, and there therefore he

always looked like a gentleman, and like that which he certainly was, the first man in his parish. But during

the month or six weeks which he annually spent in London, he tried so hard to look like a great man there

also, which he certainly was not, that he was put down as a fool by many at his club. He was a man of

considerable literary attainment in a certain way and on certain subjects. His favourite authors were

Montaigne and Burton, and he knew more perhaps than any other man in his own county, and the next to it,

of the English essayists of the two last centuries. He possessed complete sets of the 'Idler', the 'Spectator,' the

'Tatler,' the 'Guardian,' and the 'Rambler;' and would discourse by hours together on the superiority of such

publications to anything which has since been produced in our Edinburghs and Quarterlies. He was a great

proficient in all questions of genealogy, and knew enough of almost every gentleman's family in England to

say of what blood and lineage were descended all those who had any claim to be considered as possessors of

any such luxuries. For blood and lineage he himself had a must 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 Godfrey 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,

It would be unjust to say that he looked down in men whose families were of recent date. He did not do so.

He frequently consorted with such, and had chosen many of his friends from among them. But he looked on

them as great millionaires are apt to look on those who have small incomes; as men who have Sophocles at

their fingers' ends regard those who know nothing of Greek. They might doubtless be good sort of people,

entitled to much praise for virtue, very admirable for talent, highly respectable in every way; but they were

without the one great good gift. Such was Mr Thorne's way of thinking on this matter; nothing could atone

for the loss of good blood; nothing could neutralise its good effects. Few indeed were now possessed of it,

but the possession was on that account the more precious. It was very pleasant to hear Mr Thorne descant on

this matter. Were you in your ignorance to surmise that such a one was of a good family because the head of

his family was a baronet of an old date, he would open his eyes with a delightful look of affected surprise,

and modestly remind you that baronetcies only dated from James I. He would gently sigh if you spoke of the

blood of the Fitzgeralds and De Burghs; would hardly allow the claims of the Howards and Lowthers; and

has before now alluded to the Talbots as a family who had hardly yet achieved the full honours of a pedigree.

In speaking once of a 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 this present century, a brilliant race such as there are few in England, Mr Thorne 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

not veins were yet purified by time to that perfection, had not become so genuine an ichor, as to be worthy of

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 not 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

'But,' said the vicar, 'Uphill Stanton has been sold to the De Greys, and has been in their hands for the last

'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 thatand, thank Godno Arabin, and no Thorne, can sell it.'

In politics, Mr Thorne was an unflinching conservative. He looked on those fiftythree Trojans, who, as Mr

Dod tell us, censured free trade in November 1852, as the only patriots left among the public men of England.

When that terrible crisis of free trade had arrived, when the repeal of the corn laws was carried by those very

men whom Mr Thorne had hitherto regarded as the only possible saviours of his country, he was for a time

paralysed. His country was lost; but that was comparatively a small thing. Other countries had flourished and

fallen, and the human race still went on improving under God's providence. But now all trust in human faith

must for ever be at an end. Not only must ruin come, but it must come through the 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

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, had others around him, who still maintained the same staunch principles of protectionmen

like himself, who were too true to flinch at the cry of a mobhad their own way of consoling themselves.

They were, and felt themselves to be, the only true depositories 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

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 service 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 bear 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 L 4000 a year; but the feeling was not on that account the less comfortable.

Mr Thorne was a sportsman, and had been active though not outrageous in his sports. Previous to the great

downfall of politics in his country, he had supported the hunt by every means in his power. He had preserved

game till no goose or turkey could show a tail in the parish of St Ewold's. He had planted gorse covers with

more care than oaks and larches. He had been more anxious for the comfort of his foxes than of his ewes and

lambs. No meet had been more popular than Ullathorne; no man's stables had been more liberally open to the

horses of distant men than Mr Thorne's; no man had said more, written more, or done more to keep the club

up. The theory of protection could expand itself so thoroughly in the practices of the country hunt! But the

great ruin came; when the noble master of the Barchester 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

bylaws prevailing among country gentlemen. But he absented himself from home on the occasions of every

meet at Ullathorne, left the covers to their fate, and could not be persuaded to take his pink coat out of the

press, or his hunters out of 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 fiftythree, 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 the inward feeling of mystic superiority to those with whom he shared the common breath

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 drawingroom, 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 De Foe 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 then 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 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

Normans, 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 votary in

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

simpleminded 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 timeserving 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 hearts 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

In her person and her dress she was perfect, and well she knew her own perfection. She was a small elegantly

made old woman, with a face from which the glow of her youth had not departed without leaving some

streaks of a roseate hue. She was proud of her colour, proud of her grey hair which she wore in short crisp

curls peering out all around her face from the dainty white 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 drawingroom.

We know what was the custom of the lady of Branksome "Nine and twenty knights of fame Hung their

The lady of Ullathorne was not so martial in her habits, but hardly less costly. She might have boasted that

nineandtwenty silken shirts might have been produced in her chamber, each fit to stand alone. The

nineandtwenty 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

capapie, 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,

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, many who have pitched their tents

perhaps under Mount Sinai, are not still ignorant that there are glories in Wiltshire, Dorsetshire and

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 in the other two sides by a wall about twenty feet high. This 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 halldoor, 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 adept at contriving house accommodation, it will militate much against Ullathorne

Court, that no carriage could be brought to the halldoor. If you enter Ullathorne at all, you must do so, fair

reader, on foot, or at least in a bathchair. 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 diningroom. Whatno 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

But 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 teteatete. 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 groundfloor 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 those, and it may be, as my utilitarian friend observes, that the giving of light is the desired

object of a window. I will not argue the point with him. Indeed I cannot. But I shall not the less die in the

assured conviction that no sort of description of window is capable of imparting half as much happiness to

mankind as that which has been adopted at Ullathorne Court. Whatnot 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

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 fireplace, which afforded much ground of difference between the

brother and sister. An antiquated grate that would hold about a hundred weight of coal, had been stuck on the

hearth, by Mr Thorne's father. This hearth had of course been intended for the consumption of wood fagots,

and the iron dogs for the purpose were still standing, though half buried in the masonry of the grate. Miss

Thorne was very anxious to revert to the dogs. The dear good old creature was always 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 fireplace, Mr Thorne would not revert.

Country gentlemen around him, all had comfortable grates in their diningrooms. 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 down stairs

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 fireplace a door led into the drawingroom, 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 drawingroom, or, as she always called it, withdrawingroom, 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 drawingroom, and beyond that were the

kitchen and the offices. Doors opened into both Miss Thorne's withdrawingroom 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

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 award just opposite to the exterior angle of the house. He will there get the double frontage, and enjoy

that which is so lovelythe expanse of architectural beauty without the formal dullness of one long line.

It is the colour of Ullathorne that is so remarkable. It is all of that delicious tawny hue which no stone can

give, unless it has on it the vegetable richness of centuries. Strike the wall with your hand, and you will think

that the stone has on it no covering, but rub it carefully, and you will find that the colour comes off upon your

finger. No colourist that ever yet worked from a palette has been able to come up to this rich colouring of

Ullathorne is a high building for a country house, for it possesses three stories; and in each storey, 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

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

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 to either 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

On the Sunday morning the archdeacon with his sisterinlaw 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

readingdesk. He knew, he said, that those sharp little eyes of Miss Thorne would be on to 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 congregations of St Mary's at Oxford, and he

Thereupon Mr Arabin commenced to subtilise. The change, he said, from St Mary's to St Ewold's was quite

as powerful on the spirits as would be that from St Ewold's to St Mary's. Would not a peer who, by chance of

fortune, might suddenly be driven to herd among the 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 unfair; a comparison might be very just in its proportions which did

not at all assimilate the things compared. But Mr Arabin went in subtilising, regarding neither the

archdeacon's raillery nor Eleanor's defence. A young lady, he said, would execute with most perfect

selfpossession a difficult piece of music in a room crowded with strangers, who would not be able to

express herself in any 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

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 should

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 fiftythree, and was on this account a favourite with Mr Thorne. The little bell was tinkling, and

the rural population 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

They all went 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 onesided introduction, the most leading

'Here are our churchwardens, Mr Arabin; Farmer Greenacre and Mr Stiles. Mr Stiles has the mill as you go

'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 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 Clodheave looked to the

younguns, and perhaps sometimes there maybe 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

Mr Arabin read the lessons and preached. It was enough to put a man a little out, let him have been ever so

used to pulpit reading, to see the knowing way in which the farmers cocked their ears, and set about a mental

criticism as to whether their new minister did or did not fall short of the excellence of him who had lately

departed from them. A mental and silent criticism it was for the existing moment, but soon to be made public

among the elders of St Ewold's over the green graves of their children and forefathers. The excellence,

however, of poor old Mr Goodenough had not been wonderful, and there were few there who did not deem

that Mr Arabin did his work sufficiently well, in spite of the slightly nervous affection which at first impeded

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 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 twentythree, who have never yet passed then

thoughtful days since the power of thought first came to me, how am I to instruct these grey beards, 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 privileges, as one of God's ministers, imparted to me as yet any fitness for the

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

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 the congregation would be too anxious to prevent their

young clergymen from advancing themselves to 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

trangresseth, and abideth not in the doctrine of Christ, hath not God. He that abideth in the doctrine of Christ

he hath both the Father and Son. If there come any unto you and bring you 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 this teaching of the gospel; but that he

could put forward no claim to such conduct on their part unless he taught them the great Christian doctrine of

works and faith combined. On this he enlarged, but not very amply, and after twenty minutes succeeded in

sending his new friends home to their baked mutton and pudding well pleased with their new minister.

Then came the lunch at Ullathorne. As soon as they were in the hall Miss Thorne took Mr Arabin's hand, and

assured him that she received him into her house, into the temple, she said, in which she worshipped, and

bade him God speed with all her heart. Mr Arabin was touched, and squeezed the spinster's hand without

uttering a word in reply. Then Mr Thorne expressed a hope that Mr Arabin found the church easy to fill, and

Mr Arabin having replied that he had no doubt he should do so as soon as he had learnt to pitch his voice to

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 mind any body.

'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

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 between 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

'Take his coral, my dear,' said she, 'and rub it well with carrotjuice; rub it till the juice dries on it, and then

'Not got a coral!' said Miss Thorne, with almost angry vehemence. 'Not got a coral!How can you expect

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

Miss Thorne looked awfully severe. 'Take care, my dear,' said she, 'that the man knows what he is about; take

care he doesn't destroy your little boy. 'But'and her voice 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

'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.'

'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 whippersnapper 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 goodnatured that it was impossible to resent anything she said. She therefore

'At any rate, my dear, don't forget the carrotjuice, 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 carrotjuice. She couldn't bear the Barchester doctors. Even poor 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

The archdeacon made a very good lunch, and talked to his host about turnipdrillers 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 the field beyond the copse. I suppose

'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

'I am under an obligation to them for staying away today, at any rate,' said the vicar. 'The congregation can

'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

'That Bradley never has anything good,' said Miss Tborne, 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.

'There have been three men since Ambleoff's time,' said the archdeacon, 'and each as bad as the other. But

'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

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 the 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

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 of Philemon. 'I beseech thee for my son Onesimus, whom I have begotten in my bonds.'

From such a text it may be imagined the kind of sermon which Dr Grantly preached, and on the whole it was

He told them 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 good will towards Mr

Arabin, in the same manner that the apostle had besought Philemon and his household with regard to

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

The next two weeks passed pleasantly enough at Plumstead. The whole party there assembled seemed to get

on well together. Eleanor made the house agreeable, and the archdeacon and Mrs Grantly seemed to have

forgotten her injury 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

carrotjuice, 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

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 afflictions 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 diningroom. It was unfair that she should amuse herself with Bertie and yet begrudge her new friend his

licence 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 was unpleasant to her. Eleanor had no such

selfknowledge. She thought in her own heart 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 any one blame my heroine for this? Let him or her rather thank God for all His goodness,for His

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 weepingwillow 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

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 waterspout. 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

It will be remembered that the bishop expressed to Mr Slope in his dressingroom, 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 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 see him together,

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

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

But Mr Harding had another friend fighting the 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 the 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

soninlaw, than Mr Harding growling in opposition and disappointment under the archdeacon's wing at

Plumstead. Moreover, to give Mr Slope due credit, he was actuated by greater motives even than these. He

wanted a wife, and he wanted money, but he wanted power more than either. He had fully realised the fact

that he must come to blows with Mrs Proudie. He had no desire to remain in Barchester as her chaplain.

Sooner than do so, he would risk the loss of his whole connection with the diocese. What! Was he to feel

within him the possession of no ordinary talents; was he to know himself to be courageous, firm, and, in

matters where his conscience did not interfere, unscrupulous; and yet be contented to be the working

factotum of a womanprelate? Mr Slope had higher ideas of his own destiny. Either he or Mrs Proudie must

The bishop had declared that Mr Quiverful should be the new warden. As Mr Slope went down stairs

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 necessities 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, pain staking, 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 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 was not decent shoes and stockings for them all to wear.

He thought of the wellworn 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 the

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 all 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

would grace a bishop's chaplain. 'How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good

Why, moreover, should the Barchester clergy have looked so 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

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 the

frowns of the dean, archdeacon, or prebendary. To her the outsides and insides of her husband and fourteen

children were everything. In her bosom every other ambition had been swallowed up in that maternal

ambition of seeing them and him and herself duly clad and properly fed. It had come to that with her that life

had now no other purpose. She recked nothing of the imaginary rights of others. She had no patience with her

husband when he declared to her that he could not accept the hospital unless he knew that Mr Harding had

refused it. Her husband had no right to be Quixotic at the expense of fourteen children. The narrow escape of

throwing away his good fortune which her lord had had, almost paralysed her. Now, indeed, they had

received the full promise not only from Mr Slope, but also from Mrs Proudie. Now, indeed, they might

reckon with safety on their good fortune. But what if it 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 L 450 out of fine feeling? And what signifies

it when he offends, as long as he gets the place? He does not expect anything better. It passes me to think

This, while the rest of the world was accusing Mr Quiverful of rapacity for promotion and disregard for his

honour, the inner world of his own household was falling foul of him, with equal vehemence, for his

willingness to sacrifice their interest to a false feeling of sentimental pride. It is astonishing how much

Such was 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 to go

Mr Slope thus found Mr Quiverful alone. Mrs Quiverful went off to her kitchen and back settlements with

anxious beating heart, almost dreading that there might be some slip between the cup of her happiness and the

lip of her fruition, but yet comforting herself with the reflection that after what had taken place, any such slip

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 selfpossession, however,

smiled with a slight unmeaning smile, and merely said that he was obliged to Mr Slope for the trouble he was

'It has been a troublesome matter from first to last,' said Mr Slope; 'and the bishop has hardly known how to

act. Between ourselvesbut mind this of course must go no farther, Mr Quiverful.'

Mr Quiverful said of course that it should not. 'The truth is, that poor Mr Harding has hardly known his own

'You will remember that I told you that Mr Harding had refused to return to the hospital.'

'And acting on this refusal I suggested that you should take the hospital,' continued Mr Slope.

'Did I? Did I go so far as that? Well, perhaps it may be, that in my anxiety on 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

'But,' said Mr Quiverful, in his deep anxiety to prove his case, 'my wife received as distinct a promise from

Mr Slope smiled, and gently shook his head. He meant that smile for a pleasant smile, but it was diabolical in

the eyes of the man he was speaking to. 'Mrs Proudie!' he said. 'If we are to go to what passes between the

ladies in these matters, we shall really be in a nest of troubles from which we shall never extricate ourselves.

Mrs Proudie is a most excellent lady, kindhearted, charitable, pious, and in every way estimable. But, my

Mr Quiverful for a moment sat panicstricken and silent. 'Am I to understand, then, that I have received no

'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

'But surely you told me, and repeated it more than once, that he had done so in your 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

'Whatever I do, I shall endeavour at any rate to act fairly,' said the poor man, feeling that he had to fall back

'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 rights 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

'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 selfpreservation which made his wife so

'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 any one whom he has once marked with approval.

'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 his lordship that you decline to stand in Mr Harding's way, I think I may promise

youthough, by the bye, it must not be taken as a formal promisethat the bishop will not allow you to be

Mr Quiverful sat in his arm chair silent, gazing at vacancy. What was he to say? All this that came from Mr

Slope was so true. Mr Harding had a right to the hospital. The bishop had a great many good things to give

away. Both the bishop and Mr Slope would be excellent friends and terrible enemies to a man in his position.

And then he had no proof of any promise; he could not force the bishop to appoint him.

'Oh, of course, whatever you think, Mr Slope. It's a great disappointment, a very great disappointment. I won't

'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

Mr Slope assured him that he should not be forgotten, and then rode back to Barchester, satisfied that he

We have most of us heard of the terrible anger of a lioness when, surrounded by her cubs, she guards her

prey. Few of us wish to disturb the mother of a litter of puppies when mouthing a bone in the midst of her

young family. Medea and her children are familiar to us, and so is the grief of Constance. Mrs Quiverful,

when she first heard from her husband the news which he had to impart, felt within her bosom all the rage of

a lioness, the rapacity of the hound, the fury of the tragic queen, and the deep despair of a 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 had 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

Such may be laid down as a 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 trumpettongued 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 woebegone, Drew Priam's

'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.

'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

'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?'

'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

'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

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.

'Yes, you are too good, too soft, too yielding,' she said at last. 'These men, when they want you, they use you

like a cat'spaw; and when they want you no longer, they throw you aside like an old shoe. This is twice they

'In one way this will be for the better,' argued he. 'It will make the bishop feel that he is bound to do

'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

'Good heavens! What a heart she must have within her to treat in such a way as this the father of fourteen

Mr Quiverful proceeded to explain that he didn't think that Mrs Proudie had anything to do with it.

'Don't tell me,' said Mrs Quiverful; 'I know more about it than that. Doesn't all the world know that Mrs

Proudie is bishop of Barchester, and that Mr Slope is merely her creature? Wasn't it she that made me the

promise just as though the thing was in her own particular gift? I tell you, it was that woman who sent him

over here today because, for some reason of her own, she wants to go back on her word.'

'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 twoyear old. 'And if you'll take my advice, you'll lose no time in going over

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 action 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 continuously, 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 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

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

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 marketplace 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 smug rector, really in want of nothing, but still looking for better

preferment, should carry out 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

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 hightrotting fast bay gelding would take him into the city within the

hour. There was no brougham in the coachhouse of Puddingdale Vicarage, no bay horse in the stables.

There was no method of locomotion for its inhabitants but that which nature had assigned to man.

Mrs Quiverful was a broad heavy woman, not young, nor given to walking. In her kitchen, and in the family

dormitories, she was active enough; but her pace and gait were not adapted for the road. A walk into

Barchester and back in the middle of an August day would be to her a terrible task, if not altogether

impracticable. There was living in the parish about half a mile from the vicarage on the road to the city, a

decent, kindly farmer, well to do as regards this world, and so far mindful of the next that he attended his

parish church with decent regularity. To him Mrs Quiverful had before now appealed in some of her more

pressing family troubles, and had not appealed in vain. At his door she now presented herself, and, having

explained to his wife that most urgent business required her to go at once to Barchester, begged that Farmer

Subsoil would take her thither in his taxcart. The farmer did not reject her plan; and, as soon as Prince could

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

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 women, who have favours to beg. Still less easy is

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 palace 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 which nature had endowed her. Of this also Mrs Quiverful was aware. She must

make it known 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 a

halfcrown, and this she sacrificed to the avarice of Mrs Proudie's metropolitan sesquipedalian servingman.

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 indispensible 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 that she was subject to one of these or to some cause that would make her invisible; but Mrs

Quiverful could sit down in the waitingroom, while inquiry was being made of Mrs Proudie.

'Look here, man,' said Mrs Quiverful; 'I must see her;' and she put her card and halfcrownthink of it, my

reader, think of it; her last halfcrowninto the man's hand, and sat herself down on a chair in the

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

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 that he was a married man; and, if he

went at all, he must go alone. This necessity would have presented an insurmountable bar to the visit, or have

militated against the pleasure, had he been able to go without 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 menmay we not rather say

monsters?who do such things; and there are wivesmay we not rather say slaves?who put up with

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

She instantly spoke of the subject which was so near the heart of her visitor. 'Well, Mrs Quiverful,' said she,

'That woman', as she had an hour or two since been called, became instantly reendowed 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

'Why not?' said the lady sharply, dropping at a moment's notice her smiles and condescension, and turning

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 cause. When Mr Slope was at Puddingdale vicarage that morning she had regarded him

as the creature of the ladybishop; 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 newcomers at the bishop's palace as 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

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

'Oh, Mrs Proudie, it's for fourteen childrenfor fourteen children.' Such was the burden that fell on her ear

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

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 presenceand 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

'Mr Quiverful has not abandoned anything,' said the lady, with a very imperious voice. 'His lordship's word

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 the 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

'But yet,' continued Mr Slope, not regarding the interruption, 'I have thought it my imperative duty to

'If Mr Harding be not replaced at the hospital, his lordship will have to encounter much ill will, not only in

the diocese, but in the world at large. Besides, taking a higher ground, his lordship, as I understood, feels it to

be his duty to gratify, in this matter, so very worthy a man and so good a clergyman as Mr Harding.'

'And what is to become of the Sabbathday school, and of the Sunday services in the hospital?' said Mrs

'I understand that Mr Harding makes no objection to the Sabbathday school,' said Mr Slope. 'And as to the

hospital services, that matter will be best discussed after his appointment. If he has any personal objection,

'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 on this matter. It is clear that in the interview I

'And it is equally clear that you have misunderstood Mr Quiverful,' said she, not 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

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 the 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 devil you know than the devil you don't know', is an old saying, and perhaps a true one; but the

'Will you answer me, sir?' she repeated. 'Who instructed you to call on Mr Quiverful this morning?' There

'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

'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 illconditioned minds become insubordinate by the

fruition of a little power. The bishop had not yet been twelve months in this chair, and rebellion had already

reared her hideous head within the palace. Anarchy and misrule would quickly follow, unless she took

immediate and strong measures to put down the conspiracy which she had detected.

'Mr Slope,' she said, with slow and dignified voice, differing much from that which she had hitherto used, 'Mr

Slope, I will trouble you, if you please, to leave the apartment. I wish to speak to my lord alone.'

Mr Slope also felt that everything depended on the present interview. Should the bishop now be repetticoated,

his thraldom would be complete and for ever. The present moment was peculiarly propitious for rebellion.

The bishop had clearly committed himself by breaking the seal of the answer to the archbishop; he had

therefore fear to influence him. Mr Slope had told him that no consideration ought to induce him to refuse the

archbishop's invitation; he had therefore hoped 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 husband and wife when the wife expressed a wish for a teteatete with her husband.

'His lordship has summoned me on most important diocesan business,' said Mr Slope, glancing with uneasy

eye at Dr Proudie. He felt that he must trust something to the bishop, and yet that trust was so woefully

'Do you bandy words with me, you ungrateful man?' said she. 'My lord, will you do me the favour to beg Mr

My lord scratched his head, but for the moment said nothing. This was as much as Mr Slope expected from

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 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

At last he broke his deep silence and proclaimed himself a Slopeite. 'Why, my dear,' said he, 'Mr Slope and I

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

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 had 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 who 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

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, to

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 was suffering; that he would surely get himself into hot water if he allowed Mrs Proudie to interfere

in matters which were not suitable for a woman's powers; and in fact that he would become contemptible if

he did not throw off the yoke under which he groaned. The bishop at first hummed and hawed, and affected

to deny the truth of what was said. But his denial was by silence 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 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

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

'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 selfjurisdiction

should be as nearly as possible a fait accompli. He begged, and coaxed, and threatened the bishop with a view

of making him also write at once to Mr Harding; but the bishop, though temporarily emancipated from his

wife, was not yet enthralled to Mr Slope. He said, and probably said truly, that such an offer must be made in

some official form; that he was not yet prepared to sign the form; and that he should prefer seeing Mr

Harding before he did so. Mr Slope, might, however, beg Mr Harding to call upon him. Not disappointed

with his achievement Mr Slope went his way. He first posted the precious note which he had in his pocket,

and then pursued other enterprises in which we must follow him in other chapters.

Mrs Proudie, having received such satisfaction as was to be derived from slamming her husband's door, did

not at once betake herself to Mrs Quiverful. Indeed for the first few moments after her repulse she felt that

she could not again see that lady. She would have to own that she had been beaten, to confess that the diadem

had passed from her brow, and the sceptre from her hand! No, she would send a message to her with the

promise of a letter on the next day or the day after. Thus resolving, she betook herself to her bedroom; but

here she again changed her mind. The air of that sacred enclosure restored her courage, and gave her some

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 hey fell on her husband's pillow. She would

not despair. Having so resolved, she descended with dignified mien and refreshed countenance to Mrs

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 a 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

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 rule 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 illmannered; 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

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

'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

'Pray be seated, Mrs Quiverful. I much fear that I can do nothing further for you in this matter. Your husband

has, in a most unaccountable manner, taken upon himself to resign that which I was empowered to offer him.

As a matter of course, the bishop expects that his clergy shall know their own minds. What he may ultimately

dowhat we may finally decide on doingI cannot say. Knowing the extent of your family'

'Fourteen children, Mrs Proudie, fourteen of them! and hardly breadbarely 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 running down her big coarse cheeks, on which the dust of the August road had left

Mrs Proudie has not been portrayed in these pages as an agreeable or 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

female angel, and a male and 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 stiffribbed 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 the 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

She did not show it as other women might have done. She did not give Mrs Quiverful eaudeCologne, 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 with 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 was forthcoming. Instead of that, Mrs Proudie slapped one hand upon the other, and

declarednot with an oath; for as a lady and a Sabbatarian and a shebishop, she could not swear,but

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

'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

Poor Mrs Quiverful was ready enough with her own tongue in accusing her husband to his face of being soft,

and perhaps she did not always speak of him to her children quite so respectfully as she might have done. But

she did not 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 of 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

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 upon. As she repeated that word 'insisted', she thought of the bishop in his

nightcap, 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

Mr Slope, as we have said, left the palace with a feeling of considerable triumph. Not that he thought that his

difficulties were over; he did not so deceive himself; but he felt that he had played his first move well, as well

as the pieces on the board would allow; and that he had nothing with which to reproach himself. He first of

all posted the letter to the archbishop, and having made that sure he proceeded to push the advantage which

he had gained. Had Mrs Bold been at home, he would have called on her; but he knew that she was at

Plumstead, as he wrote the following note. It was the beginning of what, he trusted, might be a long and

'My dear Mrs Bold,You will understand perfectly that I cannot at present correspond with your father. I

heartily wish that I could, and hope the day may be not long distant, when mists shall have cleared away, and

we may know each other. But I cannot preclude myself from the pleasure of sending you these few lines to

say that Mr Q. has today, in my presence, resigned any title that he ever had to the wardenship of the

hospital, and that the bishop has assured me that it is his intention to offer it to your esteemed father.

'Will you, with my respectful compliments, ask him, who I believe is 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

'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 it 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

'I can assure your friends miss you from Barchester sorely; but it would be cruel to begrudge you your

'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

We will now follow 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

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

was 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 worse. 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 L 1000 a year and a beautiful wife would not al all have hurt the voice of the pulpit character,

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

But Mr Slope could not help himself. He knew that he was wrong in devoting his time to the back

drawingroom in Dr Stanhope's house. He knew that what took place 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, some exaggerated tidings, of the sighs which he poured into the lady's ears. He

knew that he was acting against the recognised principles of his life, against those laws of conduct by which

he hoped to achieve much higher success. But as we have said, he could not help himself. Passion, for the

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 ladyflies do whose webs are most frequently of their mother's 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

The signora was subdued by no passion. Her time for love was gone. She had lived out her heart, such heart

as she ever had ever had, in her early years, at an age when Mr Slope was thinking of his 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

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 neck tie, clean handkerchief, new gloves, and a soupcon of not necessary scent, called

about three o'clock at the doctor's house. At about this hour the signora was almost always in the back

drawingroom. 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 any one called whose object was specially with her sister. Such was her

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 drawingroom. 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

'Ah, my friend,' said she, putting out her left hand to him across the desk, 'I did not expect you today and

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; every thing 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 selfpossessed as Venus

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

'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,

'Gracious me! Mr Slope,' said she. 'I hope you don't mean to say that you keep all the trash I write to you.

Half my time I don't know what I write, and when I do, I know it is only fit for the black of the fire. I hope

'At any rate I don't throw them into a wastepaper basket. If destruction is their doomed lot, they perish

'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

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 beneficial 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 at him full in the face, not angrily, nor yet with a smile, but with an intense and overpowering

gaze; and then holding up her forefinger, and slightly shaking her head she said: 'Whatever you do, my

friend, do not mingle love and business. Either stick to your treasure and your city of wealth, or else follow

your love like a true man. But never attempt both. If you do, you'll have to die with a broken heart as did poor

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

'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 is

returned;' and he threw upon the signora a look of tenderness which was intended to make up for all the

'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

'Troilus loved and he was fooled,' said the more manly chaplain. 'A man may love and yet not be a Troilus.

'No; all women are not Cressids. The falsehood is not always on the woman's side. Imogen was true, but now

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,

'And what will make you happyyouyou?' 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

'And the search is always in vain,' said Mr Slope. 'We look for happiness on earth, while we ought to be

'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

'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

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

'Your wit delights in such arguments,' said he, 'but your heart and your reason do not quite go along with

'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 the signora said. If Mr Slope

allowed himself to be deceived it was his own fault. Nothing could have been more open than her

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

'No heart!' said he. 'That is a very heavy charge which you bring against yourself, and one of which I cannot

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

'Your love should be sufficient to satisfy the dream of a monarch,' said Mr Slope, not quite clear as to the

'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

'Whywhat 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,

Mr Slope did look at her with a languishing loving eye, and as he did so, he again put forth his hand to get

'I told you to look at me boldly, Mr Slope; but confine your boldness to your eyes.'

'Well, my name is Madeline,' said she; 'but none except my own family usually call me so. Now look me in

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

The signora received the assurance with very little palpitations or appearance of surprise. 'And now answer

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

'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

'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

'I am not,' said Mr Slope, to whom the word worshipper was peculiarly distasteful. The signora had conceived

'I wonder at that,' said she. 'Do you not admire her? To my eyes 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

'Cruel,' said she, changing the voice of her banter which she had been using for one which was expressively

'If that were cruelty, Mr Slope, what might you say of me if I were to declare that I returned your passion?

What would you think if I bound you even by a lover's oath to do daily penance at this couch of mine? What

can I give in return for a man's love? Ah, dear friend, you have not realised the condition 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,

'And can I not sympathise with your lot?' said he, now seating himself on her sofa, and pushing away the

'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 from him, but sat there as he kissed it, looking at him with her great eyes, just as a great spider

'Suppose Signor Neroni were to come to Barchester,' said she, 'would you make his acquaintance?'

'Would you introduce him to the bishop, and Mrs Proudie, and the young ladies?' said she, again having

'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

'My heart again! How you talk. And you consider then, that if a husband be not master of his wife's heart, he

has not right to her fealty; if a wife ceases to love, she may cease to be true. Is that your doctrine on this

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. He had looked for rapturous

joy in loving this lovely creature, and he already found that he met with little but disappointment and

selfrebuke. He had come across the fruits 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 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 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 between man

and woman? Mr Slope loved furiously, insanely, and truly; but he had never played the game of love. The

signora did not love at all, but she was up to every move on the board. It was Philidor pitched against a

'Sacrifice the world for love!' said she, in answer to some renewed rapid declaration of his passion, 'how often

'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 falsehoodif indeed falsehoods need a sire and are not

selfbegotten 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

'Were you free to marry, I would take you to my house tomorrow and wish no higher privilege.'

'I am free;' said she, almost starting up in her energy. For though there was no truth in her pretended regard

for her clerical admirer, there was a mixture of real feeling in the scorn and satire with which she spoke of

love and marriage generally. 'I am free; free as the winds. Come, will you take me as I am? Have your wish;

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 and more wonderful as he gazed on it. 'Ha! Ha! Ha!,' she laughed out loud. 'Come, Mr

Slope, don't talk of sacrificing the world again. People beyond oneandtwenty should never dream of such a

thing. You and I, if we have the dregs of any love left in us, if we have the remnants of a passion remaining in

our hearts, should husband our resources better. We are not in our premiere jeunesse. The world is a very nice

place. Your world, at any rate, is so. You have all manner of fat rectories to get, and possible bishoprics to

enjoy. Come, confess; on second thoughts you would not sacrifice such things for the smiles of a lame lady?'

It was impossible for him to answer this. In order to be in any way dignified, he felt that he must be silent.

'Come,' said she'don't boody with me: don't be angry because I speak out some home truths. Alas, the

world, as I have found it, has taught me bitter truths. Come, tell me that I am forgiven. Are we not to be

He sat himself down on the chair beside her, and took her proffered hand and leant over her.

'There,' said she, with her sweetest, softest smilea 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

'Hush,' said she. 'There is mother's step. Our teteatete has been of monstrous length. Now you had better

'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

Mr Slope said but little on the subject of Sabbath schools, but he made his adieu, and betook himself home

It will be remembered that Mr Slope, when leaving his billet doux with 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 packec, gave in at the carriage window Mr Slope's epistle. The

archdeacon, who was sitting next to the window, took it, and immediately recognised the handwriting of his

'Mr Slope called with it himself, your reverence,' said the girl; ' and was very anxious that missus should have

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

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 soninlaw. 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

'It's very hard on me,' said he, after a while, 'that this should go on under my roof.'

Now here the archdeacon was certainly the most unreasonable. Having invited his sisterinlaw to his house,

it was a natural consequence of 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 making her to do so, and it was most cruel to her that he should complain of her

violating the sanctity of his rooftree, 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 fatherinlaw; 'I am not going to be the

bearer of his love letters. You are her father, and may do as you think fit with it.'

By doing as he thought fit with it, the archdeacon certainly meant that Mr Harding would be justified in

opening and reading the letter, and taking any steps which might in consequence be necessary. To tell the

truth, Dr Grantly did feel rather a stronger curiosity than was justified by his outraged virtue, to see the

contents of the letter. Of course he could not open it himself, but he wished to make Mr Harding understand

that he, as Eleanor's father, would be fully justified in doing so. The idea of such a proceeding never occurred

to Mr Harding. His authority over Eleanor ceased when she became the wife of John Bold. He had not the

slightest wish to pry into her correspondence. He consequently put the letter into his pocket, and only wished

that he had been able to do so without the archdeacon's knowledge. They both sat silent during the journey

home, and then Dr Grantly said, 'Perhaps Susan had better give it to her. She can explain to her sister, better

'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

'I suppose,' said Dr Grantly, 'you don't wish her to marry this man. I suppose you'll admit that she would

'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 decides to do so, I shall certainly not think that she has disgraced herself.'

'Good heavens!' exclaimed Dr Grantly, and threw himself back into the corner of his brougham. Mr Harding

said nothing more, but commenced playing a dirge, with an imaginary fiddle bow upon an imaginary

violoncello, for which there did not appear to be quite room enough in the carriage; and he continued the

The archdeacon had been meditating sad things in his mind. Hitherto he had always looked on his

fatherinlaw 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 exwarden's prowess in breaking the battle 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 life, and caused him to be tolerant of a man whose

arrogance and vulgarity would, in 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

And to tell the truth, such was the case. Mr Harding disliked Mr Slope as much as it was in his nature to

dislike any man. Had his daughter wished to do her worst to displease him by a second marriage, she could

hardly have succeeded better than by marrying Mr Slope. But, as he said to himself now very often, what

right had he to condemn her if she did nothing that was really wrong? If she liked Mr Slope it was her affair.

It was indeed miraculous to him, that a woman with such a mind, so educated, so refined, so nice in her

tastes, should like such a man. Then he asked himself whether it was possible that she did so.

Ah, thou weak man; most charitable, most Christian, but weakest of men! Why couldst thou not have asked

herself? Was she not the daughter of thy loins, the child of thy heart, the most beloved of thee of all

humanity? Had she not proved to thee, by years of closest affection, her truth and goodness and filial

obedience? And yet, groping in darkness, hearing her name in strains which wounded thy loving heart, and

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 wereFirst, that there should be no truth in the archdeacon's surmises; and in this wish he would have

fain trusted entirely, had he dared to do so; 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 could unfortunately prove

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 present herself, Tarquin and

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 fatherinlaw; and he 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 highchurchism, which to him was tantamount to freemasonry. He was not strict in his lines

of definition. He endured without impatience many different shades of Anglochurch conservatism; but with

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 to 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

What colloquy took place between the marital chamber and the adjoining dressingroom shall not be

detailed. The reader, now intimate with the persons concerned, can well imagine it. The whole tenor of it also

Eleanor, when she received the letter from her father's hand, had no idea from whom it came. She had never

seen Mr Slope's handwriting, or if so, had forgotten it; and did not think of him as she twisted the letter as

people do twist letters when they do not immediately recognise their correspondents either by the writing or

the seal. She was sitting at her glass brushing her hair, and rising every other minute to play with her boy who

was sprawling on the bed, and who engaged pretty nearly the whole attention of the maid as well as of the

At last, sitting before her toilet table, she broke the seal, and turning over the leaf saw Mr Slope's name. She

first felt surprised, and then annoyed, and then anxious. As she read it she became interested. She was so

delighted to find that all obstacles to her father's return to the hospital were apparently removed that she did

not observe the fulsome language in which the tidings were conveyed. She merely perceived that she was

commissioned to tell her father that such was the case, and she did not realise the fact that such a commission

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 darlinghe 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 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, and her dress fastened, she went down to

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

When she entered the drawingroom 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

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

dinnerhour 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

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 sisterinlaw 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

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

Thus the three men sat over their wine, all thinking of the same subject, but unable to speak of it to each

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 be some 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.

As soon as they were in the drawingroom 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 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.

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 she signally failed.

'Not exactly,' said she, already beginning to feel angry at the crossexamination. She determined, and why it

would be difficult to say, that nothing would 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

'But, Eleanor dear, why do you get letters from Mr Slope at all, knowing, as you do, he is a person so

'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

'I cannot tell you,' said she, 'because it was confidential. It was on business respecting a third person.'

'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

'I am not ashamed,' said Eleanor, blazing up; 'I am not ashamed of anything in the matter; only I do not

'Well, dear,' said the other, 'I cannot tell you that I do not think that 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

'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.'

'You all want me to be 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

'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 this 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 diningroom 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

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

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 that 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 this 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 drawingroom Mrs Grantly

took her husband into the recess of the window, and told him how signally she had failed.

'Pray do no such thing,' said she; 'you can do no good and will only make an unseemly quarrel in the house.

The archdeacon declared that as to that he was quite indifferent. He knew his duty and he 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, selfwilled, and sore. The fact that a lady in his household had received a

letter from Mr Slope had wounded his pride in the sorest place, and nothing could control him.

Mr Harding looked worn and woebegone as he entered his daughter's room. These sorrows worried him

sadly. He felt that if they were continued he must go to the wall in a 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

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

Mr Harding confessed with a sort of murmur that the archdeacon had been speaking of her.

'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

'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

Mr Harding took his arm from his daughter's waist, and slowly read the letter. She expected to see his

countenance lit up 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 owned 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 that Eleanor should have received such a letter,

and received it without annoyance, unless she were willing to encourage him. So at least, Mr Harding argued

How hard it is to judge accurately of the feelings of others. Mr Harding, as he came to close 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

And yet it was the true feminine delicacy of Eleanor's mind which brought her on this condemnation. Listen

to me, ladies, and I beseech you to acquit her. She thought of this man, this lover of whom she was so

unconscious, exactly as her father did, exactly as the Grantlys did. At least she esteemed him personally as

they did. But she believed him to be in the main an honest man, and one truly inclined to assist her father.

She felt herself bound, after what had passed, to show the letter to Mr Harding. She thought it necessary that

he should know what Mr Slope had to say. But she did not think it necessary to apologise for, or condemn, or

even allude to the vulgarity of the man's tone, which arose, as does all vulgarity, from ignorance. It was

nauseous to her to have such 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 to point it out, painful to 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

Mr Harding slowly folded the letter, handed it back to her, kissed her forehead and bade God bless her. He

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

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

There are people who delight in serious interviews, especially when to them appertain 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

Eleanor's face as she entered the room was not much 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 the room, he almost wished he had taken his wife's advice.

He began by apologising for the trouble he was giving her. She begged him not to mention it, assured him

that walking down the stairs was no trouble to her at all, and then took a seat and waited patiently for him to

'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

'I never had a brother,' she repeated; 'but I have hardly felt the want. Papa has been to me both father and

'He isthe fondest and most affectionate of men, and the best of counsellors. While he lives I can never

This rather put the archdeacon out. He could not exactly contradict what his sisterinlaw 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 goodnatured 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 subjectmatter of his proffered counsel without any

acknowledgement on her part that she could need it, or would be grateful for it.

'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 somesome surprisesome

'Suspicion!' said she, not speaking above her usual voice, speaking still in a soft womanly tone, but yet with

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 any one 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

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 loveletters from Mr Slope. He almost entirely overlooked the real

subjectmatter of the epistle; so intent was he on the forthcoming courtship and marriage.

He took his hand and held it up, but made no immediate overture to return it. 'And Mr Harding has seen this?'

'Of course he has,' said she; 'it was written that he might see it. It refers solely to his businessof course I

'And Eleanor, do you think that that is a proper letter for youfor a person in your conditionto receive

'Quite a proper letter,' said she, speaking, perhaps, a little out of obstinacy; probably forgetting at the moment

'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, wellmeaning 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 undoubtedly Eleanor 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 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 very

angry and bitter. She had been subjected to contumely and crossquestioning and illusage 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

'Eleanor, you are forgetting yourself,' said he, looking very sternly at her. 'Otherwise you would never tell me

'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

'I believe that he has done a great deal; and, as far as I am concerned, I am grateful to him. 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 nightI am very tired.'

Dr Grantly had, as he thought, done his best to be gracious to his sisterinlaw. He had endeavoured not to

be harsh with her, and had striven to pluck the sting from his rebuke. But he did not intend that she should

'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. Is it worth you

while to break away from all those you have lovedfrom all who love youfor the sake of Mr Slope?'

'I don't know what you mean, Dr Grantly; I don't know what you are talking about. I don't want to break away

'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

'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. Praypray think of this before it is too late.'

'Or if you will not believe me, ask Susan; you cannot think she is prejudiced against you. Or even consult

'You haven't spoken to Mr Arabin about this!' said she, jumping up and standing before him.

'He agrees with me and Susan that it is quite impossible you should be received at Plumstead as Mrs Slope.'

Not being favourites with the tragic muse we do not dare to attempt any description of Eleanor's face when

she first heard the name of Mrs Slope pronounced as that which would or should or might at some time

appertain to herself. The look, such as it was, Dr Grantly did not soon forget. For a moment or two she could

find no words to express her deep anger and deep disgust; and, indeed, at this conjuncture, words did not

'How dare you be so impertinent?' at last she said; and then hurried out of the room, without giving the

archdeacon the opportunity of uttering another word. It was with difficulty that 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

But even yet she had no conception of the truth. She had no idea that her father and sister had for days past

conceived in sober earnest the idea that she was going to marry the 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 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

But the reflection that Mr Arabin should have in any way mentioned her name in connection with that of Mr

Slope was overpowering; and the spiteful illnature 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 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 her 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

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 sisterinlaw. '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

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 be interfering; but she was too charitable to provoke him by

'This comes of a man making 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 charityschool girl.' Still Mrs Grantly made no

reply. 'But I have done my duty; I can do nothing further. I have told her plainly that she cannot be allowed to

form a link of connection between me and that man. From henceforward it will not be in my power to make

her welcome at Plumstead. I cannot have Mr Slope's love letters coming here. I think you have better let her

understand that as her mind on this subject seems to be irrevocably fixed, it will be better for all parties that

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

On the following morning Eleanor's maid was commissioned to send word into the diningroom 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. Every

one 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

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 Slopenot 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 knowhe 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 aroused her wrath. And so they parted.

There was some trouble in arranging the method of Eleanor's return. She begged her father to send for a

postchaise; but when Mrs Grantly heard of this, she objected strongly. If Eleanor would go away in dudgeon

with the archdeacon, why should she let all the servants and all the neighbourhood know that she had done

so? So at last Eleanor consented to make use of the Plumstead carriage; and as the archdeacon had gone out

immediately after breakfast and was not to return till dinnertime, 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 any

one. 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

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 some one 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 know how to think of her, in connection with himself; but he experienced an

inward indefinable feeling of deep regret, a gnawing sorrow, and unconquerable depression of spirits, and

also a species of selfabasement that hehe Mr Arabinhad not done something to prevent that other he,

that vile he, whom he so thoroughly despised, from carrying off his sweet prize.

Whatever man may have reached the age of forty unmarried without knowing something of such feelings

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 no more idea of appropriating her wealth than that of Dr Grantly. He

had discovered that Mrs Bold was intelligent, warmhearted, 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 possible 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

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

And then he strove to recall his mind and to think of other affairs, his parish, his college, his creedbut his

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

It was not that Mrs Bold should marry any one but him; he had not put himself forward as a suitor; but that

Outward grace Nor inward light is needfulday 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

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 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

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 every body

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 oneandtwenty. And so having

done no good at St Ewold's, he rode back much earlier than was usual with him, instigated, by some inward

Eleanor had not passed a pleasant morning. She was irritated with every one, 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

The greater part of the morning she had spent alone; but after a while her father joined her. He had fully made

up his mind that, come what might, nothing should separate him from his youngest 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

He was sitting with her in the drawingroom, with his arm round her waist, saying now and then some little

soft words of affection, and working hard with his imaginary little fiddlebow, when Mr Arabin entered the

room. He immediately got up, and the two made some trifle remarks to each other, neither thinking of what

he was saying, and 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

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 in 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

'I am sorry to hear that you are too leave 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

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 from the room, and Eleanor and Mr

She again muttered something which was all but inaudible; but kept her eyes fixed upon her work.

'We have had a very pleasant month her,' 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,' she said; '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

'It is a pity, certainly, that men and women do so much to destroy the pleasantness of their days,' said she,

'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

'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 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 illtreated her, in order that the sweetness of her forgiveness might be enhanced. She felt that she liked

him too well to be contented to part with him in displeasure; and yet she could not get over her deep

displeasure without some explanation, some acknowledgement, on his part, some assurance that he would

'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

She paused for a while, and then looking full in his face, she said, 'You are not bold enough, Mr Arabin, to

speak out to me openly and plainly, and yet you expect me, a woman, to speak openly to you. Why did you

'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

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

'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

'You are mistaken, Mrs Bold. I have no personal knowledge of Mr Slope; I have 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 a woman. I must confess,

As she spoke she with difficulty restrained her tears; but she did restrain them. Had she given way and

sobbed about, 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 of it from Mr Arabin. But then where would have

'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 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.'

'No; but Dr Grantly does. It is nothing to me if he knows all the young lords on every racecourse in England.

'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

'I deny it. I utterly deny it,' said Eleanor, jumping from her seat, and literally flashing before Mr Arabin, as

she stood on the drawingroom floor. He had never seen her so excited, he had never seen her look so

'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 this world? Do you forget that I have a father? Dr Grantly, I believe, always

'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 nowwas it manly of you, Mr Arabin, to

speak of me in this way, so disrespectfulso? 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 fireplace, looking down

intently at the carpet pattern and speaking with a slow measured voice, 'but to tell you plainly what did take

'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

'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 sono rational man could really come to such an outrageous conclusion without

better ground;you have not thought sobut, 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 drawingroom 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 declarations 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

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

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

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 any one. 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

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

Mr Arabin was very near to her when she first saw him, that she turned short round and retraced her steps

down the avenue, trying to rid her cheeks of all trace of the telltale 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

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 that he could not lower himself by asking for her pardon. He had done no wrong. He had not

calumniated her, not injured her, as she had accused him of doing. He could not confess sins of which had not

been guilty. He could only let the past be past, and ask her as to her and his hopes for the future.

'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 a true friendship between us after what has just past. People cannot

'I must have been so before you could have spoken of me as you did. And I was deceived, cruelly deceived. I

'Thought of you well 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 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 to express his meaning. And Eleanor walked beside him determined at

'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. Of, Father of heaven! How good for us would it be, if thou

'Yesyes, surely; "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." But what is temptation? what is

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 at 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

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

She knew this, and felt the joy of knowing it; and yet she would not come to his aid. He had offended her

deeply, had treated her unworthily, the more unworthily seeing that he had learnt to love her, and Eleanor

could not bring herself to abandon her revenge. She did not ask herself whether or no she would ultimately

accept his love. She did not even acknowledge to herself that she now perceived it with pleasure. At the

present moment it did not touch her heart; it merely appeased her pride and flattered her vanity. Mr Arabin

had dared to associate her name with that of Mr Slope, and now her spirit was soothed by finding that he

would fain associate it with his own. And so she walked on beside him inhaling incense, but giving out no

'Answer me this,' said Mr Arabin, stopping suddenly in his walk, and stepping forward so that he faced his

companion. 'Answer me this 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

'I shall answer no such question,' said she; 'and what is more, I must tell you that nothing can justify your

And so saying she stepped proudly across the lawn, and passing through the drawingroom window joined

her father and sister at lunch in the diningroom. Half an hour afterwards she was in the carriage, and so she

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 Arabinuntaught, illiterate, boorish, ignorant man! That at forty years of age you should know so

And thus the pleasant party of 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

When the carriage reached her own door, and while she was in the act of giving her last kiss to her sister and

'Oh! Eleanor,have you heard?oh! Mrs Grantly, have you heard what has happened? The poor dean!'

'This morning at nine he had a fit of apoplexy, and he has not spoken since. I very much fear that by this time

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 home. 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, 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

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

any thing 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

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 mean time, 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

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

'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

'When a man over seventy has a stroke of apoplexy, it seldom comes very lightly,' said the burly chancellor.

'He was an excellent, sweettempered man,' said one of the vicars choral. 'Heaven knows how we shall repair

'He was indeed,' said a minor canon; 'and a great blessing to all those privileged to take a share of the services

of our cathedral. I suppose the government will appoint, Mr Archdeacon. I trust that we may have no

'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 extraordinarily indecorous; but'

'I know of no man,' said the meagre little prebendary, 'who has better interest with the present government

'Mr Slope!' said two or three at once almost sotto voce. 'Mr Slope dean of Barchester!'

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 in the deanery,' said the little prebendary,

'About as pleasant and as probably as having you in the palace,' said the chancellor.

'I should think such an appointment highly improbable,' said the minor canon, 'and, moreover, extremely

'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

'It's the most comfortable dean's residence in England,' said a second prebendary. 'Fifteen acres in the

'No,' said the second prebendary. 'It is to be fifteen. A special case was made.'

'Nonsense,' said the chancellor. 'They couldn't do it. There were to be no exceptions but London and

'Say about what?' said the archdeacon, who had been looking as though he were thinking about his friend the

'Twelve,' said the archdeacon authoritatively, thereby putting an end at once to all doubt and dispute among

'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, 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

'No change, gentlemen; not the slightest changebut a telegraphic message has arrived,Sir Omicron Pie

will be here by the 9.15pm train. If any man can do anything Sir Omicron will do it. But all that skill can do

'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 rightI should have done just the sameI advised it at once. I said to

Rerechild at once that with such a life and such a man, Sir Omicron should be summonedof course I knew

that the expense was nothingso distinguished, you know, and so popular. Nevertheless, all that human skill

Just at this period Mrs Grantly's carriage drove into the close, and the archdeacon went down to confirm the

By the 9.15pm 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

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

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 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 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

On that memorable day, memorable for his mutiny and rebellion against her high behests, he had carried his

way with a high hand, and had really begun to think it possible that the days of his slavery were counted. He

had begun to hope that he was now about to enter into a free land, a land delicious with milk which he

himself might quaff, and honey which would not tantalise him by being only honey to the eye. When Mrs

Proudie banged the door, as she left his room, he felt himself every inch a bishop. To be sure his spirit had

been a little cowed by his chaplain's subsequent lecture; but on the whole he was highly pleased with himself,

and flattered himself that the worst was over. 'Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute', he reflected; and now

that his 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

He made one or two trifling remarks on the subject of his projected visit to the archbishop, in order to show

to all concerned that he intended to have his own way; and the very servants perceiving the change

transferred a little of their reverence from their mistress to their master. All which the master perceived; and

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 cockcrow; or rather he was the opposite of the ghost, for till

cockcrow he must again be a serf. And would that be all? Could he trust himself to come down to breakfast

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

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 looks 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. Thirtyfortyfifty, 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

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 archepiscopal table, and his ambition was now quite dead within him.

He was thus seated when Mr Slope made his appearance with breathless impatience.

'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;

Bells were rung, and servants were immediately sent to inquire. In the course of the morning, the bishop,

leaning on his chaplain's arm, himself called at the deanery door. Mrs Proudie sent to Miss Trefoil all manner

of offers of assistance. The Miss Proudies sent also, and there was immense sympathy between the palace and

the deanery. The answer to all inquiries was unvaried. The dean was just the same; and Sir Omicron Pie was

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, of 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

How glorious to outtop 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

thoughtand not vainlythat 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 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 chiefcommissioner of national schools who at the present

moment was presumed to stand especially high in the good graces of the government big wigs, and with him

Mr Slope had contrived to establish a sort of epistolary intimacy. He thought that he might safely apply to Sir

Nicholas Fitzhiggin; and he felt sure that if Sir Nicholas chose to exert himself, the promise of such a piece of

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 the paper, who, if not the editor, was as

good as the editor; and had long been in the habit of writing telling letters with his initials, and sent to his

editorial friend with private notes signed in his own name. Indeed, he and Mr Towerssuch was the name of

the powerful gentleman of the press with whom he was connectedwere 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 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 be become vacant.

More than one place of preferment had lately been given away much in accordance with advice tendered to

But it was in 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 out that very afternoon. He was to start on the following morning to London, and

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 the 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

'Well, Slope,' said he, somewhat impatiently; for, to tell the truth, he was not anxious just at present to have

'Your lordship will be sorry to hear that as yet the poor dean has shown no signs of amendment.'

'Ohahhasn't he? Poor man! I'm sure I'm very sorry. I suppose Sir Omicron has not arrived yet?'

'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.'

'Oh no; indeed, his best friends could not wish that he should outlive such a shock, for his intellect cannot

'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 Barchestermuch 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 cooperation 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 Lordwill 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 present rather abashed. He hardly knew how to frame his little request in

language sufficiently modest. He had recognised and acknowledged, to himself the necessity of shocking the

bishop in the first instance by the temerity of his application, and his difficulty was how best to remedy that

by his adroitness and eloquence. 'I doubted myself,' said he, 'whether your lordship would have any one

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

'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 that I shall succeed. You see I shall 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, 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

The bishop sat for a while dumfounded. 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. The 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 as speaking, the bishop

began to recognise the idea that that gentleman might become dean of Barchester without impropriety; not

moved, indeed, by Mr Slope's eloquence, for he did not follow the tenor of his speech; but led thereto by his

'I need not say,' continued Mr Slope, 'that it would be my chief desire to act in all matters connected with

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 not desirable that there should be but one opinion among the dignitaries in 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

'If you would mention it to the archbishop; if you would tell his grace that you consider such an appointment

very desirable, that you have it much at heart with a view of putting an end to the 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 I shall get it through other sources, as is indeed the case; but that you are very anxious that his

It ended by the bishop promising to do as he was told. 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

'Ah well thenI think upon the whole it will be better to let Mr 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

'But, my lord,' said Mr Slope, still thinking that 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, 'I can hold out not sort of hope to you in this matter of succeeding poor Dr Trefoil. I

'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

'Yes, Slope, I think that will be best; and you may be sure that any little that I can do to forward your views

Mr Slope had now much business to handle. 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 Stanhope's; 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 the 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 and

dilapidations and curtailments in the dean's stipend which might have been made by that ruthless

Touching Mrs Bold his hopes now soared high. Mr Slope was one of the 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 the society of Plumstead

rectory; and that 'missus' had declared with much indignation, that 'she didn't care a straw for the society of

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 had 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

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 as an adept at

'My dear Sir Nicholas,I hope that the intercourse which has been between us will preclude you from

regarding my present application as an intrusion. You cannot I imagine have yet heard that poor dear old Dr

Trefoil has been seized with apoplexy. It is a subject of profound grief to every one in Barchester, for he has

always been an excellent manexcellent as man and as a clergyman. He is, however, full of years, and his

life could not under any circumstances have been much longer spared. You may probably have known him.

'There is, it appears, no probable chance of his recovery. Sir Omicron Pie is, I believe, at present with him. At

any rate the medical men here have declared that one or two days more must limit the tether of his mortal

coil. I sincerely trust that his soul may wing its flight to that haven where it may for ever be at rest and for

'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 London tomorrow, and is intent

'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

'I had better add, that Lord cannot as yet know of this piece of preferment having fallen in, or rather of the

certainty of falling (for poor dear Dr Trefoil is past hope). Should Lord first hear it from you, that might

'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.

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. Therefor the

epistle to Mr Towers was studied, and recopied, and elaborated at the cost of so many minutes, that Mr Slope

'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

'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 9am. 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 of 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

'But I do not write merely with the object of sending you such news as this: doubtless some one of your

Mercuries will have seen and heard and reported so much; I write, as you usually do yourself, rather with a

'Rumour is already rife her as to Dr Trefoil's successor, and among those named as possible future deans your

humble servant is, I believe, not the least frequently spoken of; in short, I am looking for the preferment. You

may probably know that since Bishop Proudie came to this diocese, I have exerted myself 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 in 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 we intend, they were so

'The bishop here is most anxious for my success; indeed, he goes tomorrow to press the matter on the

archbishop. I believe also I may count on the support of at least one of the most effective member of the

government. But I confess 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

'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

'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 alsoI am speaking of clergymen of my own age and

standingthat it should be so. There can be no patron less interested than the Jupiter, and none that more

'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

'The bishop expresses a fear that I may be considered too young for such a station, my age being thirtysix. 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 thirtysix years of age.

Having thus exerted himself, Mr Slope posted his letters, and passed the remainder of the evening at the feet

Mr Slope will be accused of deceit in his mode of canvassing. It will be said that he lied in the application he

made to each of his three patrons. I believe it must be owned that he did so. He could not hesitate on account

of his youth, and yet, be quite assured that he was not too young. He could not count chiefly on the bishop's

support, and chiefly also on that of the newspaper. He did not think that the bishop was going to press the

matter on the archbishop. It must be owned that in his canvassing Mr Slope was as false as he well could be.

Let it, however, be asked of those who are conversant with such matters, whether he was more false than men

usually are on such occasions. We English gentlemen hate the name of a lie; but how often do we find public

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 had prophesied that he would do, much to 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

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 special 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 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

any one 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

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 wouldbe 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 Stanshopes 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

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 bit her lip and stamp her foot as she thought of what he had said and done. But nevertheless she

yearned to let him know that he was forgiven; all that she required was that he should own that he had sinned.

She was to meet him at Ullathorne on the last day of the present month. Miss Thorne had invited all the

country round to a breakfast on the lawn. There were to be tents and archery, and dancing for the ladies on

the lawn, and for the swains and girls in the paddock. There were to be fiddlers and fifers, races for the boys,

poles to be climbed, ditches full of water to be jumped over, horsecollars 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 the

bullring, 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 bullring, 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 in her regret, feeling perhaps that a full suit of chainarmour would

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 harvesthome gala for the labourers and their wives and

children had subsequently been amalgamated with it, and thus it had grown into its present dimensions. All

the Plumstead party had of course been asked, 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

This permission Miss Thorne gave, having no other alternative; but she did so with a trembling heart, fearing

Mr Arabin would be offended. Immediately on his return she apologised, almost with tears, so dire an enmity

was presumed to rage between the two gentlemen. But Mr Arabin comforted by an assurance that he should

meet Mr Slope with the greatest pleasure imaginable, and made her promise that she would introduce them to

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 servants 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 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 Stanhope's; but, as a rule, Mr Slope's visits there had been 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

goodnatured on the part of Charlotte, as Eleanor thought, and also very sharpwitted, 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

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 to

Eleanor's face that this assortment was very disagreeable to her; and Charlotte, who was much encouraged

'I see you don't like it, dear,' said she, 'but we could not manage it otherwise. Bertie would give his eyes to go

with you, but Madeline cannot possibly go without him. Nor could we possibly put Mr Slope and Madeline in

the same carriage without anyone else. They'd both be ruined for ever, you know, and not admitted inside

'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

'Well, then,' said Eleanor, 'you are all so kind, Charlotte, and so good to me, that I am sure you won't be

'Not go at all!what nonsense!indeed you shall.' it had been absolutely determined in family council that

'Or I can take a fly,' said Eleanor. 'You know that I am not embarrassed by so many difficulties as you young

'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 would 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 without

him,and she, poor creature, goes out so seldom! I am sure you don't begrudge her this, though her vagary

Of course Eleanor made a thousand protestations, a 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 so this, or to explain why she would not do so. Now she could not bring herself to

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 sisterinlaw; anything, in fact, she could do rather than be seen

in 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

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 dressingroom with somewhat of a palpitating heart;

he had overstayed his allotted time by three days, and was not without 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, arms, and almost in words called him her dear,

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 as poignant, as to leave him little spirit for further

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. Nothing could be more polite than the archbishop; and Mrs Archbishop

Mrs Proudie was delighted to hear it; nothing, she declared, pleased her so much as to think

She did not put it precisely in these words, but what she said came to the same thing; and then, having petted

'So I hear, so I hear,' said the bishop. 'I'll go to the deanery directly after breakfast tomorrow.'

'We are going to this party at Ullathorne tomorrow morning, my dear; we must be there early, you

'Filling up the dean's place,' said Mrs Proudie. As she spoke a spark of the wonted fire returned to her eye,

'Filling up the dean's place; that is, if the dean dies?very little, my dear. It was mentioned, just mentioned.'

'Why I said that I thought that if, that is, shouldshould 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

'I am told,' said Mrs Proudie, speaking very slowly, 'that Mr Slope is looking to be the new dean.'

'Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised Mr Slope to speak to the archbishop. Mr Slope spoke to me about

'Arrogant!' said Mrs Proudie; 'it is the most impudent piece of pretension I ever heard in my life. Mr Slope

'You don't mean to tell me,' said Mrs Proudie, 'that you are going to make yourself ridiculous by lending your

name to such preposterous attempts 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 wifetamer would have been able to keep her legs out of those garments

'But why have you done it at all? Why have you mixed your name up in any thing so ridiculous? What was it

'Why, I did just mention it; I just did say thatthat in the event of the poor dean's death, Mr Slope

'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

'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

'Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What will the archbishop think of that?'

'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 bishoprics some of these daysa man that

hardly knows who his father was; a man that I found without bread to his mouth, or a coat to his back. Dean

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

The bishop thought it necessary to exculpate himself. 'Why, my dear,' said he, 'it appeared to me that you and

'Get on!' said Mrs Proudie, moving her foot uneasily on the hearthrug, and compressing her lips in a manner

'I began to find that he was objectionable to you,'Mrs Proudie's foot worked on the hearthrug 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

And then the hyena laughed loud. 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 terrible 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

'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 was 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 isa 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

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 goodnatured 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

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 assumed, as far as their judgment went, to be quite

himself. He had, as was his wont, asked himself a great many questions, and given himself a great many

answers; and the upshot of this was that he had set himself down for an ass. He had determined that he was

much too old and much to rusty to commence the manouvres of lovemaking; 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

When he had stood on the hearthrug, counting the pattern, and counting also the future chances of his own

life, the remembrances of Mrs Bold's comfortable income had not certainly damped his first assured feeling

of love for her. And why should it have done so? Need it have done so with the purest of men? Be that as it

may, Mr Arabin decided against himself; he decided that it had done so in his case, and that he was not the

He also decided, which was more to his purpose, that Eleanor did not care a straw for him, and that very

probably did not 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 was at the bottom of

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

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

He heard the dinnerbell 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 the afternoon

among the poor at St Ewold's, instead of wandering about Plumstead, an ancient lovelorn 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 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.

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 own sad

surmises; but the idea that his enemy might possibly become Dean of Barchester made him very gloomy.

Should such an even 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

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

Mr Harding left the room almost together with the ladies, and 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 crossquestioned him about this, but elicited nothing; and at least remained firm in his own

conviction that he was destined, malgre lui, to be the brotherinlaw 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

It was droll how these men talked of Mr Harding as though he were a puppet, and planned their intrigues and

small ecclesiastical manouvres 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 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 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 the conqueror in

Dr Gwyinne 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 denouments 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 be dead upon the ground, not to be resuscitated even by Dr

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

As it was, Dr Gwynne was resolved to 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 the opinion that any such appointment was quite out of the

question. At this stage of the proceedings, the master's righthand 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 as 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

Tom Staple was a hale strong man of about fortyfive; 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 the 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 in as a freshman. There was also,

perhaps with a little redolence of port wine, as it were the slightest possible twang, in Mr Staple's voice.

In these days Tom Staple was not a very 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. 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 L 10,000 a year have died on their own doorsteps in defence of

protection, no doubt some halfdozen 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 selfsacrifice have infused his own spirit into the component members of the hebdomadal

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

The bad men, said he, and 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 in their Alma Mater,

they come through scatheless. What merit will there be to a young man to get through safely, if he 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 twentyfour. If you bind him with

leadingstrings 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

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

'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 out share, and never shall, I suppose; but we must at

'Everything has gone by, I believe,' said Tom Staple. 'The cigar has been smoked out, and we are the ashes.'

'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.'

'I think not,' said the master. 'And I think, moreover, that Dr Proudie will not be so shortsighted as to run

'But perhaps Mr Slope may have no objection to see his patron on a rock,' said the suspicious tutor.

'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 Mr Staple, sighing deeply,

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 a permanent in the palace, his own expulsion therefrom had been already decided on by the high

'I'll tell you what,' said the tutor, 'if this Quiverful is thrust into the hospital and Dr Trefoil must die, I should

not wonder if the Government were to make Mr Harding Dean of Barchester. They would feel bound to do

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

The day of the Ullathorne party arrived, and all the world was 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

The Stanhope party was finally arranged in the odious manner already described, and Eleanor got into the

doctor's waiting carriage full of apprehension and presentiment of further misfortunes, whereas Mr Slope

He had received that morning a civil note from Sir Nicholas Fitzwiggin; 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

triumph, 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 this 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

In these matters he was sometimes driven to run counter to his mistress, but he rarely allowed his mistress to

But on occasions such as the present, Mr Pomney came out strong. He had the honour of the family at heart;

he thoroughly appreciated the duties of hospitality; and therefore, when gala doings were going on, always

took the management into his own hands and reigned supreme over master and mistress.

To give Mr Pomney his due, old as he was, he thoroughly understood such work as he had in hand, and did it

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 nonquality 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 haha; and that for the nonquality on the exoteric or paddock side of the same. Both were of

huge dimensions; that on the outer side, one may say, on an egregious scale; but Mr Pomney declared that

neither would be sufficient. To remedy this, an auxiliary banquet was prepared in the diningroom, and a

subsidiary board was to be spread sub dio for the accommodation of the lower class of yokels on the

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, rivetted with the best Yorkshire steel, she must have sunk under them. Had not Mr Pomney 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 canvass.

In the first place there was a dreadful line to be drawn. Who was to dispose themselves within the haha, and

who without? To this the unthinking will give an offhand answer, as they will to every ponderous question.

Oh, the bishop and such like within the haha; and Farmer Greenacre and such without. True, my unthinking

friend; but who shall define these suchlikes? 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 drawingroom? 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 Greenacres. And yet Mrs Lookaloft is not

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 haha,

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

And how was she to divide the guests between the marquee and the parlour? She had a countess coming, and

Honourable John and an Honourable George, and a whole bevy of Ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta c she

had a leash of baronets with their baronesses; and, as we all know, 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 Pomney knew better than this. 'Bless your soul, Ma'am,' said he, 'there won't be

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 Chantantrum. 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

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 neckhandkerchiefs, 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 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

'And so there will be, of course,' said Mr Pomney. 'They'll all be sporting with the young ladies in the laurel

walks. Them's the sports they care most about nowadays. If you gets the young men at the quintain, you'll

'Can't they look on, as their great grandmothers did before them?' said Miss Thorne.

'It seems to me that the ladies ain't contented with looking nowadays. Whatever the men do they'll do. If

you'll have side saddles on the nags, and let them go at the quintain too, it'll answer capital, no doubt.'

Miss Thorne made no reply. She felt that she had no good ground on which to defend her sex of the present

generation, from the sarcasm of Mr Pomney. She had once declared, in one of her warmer moments, 'that

nowadays the gentlemen were all women, and the ladies all men.' She could not alter the debased character

of the age. But such being the case, why should she take on herself to cater for the amusement of people of

such degraded tastes? This question she asked herself more than once, and she could only answer herself with

a sigh. There was her own brother Wilfred, on whose shoulders rested the all the ancient honours of

Ullathorne House; it was very doubtful whether even he would consent to 'go at the quintain', as Mr Pomney

And now the morning arrived. The Ullathorne household was early on the move. Cooks were cooking in the

kitchen long before daylight, and men were dragging out tables and hammering red baize on to benches at the

earliest dawn. With what dread eagerness did Miss Thorne look out at the weather as soon as the parting veil

of night permitted her to look at all! In this respect at any rate there was nothing to grieve her. The glass had

been rising for the last three days, and the morning broke with that dull chill steady grey haze which in

autumn generally presages a clear and dry day. By seven she was dressed and down. Miss Thorne knew

nothing of the modern luxury of deshabilles. She would as soon have thought of appearing before her brother

without her stockings as without her stays; and Miss Thorne's stays were no trifle.

And yet there was nothing for her to do when down. She fidgeted out to the lawn, and then back into the

kitchen. She put on her highheeled clogs, and fidgeted out into the paddock. Then she went into the small

home park where the quintain was erected. The pole and crossbar 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

What must a young man be, thought she, who could prefer maundering among the trees with a wishywashy

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

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 were also missing,

for every egg in the parish had been whipped into custards, baked into pies, or boiled into lobster salad. The

allowances of fresh butter was short, and Mr Thorne was obliged to eat the leg of a fowl without having it

'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

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.

'There's the Beelzebub colt,' said his sister; 'I know he's in the stable, because I saw Peter exercising him just

'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

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 timehonoured British customs; but she had always suffered in silence. It was part of

her creed that the head of the family should never be upbraided in his own house; and Miss Thorne had lived

up to her creed. Now, however, she was greatly tried. The colour mounted to her ancient cheek, and the fire

blazed in her still bright eye; but yet she said nothing. She resolved that at any rate, to him nothing more

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 Normand, 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 the Earl de Courcy, should ride at a quintain in company with a

Saxon yeoman? And why should she expect her brother to do that which her brother's guests would decline to

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

When Mr Thorne saw the tear in her eye, he repented himself of his contemptuous expression. By him also it

was recognised as a binding law that every whim of his sister was to be respected. He was not perhaps so

firm in his observances to her, as she was in hers to him. But his intentions were equally good, and whenever

'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

'I am quite sure you are not an old man, Wilfred,' said she, accepting the apology in her heart, and smiling at

'If I was fiveandtwenty, or thirty,' continued he, 'I should like nothing better than riding at the quintain all

'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

'But when I ride over the hedges, my dearand it isn't very often I do thatbut 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

Miss Thorne said nothing further. She didn't like the allusion to the countess. She couldn't be satisfied with

the reflection that the sports of Ullathorne should be interfered with by the personal attentions necessary for a

Lady de Courcy. But she saw that it was useless for her to push the matter further. It was conceded that Mr

Thorne was to 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

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 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

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 that 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 goodnaturedly put up with the slight, and showed that they did so by

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

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

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 unauthorized claimant for a plate, of whom it was

impossible to get quit without some commotion than the place and food were worth.

The trouble in civilised life of entertaining company, as it is called too generally without much regard to strict

veracity, is so great that it cannot but be matter of wonder that people are so fond of attempting it. It is

difficult to ascertain what is the quid pro quo. If they who give such laborious parties, and who endure such

toil and turmoil in the vain hope of giving them successfully, really enjoyed the parties given by others, the

matter would be understood. A sense of justice would induce men and women to undergo, in behalf of others,

those miseries which others had undergone on 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 selfassurance, who shall feel sufficient confidence in his own powers to

dare to boast that he can entertain his company? A clown can sometimes do so, and sometimes a dancer in

short petticoats and stuffed pink legs; occasionally, perhaps, a singer. But beyond these, success in this art of

entertaining is not often achieved. Young men and girls linking themselves kind with kind, pairing like birds

in spring, because nature wills it, they, after a simple fashion, do entertain each other. Few others even try.

Ladies, when they open their houses, modestly confessing, it may be presumed, their own incapacity, mainly

trust to wax candles and upholstery. Gentlemen seem to rely on their white waistcoats. To these are added,

for the delight of the more sensual, champagne and such good things of the table as fashion allows to be still

considered as comestible. Even in this respect the world is deteriorating. All the good soups are now tabooed;

and at the houses of one's accustomed friends, small barristers, doctors, government clerks, and such like, (for

we cannot all of us always live as grandees, surrounded by an Elysium of livery servants), one gets a cold

potato handed to one as a sort of finale to one's slice of mutton. Alas! for those happy days when one could

say to one's neighbourhood, 'Jones, shall I give you some mashed turnipmay 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

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 pastrycook, on chalk and gum and adulterated sugar. Poor

Miss Thorne! yours is not the first honest soul that has vainly striven to recall the glories of happy days gone

by! If fashion suggests to a Lady De Courcy that when invited to a dejeuner at twelve o'clock 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 especially begged them to

believe that she meant it, she would be able to see them comfortably seated in their tents at two. Vain

womanor rather ignorant womanignorant 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 haha, 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

Miss Thorne returned to her drawingroom rather quicker than 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 halfpast twelve she

peeped into the kitchen; at a quarter to one she was joined by her brother; and just then the first fashionable

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

'Oh, Miss Thorne, look here!' said she, as soon as she found herself in the drawingroom; 'do look at my

roquelaure! It's clean spoilt, and for ever. I wouldn't but wear it because I know you wished us all to be grand

today; and yet I had my misgivings. Oh dear, oh dear! It was fiveandtwenty shillings a yard.'

The Barchester post horses had misbehaved in some unfortunate manner just as Mrs Clantantram was getting

Mrs Clantantram belonged to other days, and therefore, though she had but little else to recommend her, Miss

Thorne was to a certain extent fond of her. She sent the roquelaure away to be cleaned, and lent her one of

The next comer was Mr Arabin, who was immediately informed of Mrs Clantantram's misfortune, and of her

determination to pay neither master nor postboy; 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

Poor man!we mean the footman. He knew, none better, that Mrs Lookaloft had no business there, that she

was not wanted there, and would not be welcome. But he had not the courage to tell a stout lady with a low

dress, short sleeves, and satin at eight shillings a yard, that she had come to the wrong tent; he had not dared

to hint to young ladies with white dancing shoes and long gloves, that there was a place ready for them in the

paddock. And thus Mrs Lookaloft carried her point, broke through the guards, and made her way into the

citadel. That she would have to pass an uncomfortable time there, she had surmised before. But nothing now

could rob her of the power of boasting that she had consorted on the lawn with the squire and Miss Thorne,

with a countess, a bishop, and the country grandees, while Mrs Greenacres 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

Mrs Lookaloft's pluck carried her through everything, and she walked triumphant into the Ullathorne

drawingroom; 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,

'Are you, indeed?' said Miss Thorne shuddering; but the shudder was not 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

'Such a headache, Mr Thorne!' said Mrs Lookaloft. 'In fact he couldn't stir, or you may be certain on such a

'Dear me,' said Miss Thorne. 'If he is so ill, I 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

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 drawingroom; 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

Then the Grantlys came; the archdeacon and Mrs Grantly and the two girls, and Dr Gwynne and Mr Harding;

and as ill luck would have it, they were closely followed by Dr Stanhope's carriage. As Eleanor looked out of

the carriage window, she saw her brotherinlaw 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

Dr Grantly did not see his sisterinlaw 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 she saw this clergyman

hand out Mrs Bold. Having seen so much, Mr Arabin, rather sick at heart, followed Mrs Grantly into the

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 woman are entitled to make in their passage through the world, the Proudies

drove up. It was soon apparent that no every day comer was at the door. One servant whispered to another

that it was the bishop, and the word soon ran through all the hangerson and strange grooms and coachmen

about the place. There was quite a little cortege to see the bishop and his 'lady' walk across the courtyard, and

the good man was pleased to see that the church was held in such respect in the parish of St Ewold's.

And now the guests came fast and thick, and the lawn began to be crowded, and the room to be full. Voices

buzzed, silk rustled against silk, and muslin crumpled against muslin. Miss Thorne became more happy than

she had been, and again bethought her of her sports. There were targets and bows and arrows prepared at the

further end of the lawn. Here the gardens of the place encroached with a somewhat wide sweep upon the

paddock, and gave ample room for the doings of the toxophilites. Miss Thorne got together such daughters of

Diana as could bend a bow, and marshalled them to the targets. There were the Grantly girls and the Proudie

girls and the Chadwick girls, and the two daughters of the burly chancellor, and Miss Knowle; and with them

went Frederick and Augustus Chadwick, and young Knowle of Knowle park, and Frank Foster of the Elms,

and Mr Vellem Deeds the dashing attorney of the High Street, and the Rev Mr Green, and the Rev Mr

Browne, 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

'The quintain?' said young Foster, who considered himself a dab at horsemanship. 'Is it a sort of gate, Miss

Miss Thorne had to explain the noble game she spoke of, and Frank Foster had to own that he never had

'Would you like to come and see?' said Miss Thorne. 'There'll be plenty here without you, if you like it.'

'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 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 of fete champetre; but he was

not prepared to ride in them. Nor was he more encouraged than had been Mr Thorne, by the idea of being

attacked from behind by the bag of flour which Miss Thorne had graphically described to him.

'Well, I don't know about riding, Miss Thorne,' said he; 'I fear I'm not quite prepared.'

Miss Thorne sighed, but said nothing further. She left the toxophilites to their bows and arrows, and returned

towards the house. But as she passed by the entrance to the small park, she thought that she might at any rate

encourage the yeomen by her presence, as she could not induced her more fashionable guests to mix with

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 Henry fingering his long staff in a rather awkward way, while his horse moved

'Yes, yes,' said Miss Thorne, standing triumphant as the queen of beauty, on an inverted tub which some

'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 the 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 crossbar 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

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

twelvefoot 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 the rider and steed and staff. Young Greenacre

was thrown some six feet over the horse's head, and poor Miss Thorne almost fell of her tub in a swoon.

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 motherhis 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

'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

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.

'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

'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

'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.

'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

'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 Mr Slope. He had been about

to give his sanction to the marriage, so certified had he been of this fact; and now he learnt that this imputed

lover of Eleanor's was at any rage 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

'My darling girl,' said he, 'I am so delighted, so overjoyed. My own child; you have taken such a weight off

'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 sisterinlaw, and creating bitterness between a father

'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.'

'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

'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

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 soninlaw; 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

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 what had Eleanor meant when she declared that whatever she did, she would tell her father first? What

So ended the first act of the melodrama which Eleanor was called on to perform this day at Ullathorne.

And now there were new arrivals. Just as Eleanor reached the drawingroom the signora was being wheeled

into it. She had been brought out of the carriage into the diningroom 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

The signora was attractive, and on her first settlement in the diningroom 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

'We are delighted to see you here,' said Miss Thorne; 'you give us no trouble at all, and we think it a great

'A very great favour indeed,' said Mr Thorne, with a gallant bow, but of somewhat less cordial welcome than

that conceded by his sister. Mr Thorne had learned perhaps more of the antecedents of his guest than his

But while the mother of the last of the Neros was thus in he full splendour, with crowds of people gazing at

her and the elite of the company standing round her couch, her glory was paled by the arrival of the Countess

De Courcy. Miss Thorne had now been waiting three hours for the countess, and could not therefore but show

very evident gratification when the arrival at last took place. She and her brother of course went off to

welcome the titled grandee, and with them, alas, went many of the signora's admirers.

'Oh, Mr Thorne,' said the countess, while the act of being disrobed of her fur cloaks, and rerobed in her

It happened that Mr Thorne was waywarden for the district, and not liking the attack, began to excuse his

'Oh yes, indeed they are,' said the countess, not minding him in the least, 'perfectly dreadful; are they not,

Margaretta? Why, dear Miss Thorne, we left Courcy Castle just at eleven; it was only just past eleven, was it

'Just past one, I think you mean,' said the Honourable John, turning from the group and eyeing the signora

through his glass. The signora gave him back his own, as the saying is, and more with it; so that the young

'Dr Stanhope's daughter,' whispered back Mr Thorne. 'Signora Neroni she calls herself.'

'Whewewew!' whistled the Honourable John. 'The devil she is! I have heard no end of stories about that

Mr Thorne who was respectability itself, did not quite like having a guest about whom the Honourable John

De Courcy had heard no end of stories; but he couldn't help himself. He merely resolved that before he went

to bed he would let his sister know somewhat of the history of the lady she was so willing to welcome. The

innocence of Miss Thorne, at her time of life, was perfectly charming; but even innocence may be dangerous.

'John may say what he likes,' continued the countess, urging her excuses on Miss Thorne; 'I am sure we were

'Upon my word, I don't know,' said the Lady Margaretta, 'for I was half asleep. But I do know that I was

called sometime 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; 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

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

Poor Miss Thorne was altogether overcome. She knew very well that she had been illtreated, 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 drawingroom wide open for the countess to pass through; but she saw that

there was a woman on the sofa, at the third window, and that that woman had, as it were, a following attached

to her. Her ladyship therefore determined to investigate the woman. The De Courcys were hereditarily short

sighted, and had been so for thirty centuries at least. So Lady De Courcy, who, when she entered the family

had adopted the family habits, did as her son had done before her, and taking her glass to investigate the

Signora Neroni, pressed in among the gentlemen who surrounded the couch, and bowed slightly to those

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 countessship

commenced had been accustomed to see all eyes, not royal, ducal, or marquesal, fall down 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

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

'My dear Lady De Courcy, I am so delighted,' said she, looking as little grim as it was in her nature to do so.

'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

'Well, I really don't know; but I suppose not. The Thorne don't, I know,' said Mrs Proudie. 'Very nice person,

'Oh, delightful and so queer; I've known her these twenty years. A great pet of mine is dear Miss Thorne. She

is so very strange, you know. She always makes me think of the Esquimaux and the Indians. Isn't her dress

'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

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

But the enemy knew better. They could gain nothing be contact with the signora Neroni, and they could

'What Italian woman?' said her ladyship, quite alive to the coming story; 'I don't think I've heard of any Italian

'Oh, you must have heard of her,' said Mrs Proudie. 'No, she's not absolutely Italian. She is Dr Stanhope's

'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

'Ahhhh!' said the countess, shaking her head with much intelligence, as every additional 'h' fell from

her lips. 'I know all about it now. I have heard George mention her. George knows all about her. George

'She made her way into the palace once, before I knew anything about her; and I cannot tell you how

'Only one leg!' said the Lady De Courcy, who felt to a certain degree dissatisfied that the signora was thus

'Oh, no,' said Mrs Proudie,and her ladyship felt somewhat recomforted by the assurance,'she had two.

But that Signor Neroni beat her, I believe, till she was obliged to have one amputated. At any rate she entirely

'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 knew how to behave

herself. But she does not. She is the most insolent creature I have ever put my eyes on.'

'And her conduct with men is abominable, that she is not fit to be admitted into any lady's drawingroom.'

'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 required that he shall leave the palace; and I doubt very much whether he

'You don't know the intriguing villainy of that woman,' said Mrs Proudie, remembering her own torn

'She is as full of mischief as tho' she had ten. Look at her eyes, Lady De Courcy. Did you ever see such eyes

'And her effrontery, and her voice; I quite pity her poor father, who is really a good sort of man.'

'Yes, Dr Stanhope. He is one of our prebendaries,a good quiet sort of man himself. But I am surprised that

'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 apishlooking man there, with the long beard and the loose trousers,he is the woman's

'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

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

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 drawingroom by the signora. She had contrived to detain him, to bet 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 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 illused, deceived and evil spoken of. She

had spoken to him of her mutilated limb, her youth destroyed in the 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

What could a goodnatured genial AngloSaxon Squire Thorne do but promise to sympathise with her? Mr

Thorne did promise to sympathise; promised also to come and see the last of the Neros, to hear more of those

fearful Roman days, of those light and innocent but dangerous hours which flitted by so fast on the shores of

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

brutalminded young man; now he was more convinced than ever that he was so. It was by such men as the

Honourable George that the reputation of such women as Madeline Neroni were imperilled and damaged. He

would go and see the lady in her own house; he was fully sure in his own mind of the soundness of his own

judgment; if he found her, as he believed he should do, an injured welldisposed, warmhearted woman, he

'No,' said she, as at her instance he got up to leave her, and declared that he himself would attend upon her

wants; 'no, no, my friend; I positively put a veto upon your doing so. What, in your own house, with an

assemblage round you such as there is here! Do you wish to make every woman hate me and every man stare

at me? I lay a positive order on you not to come near me again today. Come and see me at home. It is only

at home that I can talk; it is only at home that I really can live and enjoy myself. My days of going out, days

such as these, are rare indeed. Come and see me at home, Mr Thorne, and then I will not bid you to leave me.'

It is, we believe, common with young men of five and twenty to look on their seniorson men of, say,

double their own ageas so many stocks and stonesstocks 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 this best age is from fortyfive to seventy; up to that, men are generally given

At the present moment Mr Thorne, aetat. fifty, was over head and ears in love at first sight with the Signora

Nevertheless he was sufficiently master of himself to offer his arm with all propriety to Lady De Courcy, and

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 diningroom. 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 cotoxophilites 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

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

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 diningroom

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 diningroom; and as she took her seat at his right hand, she found that Mr Slope was already in

As these things were going on in the diningroom, 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.

The bishop of Barchester said grace over the wellspread board in the Ullathorne diningroom; and while he

did so the last breath was flying from the dean of Barchester as he lay in his sickroom 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

''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

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 teapot, thinking about

Eleanor Bold. As is usual in such meditations, he did little but blame her; blame her for liking Mr Slope, and

blame her for not liking him; blame her for her cordiality to himself, and blame her for her want of cordiality;

blame her for being stubborn, headstrong, and passionate; and yet the more he thought of her the higher she

rose in his affection. If only it should turn out, if only it could be made to turn out, that she had defended Mr

Slope, not from love, but on principle, all would be right. Such principle in itself would be admirable,

loveable, womanly; he felt that he could be pleased to allow Mr Slope just so much favour as that. But

ifAnd then Mr Arabin poked his fire most unnecessarily, spoke crossly to his new parlourmaid who came

in for the teathings, and threw himself back in his chair determined to go to sleep. Why had she been so

stiffnecked 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

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 hr 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

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 any one else to whom they might both be mutually obliged

without any concert between themselves. The sight in his present state of mind was quite enough to upset him

and his resolves. It was clear as noonday. Had he seen her handed into a carriage by Mr Slope at a church

door with a white veil over her head, the truth could not be more manifest. He went into the house, and, as we

have seen, soon found himself walking with Mr Harding. Shortly afterwards Eleanor came up; and then he

had to leave his companion, and either go about alone or find another. While in this state he was encountered

'I wonder,' said Dr Grantly, 'if it be true that Mr Slope and Mrs Bold come 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 her 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

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 to any one else, nor was he well pleased to hear any one else speak ill of

her. Dr Grantly, however, was very angry, and did not spare his sisterinlaw. Mr Arabin therefore left him

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 woman instinctively,

as it were, know and feel how other women are regarded by men, and how also men are regarded by other

women, is equally strong, and equally incomprehensible. A glance, a word, a motion, suffices: by some such

acute exercise of her feminine senses the signora was aware that Mr Arabin loved Eleanor Bold; and

therefore, by a further exercise of her peculiar feminine propensities, it was quite natural for her to entrap Mr

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 secondrate. 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

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 gentleman he was better educated than Mr Thorne. She

would never have attempted to drive Mr Arabin into ridiculous misery as she did Mr Slope, nor would she

think it possible to dispose of him in ten minutes as she had done with Mr Thorne.

Such were her reflections about Mr Arabin. As to Mr Arabin, it cannot be said that he reflected at all about

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

It was her nature to see that he required charming, and it was her province to charm him. As the Easter idler

swallows his dose of opium, as the London reprobate swallows his dose of gin, so with similar desire and for

similar reasons did Mr Arabin prepare to swallow the charms of the Signora Neroni.

'Why aren't you shooting with bows and arrows, Mr Arabin?' said she, when they were nearly alone together

in the sittingroom; '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

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

'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 in 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

'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

'Well, and what will they be?' said Mr Arabin, who knew that he was being flattered, and yet suffered himself

'The heart of some woman whom you will be too austere to own that you love, and the respect of some few

'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

Mr Arabin look 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, people not equally gifted

with himself, who had risen in the world while he had lagged behind, and then wish that he had done the

'Is not such the doom of all speculative men of talent?' said she. 'Do they not all sit rapt as you now are,

cutting imaginary silken cords with their fine edges, while those not so highly tempered sever the everyday

Gordian knots of the world's struggle, and win wealth and renown? Steel too highly polished, edges too

Who was this woman that thus read the secrets of his heart, and reuttered 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

'Why do you let the Slopes of the world outdistance you?' said she. 'It 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

Mr Arabin sat ruminating and rubbing his face, and wondering why these things were said to him; but he

'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 the other 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 some one, and what is good for a layman cannot surely be bad for a clerk.

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!' said he, gazing into her face, as though all the feminine beauty in the world was

'If you look at me like that, Mr Arabin, I shall alter my opinionor should do so, were I not of course aware

The gentleman blushed crimson, but the lady did not blush at all. A slightly increased colour animated her

face, just so much so as to give her an air of special interest. She expected a compliment from her admirer,

but she was rather grateful than otherwise by finding that he did not pay it to her. Messrs Slope and Thorne,

Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson, they all paid her compliments. She was rather in hopes that she would

'But your gaze,' said she, 'is one of wonder, and not of admiration. You wonder at my audacity in asking you

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

'I am sure that 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 drawingroom 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 byandby throw himself at her feet,

'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

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 summerday

excursions. She had little else to amuse her, and therefore played at lovemaking 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.'

'You crossquestion 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.'

'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

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

'Not a word further. I will not hear a word further. If you talk till midnight, you cannot improve what you

'I will not hear a word about Mrs Bold. Dread thoughts of strychnine did pass across my brain, but she is

'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

This at any rate was so true as to make it unnecessary that Mr Arabin should not act upon it, and he

'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

Mr Arabin did as he was bid. He took her plate and glass from her, and going into the diningroom, helped

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

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

'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 the world

see you stir, for all the ladies would think it necessary to follow. But, perhaps, if Mr Stanhope has donejust

And so Bertie had to rise to make way for his rival. This he did, as he did everything, with an air of

goodhumoured 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

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 they both intended to marry, while the other gentleman who also intended to marry her stood

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 of the

day was near enough; there was no reason why he should precipitate it. He had made up his mind to marry

Eleanor Bold if he could, and was resolved today to take the first preliminary step towards doing so. But

there was time enough before him. He was not going to make an offer of marriage over the tablecloth.

Having thus goodnaturedly made way for Mr Arabin, he was willing also to let him talk to the future Mrs

Mr Arabin bowed to Mr Slope, began eating his food, without saying a word further. He was full of thoughts,

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

Madame 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 done so. 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 eyes so beautiful as herself. He would fain have Eleanor for his wife, but yet he had acknowledged that

she was the less gifted of the two. The man had literally been unable to falsify his thoughts when questioned,

and had been compelled to be true malgre lui, even when truth must have been disagreeable to him.

This teacher of men, this Oxford pundit, this doubledistilled 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 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 the Thornes. She felt that she could never induce Mr Arabin to make protestations to her that were not

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 the 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

And so the signora resolved, should Bertie fail, to do a goodnatured act for once in her life, and give up Mr

On the whole, Miss Thorne's provision for the amusement and feeding of the outer classes in the exoteric

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 was the uprise

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 twisted out of the ground; and the bag of flour was used with great gusto in powdering the backs

Of course it was reported all throughout the assemblage that Harry was dead, and there was a pathetic scene

between him and his mother when it was found that he had escaped scatheless from the fall. A good deal of

beer was drunk on the occasion, and the quintain was 'dratted' and 'bothered', and very generally

anathematised by all the mothers who had young sons likely to be placed in similar jeopardy. But the affair of

'I do tell 'ee plainly,face to faceshe be there in madam's drawingroom; 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 Greenacres, whom this information, joined to the recent

peril undergone by her son, almost overpowered. Mr Greenacres held just as much land as Mr Lookaloft, paid

his rent quite as punctually, and his opinion in the vestryroom was reckoned to be every whit as good. Mrs

Lookaloft's rise in the world had been wormwood to Mrs Greenacre. She had not taste herself for the sort of

finery which 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 homeland into Violet Villa, or to

see her goodman go about with a newfangled 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 time.' 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

drawingroom, merely because she called her house Rosebank, and had talked over her husband into buying

pianos and silk dresses instead of putting his money by to stock farms for his sons.

Mrs Greenacre, much as she reverenced Miss Thorne, and highly as she respected her husband's landlord,

could not but look on this as an act of injustice done to her and hers. Hitherto the Lookalofts had never been

recognised as being of a different class from the Greenacres. Their pretensions were all selfpretensions,

their finery was all paid for by themselves and not granted to them by others. The local sovereigns of the

vicinity, the district fountains of honour, had hitherto conferred on them the stamp of no rank. Hitherto their

crinoline petticoats, late hours, and mincing gait had been a fair subject of Mrs Greenacre's raillery, and this

raillery had been a safety valve for her envy. Now, however, and from henceforward, the case would be very

different. Now the Lookalofts would boast that their aspirations had been sanctioned by the gentry of the

country; now they would declare with some show of truth that their claims to peculiar consideration had been

recognised. They had sat as equal guests in the presence of bishops and baronets; they had been curtseyed to

by Miss Thorne on her own drawingroom 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

The fruition of these 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 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

'But did 'ee zee 'em there, dame, did 'ee zee 'em then with your own eyes?' asked poor Mrs Greenacre, still

'And how could I do that, unless so be I was there myself?' asked Mrs Guffen. 'I didn't set 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 one 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

'She told me she zee'd them come inthat they was dressed finer by half nor any of the family, with all their

'The minxes!' exclaimed Mrs Greenacre, who felt herself more put about by this than any other mark of

'Yes, indeed,' continued Mrs Guffern, 'as naked as you please, while all the quality was dressed just as you

'Drat their impudence' said Mrs Greenacre, from whose wellcovered bosom all milk of human kindness was

'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:"' said Mrs Giffern, laughed

loudly as she though of Mrs Lookalofts'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 drawingroom, like so

many turkey cocks, as much to say, "and who dare say no to us?" and Gregory was thinking of telling them to

come down here, only his heart failed him 'cause of the grand way they was dressed. So in they went; but

'Well now,' said Mrs Greenacre, greatly relieved, 'so they wasn't axed different from us all then?'

'Betsey says that Gregory says that madam wasn't a bit too well pleased to see them where they was and that,

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

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 for 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

'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

drawingroom, and they not axed no more nor you nor me. Did you ever hear tell the like o' that?'

'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 the place

better, cause I be more at home like, and don't have to pay for them fine clothes for the missus. Every one 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 of restored tranquillity, but nevertheless she shook her head at her gossip to show that in this

'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

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

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 twelveacre 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. Hello! there, who are you? how did you make your way in

This last disagreeable question was put to a young man of about twentyfour, who did not, in Mr Plomacy's

'If you please, your worship, Master Barrell the coachman let me in at the church wicket, 'cause I do be

'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

'I'll plaister you and Barrell too; you'll just walk out of this 'ere field as quick as you walked in. We don't want

Stubbs the plasterer was much downcast at the dreadful edict. He was a sprightly fellow, and had contrived

since his egress into the Ullathorne elysium to attract to himself a forest nymph, to whom he was whispering

a plasterer's usual soft nothings, when he was encountered by the great Mr Plomacy. It was dreadful to be

thus dissevered from the 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,

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

'Come, man,' said Mr Greenacre, 'never stick at trifles such a day as this. I know the lad well. Let him bide at

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, 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

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 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 inviteda chap of his age too. He too that never did a day's work about Ullathorne

'He worked long enough for me, then Mr Plomacy. And a good hand he is at setting tiles as any in

Barchester,' said the other, not sticking quite to veracity, as indeed mercy never should. 'Come, come, let him

alone today, and quarrel with him tomorrow. You wouldn't shame him before his lass there?'

'It goes against the grain with me, then,' said Mr Plomacy. 'And take care, you Stubbs, and behave yourself. If

I hear a row, I shall know where it comes from. I'm up to you Barchester journeymen; I know what stuff

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 upon 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 at 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 Madam Thorne in her great liberality had set out before

All this time the quality in the tent on the lawn were getting on swimmingly; that is, champagne without

restrictions can enable quality fold to swim. Sir Harkaway Gorse proposed the health of Miss Thorne, and

likened her to a blood racehorse, 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

than 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 sayAnd so Mr Thorne

became somewhat gravelled as a country gentleman 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

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 to his legs, but much greater difficulty was soon experience in inducing him to resume his seat. One of

two arrangements should certainly be made in these days: either let all speechmaking 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 diningroom 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.

And so the banquet passed off at the various tables with great eclat and universal delight.

'That which has made them drunk, has made me bold.' 'Twas thus that Mr Slope encouraged himself, as he

left the diningroom 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

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

Eleanor saw that she was pursued, and as a deer, when escape is no longer possible, will turn to bay and

'Pray don't let me take you from the room,' said she, speaking with all the stiffness which she know 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 to be 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

Poor lady! He had within him a certain Christian consciencestricken 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

'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

'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 tenderpious. 'Do not ask me to leave you, till I have spoken a few words with which

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 was not 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 for 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

But gentlemen are not easily frozen when they are full of champagne, and it would not at any time have been

'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 tenderpious look

Eleanor had not found it practicable to stand stock still before the diningroom window, and there receive his

offer in full view of Miss Thorne's guests. She had therefore in selfdefence walked on, and Mr Slope had

'Thank you, Mr Slope, I am much obliged to you; but for the very short time that I shall remain with you I

'Yes,' said Eleanor, interrupting him; 'as short as possible, if you please, sir.'

'I had hoped, Mrs BoldI 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 rage no necessity for us to quarrel.'

Mrs Bold was certainly treating Mr Slope rather cavalierly, and he felt it so. She was rejecting him before he

had offered himself, and informed him at the same time that he was taking a great deal too much on himself

He was still determined to be very tender and very pious, seeing that in spite of all Mrs Bold had said to him,

he not yet abandoned hope; but he was inclined to be somewhat angry. The widow was bearing herself, as he

thought, with too high a hand, was speaking of herself in much too imperious a tone. She had clearly no idea

that an honour was being conferred on her. Mr Slope would be tender as long as he could, but he began to

think, if that failed, it would not be amiss if he also mounted himself for a while on his high horse. Mr Slope

could undoubtedly be very tender, but he could be very savage also, and he knew his own abilities.

'That is cruel,' said he, 'and unchristian too. The worst of us are all still bidden to hope. What have I done that

you should pass on me so severe a sentence?' and then he paused a moment, during which the widow walked

'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

Eleanor had no intention of ever walking together with Mr Slope on any other path than the 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 ever

'My name, Mr Slope, is Mrs Bold,' said Eleanor, who, though determined to hear out the tale of his love, was

'Sweetest angel, be not so cold,' said he, and as he said it the champagne broke forth, and he contrived to pass

his arm around 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

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

And now it is to be feared that every wellbred 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; and 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 fistycuffs with a

She cannot altogether be defended; and yet it may be averred that she is not a hoyden, not given to romping,

nor prone to boxing. It were to be wished devoutly that she had not struck Mr Slope in the face. In doing so

she derogated from her dignity and committed herself. Had she been educated in Belgravia, had she been

brought up by any sterner mentor than that fond father, had she lived longer under the rule of a husband, she

might, perhaps, have saved herself from this great fault. As it was, the provocation was too much for her, the

temptation to instant resentment of the insult too strong. She was too keen in the feeling of independence, a

feeling dangerous for a young woman, but one in which her position peculiarly tempted her to indulge. And

then Mr Slope's face, tinted with a deeper dye than usual by the wine he had drunk, simpering and puckering

itself with pseudo piety and tender grimaces, seemed specially to call for such punishment. She had, too, a

true instinct as to the man; he was capable of rebuke in this way and in no other. To him the blow from her

little hand was as much an insult as a blow from a man would have been to another. It went 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

There are such men; men who can endure no taint on their personal selfrespect, 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 that face that he got from

Eleanor was, as far as he was concerned, the fittest rebuke which could have been administered to him.

But, nevertheless, she should not have raised her hand against the man. Ladies' hands so soft, so sweet, so

delicious to the touch, so grateful to the eye, so gracious in their gentle doings, were not made to belabour

men's faces. The moment the deed was done, Eleanor felt that she had sinned against all propriety, and would

have given little worlds to recall the blow. In her first agony of sorrow she all but begged the man's pardon.

'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

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 lowheeled

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 rebellions winds,

abstained from mouthing empty threats. The god when he resolved to punish the rebellious winds, abstained

We will not attempt to tell with what mighty surging of the inner heart Mr Slope swore to revenge himself on

the woman who had disgraced him, nor will we vainly strive to depict the deep agony of his soul.

There he is, however, alone on 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 every one 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

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 inklinga true inklingthat 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 take 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

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 afer the exertion of his speech.

'This is very pleasantvery pleasant, my lord, is it not?' said Mr Slope with his most gracious smile, and

pointing to the tent; 'very pleasant. It is delightful to see so many persons enjoying themselves so thoroughly.'

Mr Slope thought he might force the bishop to introduce him to Dr Gwynne. A very great example had

declared and practised the wisdom of being everything to everybody, and Mr Slope was desirous of following

it. His maxim was never to lose a chance. The bishop, however, at the present moment was not very anxious

to increase Mr Slope's circle of acquaintance among his clerical brethren. He had his own reasons for

dropping any marked allusion to his domestic chaplain, and he therefore made his shoulder rather cold for the

'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

'Dr Gwynne,' said Mr Slope, raising his hat, and resolving not to be outwitted by such an insignificant little

The master of Lazarus also raised his hat and bowed very politely to Mr Slope. There is not a more courteous

'My lord,' said Mr Slope, 'pray do me the honour of introducing me to Dr Gwynne. The opportunity is too

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 important note from Tom Towers of the

So disregarding the bishop, he began to open out a conversation with the master of Lazarus.

But suddenly and 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.

Mr Slope had no further desire to converse with the master of Lazarus, and was very soon on his road back to

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

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 any one

told her a week ago that he would have put his arm around her waist at the 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 topboots, she would not have thought such a

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

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

'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

'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 with tears. 'Goodness

Eleanor answered her only by a sort of spasmodic gurgle in her throat. She was a good deal upset, as people

'Come here, this way, Mrs Bold; come this way, and we shall not be seen. What has happened to vex you so?

'On, no, no, no, no,' said Eleanor. 'There is nothing to be done. Only that horrid man'

There are some moments in life in which both men and women feel themselves 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

'That horrid man; that Mr Slope,' said she, 'did you not see that he followed me out of the diningroom?'

'Of course I did and was sorry enough; but I could not help it. I knew you would be annoyed. But you and

'It was not his fault nor mine either. You know how I dislike the idea of coming in the carriage with that man.'

'I don't know what has led to it,' said Eleanor, almost crying again. 'But it has not been my fault.'

'He's an abominable, horrid, hypocritical man, and it would serve him right to tell the bishop 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

'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 encouragementI that always hated him, though I

'That's just where it is, my dear. He has heard that, and therefore fancied that of course you were in love with

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 illnature, might wag as it like; she

'But what did he do, my dear?' said Charlotte, who was really rather interested in the subject.

'Wellcome, it can't have been anything so very horrid, for the man was not tipsy.'

'Why, I believe I can hardly tell you. He talked such horrid stuff that you never heard the like; about religion,

'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 of 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 Mr Slope would be due

all those jibes and jeers which would naturally follow such an affair. His friends would ask him whether his

ears tingled whenever he saw a widow; and he would be cautioned that beautiful things were made to be

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

'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

'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

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

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

There was certainly an awkwardness in subjecting Mrs Bold to a second offer on the same day. It would have

been well, perhaps, to have put the matter off for a week, could a week have been spared. But circumstances

are frequently too peremptory to be arranged as we would wish to arrange them; and such was the case now.

This being so, could not this affair of Mr Slope's be turned to advantage? Could it not be made the excuse for

bringing Bertie and Mrs Bold into still closer connection; into such close connection that they could not fail

to throw themselves into each other's arms? Such was the game which Miss Stanhope now at a moment's

And very well she played it. In the first place, it was arranged that Mr Slope should not return in the

Stanhope's 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 the 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 kindness 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 idea 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.

They first went into the diningroom, looking for their champion, and from thence to the drawingroom.

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 diningroom, some at the bows and arrows, but most of

them walking with Miss Thorne through the park, and looking at the games that were going on.

All that had passed, and was passing between Mr Arabin and the lady, it is unnecessary to give in detail. She

was doing with him as she did with all others. It was her mission to make fools of men, and she was pursuing

her mission with Mr Arabin. She had almost got him to own his love for Mrs Bold, and had subsequently

almost induced him to acknowledge a passion for herself. He, poor man, was hardly aware what he was doing

or saying, hardly conscious whether he was in heaven or hell. So little had he known of female attractions of

that peculiar class which the signora owned, that he became affected with a temporary delirium, when first

subjected to its power. He lost his head rather than his heart, and toppled about mentally, reeling in his ideas

as a drunken man does on his legs. She had whispered to him words that really meant nothing, but which

coming from such beautiful lips, and accompanied by such lustrous glances, seemed to have a mysterious

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 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

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

'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 arrangement intelligible, he had

'We have had a very pleasant party,' said he, using the tone he would have used had he declared that the sun

'Oh, yes, very much,' said Eleanor, who had not seen her father since she parted from him soon after her

'He came from there this morning. I believe he is going back; he didn't exactly say, however.'

'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

'Are you returning to Plumstead, Mrs Bold?' Mr Arabin merely asked this by way of making conversation,

'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

And yet these two people were thoroughly in love with each other; and though one was a middleaged

clergyman, and the other a lady at any rate past the wishywashy breadandbutter 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

Madeline Neroni consented to her sister's proposal, and then the two ladies again went off in quest of Bertie

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 libation 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 home 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 resources for the evening which is useless. One

gets home fagged and desouvre, and yet at an hour too early for bed. There is not 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 of night. The

lamps she was assured were good, but no lamp could withstand the jolting of the roads of East Barsetshire.

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 the 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

'No, no, no,' said Eleanor; 'pray do notpray wait till I see you. You will be home in a day or two, and then I

'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 haha, 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

Bertie looked up out of the haha, 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 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

'Come and give Mrs Bold your 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

Bertie immediately gave his arm to Eleanor, walking between her and his sister. He had lived too long abroad

to fall into an Englishman's habit of offering each an arm to two ladies at the same time; a habit, by the bye,

which foreigners regard as an approach to bigamy, or a sort of incipient Mormonism.

The little history of Mr Slope's misconduct was then told to Bertie by his sister, Eleanor's ears tingling the

while. And well they might tingle. If it were necessary to speak of the outrage at all, why should it be spoken

of to such a person as Mr Stanhope, and why in her own hearing? She knew she was wrong, and was unhappy

and dispirited, and yet she could think of no way to extricate herself, no way to set herself right. Charlotte

spared her as much as she possibly could, spoke of the whole thing as though Mr Slope had taken a glass of

wine too much, said that of course there would be nothing more about it, but that steps must be taken to

'Mrs Bold need be under no alarm about that,' said Bertie, 'for Mr Slope has gone this hour past. He told me

'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

'That's well. Goodbye, my dear. Of course you'll come in to tea. I shall trust you to bring her, Bertie; even

by force if necessary.' And so saying, Charlotte was off across the lawn, leaving her brother alone with the

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 as no possible reason now why Bertie should not go with his sister. At least Eleanor saw

'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.'

'Oh, the signora can do very well without me. Indeed, she will have to do without me,' he added, thinking

It has been said that Bertie Stanhope was a man without principle. He certainly was so. He had no power of

using active mental exertion to keep himself from doing evil. Evil had no ugliness in his eyes; virtue no

beauty. He was void of any of those feelings which actuate men to do good. But he was perhaps equally void

of those which actuate men to do evil. He got into debt with utter recklessness, thinking of 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 lookout; 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 a 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 be sufficiently reconciled

There was 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 rooftree. His mother was apparently indifferent to his weal or

woe, to his wants or to 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 Madelinepoor 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 be seen 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

'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

'And is it not one?' said Eleanor. 'Were I a man, I know none I should prefer to it, except painting. And I

'Yes, just about equally so,' said Bertie with a little touch of inward satire directed at himself. He knew in his

'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 an interest in so idle a

'And make busts of the bishop, dean and chapter? Or perhaps, if I achieve 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

Eleanor laughed; but yet she thought that if the surviving prebendary paid the bill the object of the artist as a

'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

'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. 'Building should

'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 ponychair, Mrs Bold, as Dannecker put Ariadne on her lion. Only you must promise to

'My ponies are too tame, I fear, and my broadbrimmed straw hat will not look so well in marble as the lace

'If you will not consent to that, Mrs Bold, I will consent to try no other subject in Barchester.'

'I am determined,' said Bertie, slowly and significantly as he tried to bring up his mind to a great resolve; 'I

'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 where Eleanor had been provoked into slapping Mr Slope's face. Could it

be possible that the place was peculiarly unpropitious to her comfort? Could it be possible that she should her

'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

'Noyou cannot know. It is impossible that you should. But we have been very good friends, Mrs Bold,

'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

'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 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 communication 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

'I wish to be guided by you,' said he; 'and, indeed, in this matter, there is no one else who can set me right.'

'Well, listen to me now, Mrs Bold; and if you can help it, pray don't be angry with me.'

'Oh, indeed you will have cause to do so. You know how very much attached to you my sister Charlotte is.'

'Indeed she is; I never knew her to love any one so warmly on so short an acquaintance. You know also how

Eleanor now made no answer, but she felt the blood tingle in her cheek as she gathered from what he said the

'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 Charlotteyou do not know how entirely the wellbeing 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

'You cannot therefore be surprised that Charlotte should be most anxious to do the best for us all.

'And she has had a very difficult game to play, Mrs Bolda very difficult game. Poor Madeline's unfortunate

marriage and terrible accident, my mother's illhealth, my father's absence from England, and last, and worst

perhaps my own roving, idle spirit have almost been too much for her. You cannot wonder if among all her

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 quiet 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

When he had got so far, Bertie began poling in 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

'Knowing how fond she is of yourself, Mrs Bold, cannot you imagine what scheme should have occurred to

'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

A thousand remembrances flashed across Eleanor's mind all in a momenthow 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

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

longheaded 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 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 that kindness,

'Miss Stanhope,' said she haughtily, 'has been contriving for me a great deal of honour, but she might have

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

'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, thatthatthat you and your sister are not exactly of one mind on the subject.'

'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?'

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

'I did once think that you perhaps mightmight 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

'You never have,' said Bertie, who really had a goodnatured 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

'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 this wish, she could restrain herself no longer, but burst out

Poor Bertie was greatly moved. 'You shall have the carriage to yourself going home,' said he, 'at least you and

my father. As for me I can walk, or for the matter of that it does not much signify what I do.' He perfectly

understood that part of Eleanor's grief arose from the apparent necessity of going back to Barchester in the

This somewhat mollified her. 'Oh, Mr Stanhope,' said she, 'why should you have made me so miserable?

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

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

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 bandied about between them in different senses, and each sense

false. She was to 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 heels in debt, completed

the compliment of owning that he did not care to have his debts paid at so great a sacrifice to himself. Then

she was asked to conspire together with this unwilling suitor, for the sake of making the family believe that

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

'I regret to say it, Mr Stanhope; but after what has passed, I believe that all intercourse between your family

'Well, perhaps it had,' said Bertie naively; 'perhaps that will be better, at any rate for a time; and then

'And now I will go back to the house, if you please,' said Eleanor. 'I can find my way by myself, Mr

'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 drawingroom window. There was something about

Bertie Stanhope which gave him in the estimation of every one, 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 any one else. He was apparently so

simple, so good natured, so unaffected and easy to talk to, that she had already halfforgiven him before he

was at the drawingroom 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

As soon as he had handed Eleanor over to his father, Bertie started off to the front gate, in search of the

carriage, and there waited leaning patiently against the front wall, and comfortably smoking a cigar, till it

came up. When he returned to the room, Dr Stanhope and Eleanor were alone with their hosts.

'At last, Miss Thorne,' said he cheerily, 'I have come to relieve you. Mrs Bold and my father are the last roses

in the very delightful summer you have given us, and desirable as Mrs Bold's society always is, now at least

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

'No, no; I have some one 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

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

As soon as the departure of the horses left the bishop's stablegroom free for other services, that humble

denizen of the diocese started on the bishop's own pony with the two despatches. We have had so many

letters lately that we will spare ourselves these. That from the bishop was simply a request that Mr Quiverful

would wait upon his lordship the next morning at 11 A.M.; and that from the lady was as simply a request

that Mrs Quiverful would do the same by her, though it was couched in somewhat longer and more

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, nor more secret negotiations carried on by Mr Slope on his own

'Bishop,' she said, immediately after breakfast, on the morning of that eventful day, 'have you signed the

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 sittingroom, 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

Much perturbation and flutter, high expectation and renewed hopes, were occasioned at Puddingdale, by the

receipt of those 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 want 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 others. 'Quiverful,'said she with impressive

'And so are you, my dear,' said he, almost gasping with the importance of the tidings: and then they

'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, Q!' said Mrs Quiverful; and then the two, unmindful of the kitchen apron, the greasy fingers, and the

'For heaven's sake, don't let any one 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.

'Well, I won't say too much,' said the lady. 'The cup has slipped twice before, and it may fall altogether this

time; but I'll not believe it. He'll give you the appointment tomorrow. You'll find he will.'

'Heaven send he may,' said Mr Quiverful, solemnly. And who that considers the weight of the burden on this

man's back, will say that the prayer was an improper one? There were fourteen of themfourteen of them

livingas 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 change we sink to

And then the pair sitting down lovingly together, talked over all their difficulties, as they so often did, and all

'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.

'And the 'fourteen'or such of them as were old enough to hope and discuss their hopes, talked over their

golden future. The tallgrown girls whispered to each other of possible Barchester parties, of possible

allowances for dresses, of a possible pianothe one they had in the vicarage was so weatherbeaten with

storms of years and children as to be no longer worthy of the nameof the pretty garden, and the pretty

And the younger fry, they did not content themselves with whispers, but shouted to each other of their new

playground beneath our dear exwarden's wellloved elms, of their future own gardens, of marbles to be

procured in the wishedfor 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

this 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

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 onon this occasion the flames will not scorch; they shall warm thee and thine.

'Tis ordained that the husband of thine, that Q of thy bosom, shall reign supreme for some years to come over

And the last in all Barchester to mar their hopes, had he heard and seen all that had 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 the argument would

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 gigwheels were agin heard at the vicarage gate. With what palpitating hearts were the returning

'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

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

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

'We must go to work at once, girls; and that in earnest. Mrs Proudie expects us to be in the hospital house on

Had Mrs Proudie expressed a wish that they should all be there on the next morning, the girls would have had

'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.

'Oh, that'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 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

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

Going home in the carriage that evening from Ullathorne, Dr Gwynne had not without difficulty brought

round his friend the archdeacon to a line of tactics much less bellicose than that which his own taste would

have preferred. 'It will be unseemly in us to show ourselves in a bad humour; and moreover we have no

power in this matter, and it will therefore be bad policy to act as though we had.' 'Twas thus the master of

Lazarus argued. 'If,' he continued, 'the bishop is 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 fatherinlaw. 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

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

'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

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, stillrooms, 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 himself 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

The bishop had been very much pleased with Dr Gwynne on the preceding day, and of course thought that Dr

Gwynne had been very much pleased with him. He attributed the visit solely to compliment, and thought it

was 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

'We had a charming party at Ullathorne, Master, had we not?' said she. 'I hope Mrs Grantly got home without

Dr Gwynne said that they had all been a little tired, but were none the worse this morning.

'I have not seen her Sabbathday schools yet,' continued the lady, 'but I shall make a point of doing so before

Dr Gwynne merely bowed at this intimation. He had something of Mrs Proudie and her Sunday schools, both

'By the bye, Master,' continued the lady, 'I wonder whether Mrs Grantly would like me to drive over and

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

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, stiffnecked, and hardened in their antiquity. 'The archdeacon, I

At this Dr Gwynne laughed slightly. It was but a smile. Had he given his cap for it he could not have helped

Mrs Proudie frowned again. '"Suffer little children, and forbid them not,"' said she. 'Are we not to remember

that, Dr Gwynne? "Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones." Are we not to remember that, Dr

Gwynne?' And at each of these questions she raised at him a menacing forefinger.

'Certainly, madam, certainly,' said the master, 'and so does the archdeacon, I am sure, on week days as well as

'On week days you can't take heed not to despise them,' said Mrs Proudie, 'because they are out in the fields.

On week days they belong to their parents, but on Sundays they ought to belong to the clergyman.' And the

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 subject.

'My lord,' said he, 'I wanted to ask you a question on business, if you would spare me one moment's leisure. I

know I must apologise for so disturbing you; but in truth, I will not detain you five minutes.'

'Certainly, Master, certainly,' said the bishop; 'my time is quite yourspray make no apology, pray make no

'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

Dr Gwynne, lost in astonishment, and not knowing what else on earth to do, confessed that his business with

'His lordship has finally conferred the appointment on Mr Quiverful this morning,' said the lady.

Dr Gwynne made a simple reference to the bishop, and finding that the lady's statement was formally

confirmed, he took his leave. 'That comes of the reform bill,' he said to himself as he walked down the

bishop's avenue. 'Well, at any rate the Greek play bishops were not so bad as that.'

It has been said that Mr Slope, as he started for Ullathorne, received a despatch from his friend Mr Towers,

which had the effect of putting him in that high goodhumour 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.

There was more in this than in all Sir Nicholas Fitzwiggin's flummery; more than in all the bishop's promises,

even had they been ever so sincere; more than in any archbishop's good work, even had it been possible to

Mr Slope had from his youth upwards been a firm believer in the public press. He had dabbled in it himself

ever since he had taken his degree, and regarded it as the great arranger and distributor of all future British

terrestrial affairs whatever. He had not yet arrived at the age, an age which sooner or later comes to most of

us, which dissipates the golden dreams of youth. He delighted in the idea of wresting power from the hands

of his country's magnates, and placing it in a custody which was at any rate nearer to his own reach. Sixty

thousand broad sheets dispersing themselves daily among his reading fellowcitizens, 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

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 fittest man

for the vacant post. It was pleasant for Mr Slope to read the following line in the Barchester newsroom,

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 about to meddle very deeply in the affairs of

the diocese. If any of the chapter feel a qualm of conscience on reading this, 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 revered towers of the

'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 at 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 gentlemanand we say it in all sincerity and with no touch

of sarcasmhad never looked on the matter in this light before. We do not wish to take praise to ourselves

whether praise is due or not. But the consequence of our remark was, that the warden did look into the matter,

and finding on doing so that he himself could come to no other opinion than that expressed by us, he very

creditably threw up the appointment. The then bishop then 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 L 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 worldwide reputation; but as we advertised to its state of

decadence, we think it right also to advert to its renaissance. May it go up 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 honourable 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 the 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

'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 in this

paper. The only fault we knew in him was his age, and as that is a crime of which we may 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 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 positioning 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 Lordthat he will be past all use in a year or two, if indeed he is not

so at the present moment. His lordship will allow us to remind him that all men are not evergreens like

'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

Standing at a readingdesk in the Barchester newsroom, Mr Slope digested this article with considerable

satisfaction. What was therein said as the hospital was now comparatively matter of indifference to him. He

was certainly glad that he had not succeeded in restoring to the place the father of that virago who had so

audaciously outraged all decency in his person; and was so far satisfied. But Mrs Proudie's nominee was

appointed, and he was so far dissatisfied. His mind, however, was now soaring above Mrs Bold or Mrs

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 fullspread board in the deanery diningroom.

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

And here we will leave Mr Slope for a while in his triumph; explaining, however, that his feelings were not

altogether of a triumphant nature. His rejection by the widow, or rather the method of his rejection, galled

him terribly. For days to come he positively felt the sting upon his cheek, whenever he thought of what had

been done to him. He could not refrain from calling her by harsh names, speaking to himself as he walked

through the streets of Barchester. When he said his prayers, he could not bring himself to forgive her. When

he strove to do so, his mind recoiled from the attempt, and in lieu of forgiving, ran off in a double spirit of

vindictiveness, dwelling on the extent of the injury he had received. And so his prayers dropped senseless

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

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

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 thus well aware also, when he perceived that Bertie declined

Eleanor was very much afraid that Charlotte would have darted out upon her, as the prebendary got out at his

own door, but Bertie thoughtfully saved her from this, by causing the carriage to go round by her house. This

When she got home, she found Mary Bold in the drawingroom with the child in her lap. She rushed

forward, and, throwing herself on her knees, kissed the little fellow till she almost frightened him.

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 sisterinlaw 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

'You have nothing to regret; but oh! Mary, I haveso muchso much;'and then she began kissing her

boy, whom her caresses had aroused from his slumbers. When she raised her head, Mary saw that the tears

'Good heavens, Eleanor, what is the matter? What has happened to you?Eleanor, dearest Eleanorwhat is

'Give him to megive 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

'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

She could not certainly accuse her loving sisterinlaw of cruelty; but she had to do that which was more

galling; she had to accuse herself of an imprudence against which her sisterinlaw 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

'He is a darlingas 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

Mothers obtain it from their children, and men from their dogs. Some men even do so from their

walkingsticks, 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

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 even 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

hersno other woman worth a moment's attention. And Mr Arabin would have to learn all this about Mr

Slope! She told herself 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 sisterinlaw, saw at once her grief was too great to be kept under control, and

'Oh, I don't care,' said she; though in fact she must have been very hungry, for she had eaten nothing at

Mary quietly made the tea, and buttered the bread, laid aside the cloak, and made things look comfortable.

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

'Come, Nelly,' said Mary, 'don't be cross with me. I at least have done nothing to offend 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 everythingeverything, that is,

'I know I was wrong,' said she, speaking of the blow she had given to Mr Slope; 'but I didn't know what he

'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 reechoed 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

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 any one among her friends

In the course of the afternoon she heard that the dean was dead; and she also heard that Mr Quiverful had

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,

'I see,' said she, 'that you think it only the common course of things that Mr Slope should have treated me in

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 any one should admire my Eleanor.'

'It is strange to me,' said she, 'that any man should have so much audacity, without ever having received the

To this Mr Harding answered nothing. With the archdeacon it would have been the text for a rejoinder, which

'Or Susan?' continued Mr Harding. 'You'll tell Susan; you'll let them know that they wronged you in

'They may find out their own way,' said she; 'I shall not ever willingly mention Mr Slope's name to either of

'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 an even

'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?

'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 your old house, to

'I deny that, papa. He had no such right. It is not as though you were a candidate for a new piece of

'The bishop offered it to me on his terms, and as I did not like the terms, I refused it. After that, I cannot

'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.'

'Yes, my child, 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 the 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 illpleased 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 if you will come and live with me, papa?' she said earnestly, taking him by both his hands. 'If you will do

'No, but live here altogether. Give up that close, odious little room in High Street.'

'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

'No, papa, not oldnot 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

'If you had been living here, papa, with us, as I really think you ought to have done, considering how lonely

Mr Harding, however, did not allow himself to be talked over into giving up his own and only little pied a

terre in the High Street. He promised to come and dine with his daughter, and stay with her, and visit her, and

do everything but absolutely live with her. It did not suit the peculiar feelings of the man to tell his daughter

that though she had rejected Mr Slope, and been ready to reject Mr Stanhope, some other more favoured

suitor would probably soon appear; and that on the appearance of such a suitor the big front bedroom might

perhaps be more frequently in requisition than at present. But doubtless such an idea crossed his mind, and

added its weight to the other reasons which made him decide on still keeping the close, odious little room in

The evening passed over quietly and in comfort. Eleanor was always happier with her father than with any

one else. He had not, perhaps, any natural taste for babyworship, 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

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 elegance of the epistle was visible to

'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 notepaper; she twisted up her letter 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 signmanual. 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

The note was as follows. It may be taken as a faithful promise that no further letter whatever shall be

'My dear Mrs BoldMay I ask you, as a great favour, to call on me tomorrow? You can say what hour will

best suit you; but quite early, if you can. I need hardly say that if I could call upon you I should not take this

'I partly know what occurred the other day, and I promise you that you shall meet with no annoyance if you

will come to me. My brother leaves us for London today; from thence he goes to Italy.

'It will probably occur to you that I should not thus intrude on you, unless I had that to say to you which may

be of considerable moment. Pray therefore excuse me, even if you do not grant my request, and believe me,

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.

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 carriagewheels,

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

'There's something wrong now,' said Madeline, who was lying on her sofa in the back drawingroom.

'It's all up with Bertie,' replied Charlotte. 'I know, I know,' she said to the servant, as he brought up the

'It has been his own fault then. She was ready enough. I am quite sure,' said Charlotte, with that sort of

'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

'Heaven knows! Smoking at the bottom of Mr Thorne's haha, 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.'

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 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.

'I should rather ask you,' said Charlotte. 'I left you both at Ullathorne, when I came away. What have you

'Mrs Bold! nonsense. The woman has gone home as she ought to do. And heartily glad I am that she should

'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,

'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.

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

'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.'

'Her husband! Would you wish me to tell her you say so? Do you wish to turn her out of your home?'

'Why, what on earth has she done now? Poor Madeline! Today is only the second time she has gone out

He then sat silent for a time, thinking in what shape he would declare his resolve. 'Well, papa,' said Charlotte,

'Nothingnothing! 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.'

'It means this,' said the doctor, speaking more loudly than was his wont, and with wrath flashing from his

eyes; 'that as sure as God rules in heaven, I will not maintain him any longer in idleness.'

'Oh, ruling in heaven!' said Charlotte. 'It is no use talking about that. You must rule him here on earth; and the

question is, how you can do it. You can't turn him out of the house penniless, to beg about the street.'

'He 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.'

'Oh papa, don't swear. You know you must do it. You were ready to pay two hundred pounds for him if the

'You know we are all in the dark, papa,' said she, thinking it expedient to change the conversation. 'For

'Fiddlestick,' said the father, who had seen the way in which Mrs Bold had got into the carriage, while his son

Just at this moment the lock of the front door was heard, and Charlotte's quick care 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

'Who's that?' he demanded. Charlotte made no reply, and he asked again. 'Who is that that has just come in?

'Bid him to 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

'And how did you get home, sir, with your fair companion?' said Bertie. 'I suppose she is not upstairs,

'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

'Sit down, if you please, sir,' said Dr Stanhope very sternly, but not now very loudly. 'And I'll trouble you to

Charlotte sat down on the chair nearest the door, in somewhat of a perverse sort of manner; as much as

though she would sayWell, here I am; you shan't say I don't do as 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 had had completed

admirable figures of Miss Thorne, Mrs Proudie, and Lady De Courcy, and began a family piece to comprise

'Would it suit you, sir,' said the father, 'to give me some idea as to what your present intentions are?what

'No, I shall suggest nothing further. My time for suggesting has gone by. I have only one order to give, and

'Tonight?' said Bertie; and the simple tone of the question left the doctor without any adequately dignified

'Very well, sir. Will the 4.30 P.M. train be soon enough?' said Bertie, as he asked, put the finishing touch to

'You may go how and when and where you please, so that you leave my house tomorrow. You have

Charlotte could hardly keep her countenance; but the doctor's brow grew still blacker than ever. Bertie was

'You are a heartless reprobate, sir; a heartless, thankless, goodfornothing reprobate. I have done with you.

You are my sonthat I cannot help; but you shall have no more part or parcel in me as my child, nor I in you

'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

'He is perfectly indifferent to all decency, to all propriety,' said the doctor; and then he shouted out, 'Leave the

'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

'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

'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 caricature,

however, she preserved, and showed them afterwards to the friends of the Thornes, the Proudies, and De

Courcys. Bertie, deprived of his occupation, threw himself back in his chair and waited further orders.

'I think it will certainly be for the best that Bertie should leave this at once, perhaps tomorrow,' said

'If he will leave tomorrow, I will give him L 10, and he shall be paid L 5 a month by the banker at Carrara

'Well, sir! it won't be long,' said Bertie; 'for I shall be starved to death in about three months.'

'I have plenty there in the studio to last me three months,' said Bertie. 'It will be no use attempting anything

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 goodnight. Dr Stanhope would not go up to tea, but had it

But Bertie went upstairs and spent a pleasant evening. He finished the Lookalofts, greatly to the delight of

his sisters, though the manner of portraying their decollete dresses was not the most refined. Finding how

matters were going, he by degrees allowed it to escape from him that he had not pressed his suit upon the

'You have thrown me over in the most shameful manner,' said Charlotte. 'I suppose you told her all about my

'There's an end of that alliance,' said Charlotte; 'but it doesn't matter much. I suppose we shall all be back in

'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

'And as for a second blackcoated lover of mine, I am going to make a present to him of another lady with

The next day, true to his promise, Bertie packed up and went of by the 4.30 P.M. train, with L 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

drawingroom, the folding doors of which were closed, so that in visiting the signora, Eleanor was not

necessarily thrown into any communication with those in the front room. As she went up the stairs, she 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

'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 brothernot in the least. But I hope you did not send for me 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 thispray bring your chair nearer, Mrs Bold, so that I may look at you. It is so

'And now, Mrs Bold, I am going to tell you something which you may think indelicate; but yet I know that I

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.

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,

'YesI am acquainted with him. That is, slightly. He is an intimate friend of Dr Grantly, and Dr Grantly is

'Well; if you know Mr Arabin, I am sure you must like him. I know and like him much. Everybody that

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

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 to precious to be lost. She despised the signora; but might she not stoop to conquer? It should be

'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, 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 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

'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 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 soupcon of a squeeze.

'And remember,' said 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 shoestrings. 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 flattered. 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

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 any one, and found herself in the

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 understratum 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 suggested, her 'yea' should be 'yea'. Would not all her miseries be at an end, if she could

On the following day the signora was in her pride. She was dressed in her brightest of morning dresses, and

had quite a levee round her couch. It was a beautifully bright October afternoon; all the gentlemen of the

neighbourhood were in Barchester, and those who had the entry of Dr Stanhope's house were in the signora's

back drawingroom. 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

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

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; 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 heat not guarded by a triple steel of experience could have withstood those eyes! The lady, it is true,

intended to do 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 of 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

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 had kissed so often, and of the imperial brow which his

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

There were others also thereyoung 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,

'Oh, Mr Thorne, this is so kind of you!' said the signora. 'You promised to come; but I really did not expect it.

'Oh, yea, sometimes,' said Mr Thorne, looking rather sheepish, and making salutations a little too much in the

'You deceive none but your constistitstit; what do you call the people that carry you about in chairs and

'One another also, sometimes, signora,' said Mr Slope, with a deanish sort of smirk on his face. 'Country

Mr Thorne gave him a look which undressed 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

'I never deceive a lady, at any rate,' said Mr Thorne; 'especially when the gratification of my own wishes is so

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 eyesnot quite in vain, for every now and again a glance came up at him,

'Oh, Mr Thorne, you promised to let me introduce my little girl to you. Can you spare a moment?will you

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

'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,

Mr Slope, with an air of much indifference, rose from his seat, and, walking into the next room, became

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

'Julia, my love,' said the mother,Julia was ever a favourite name with the ladies of the family, 'Julia, my

love, come here. I was telling you about the beautiful party poor mamma went to. This is Mr Thorne; will

Julia put up her face to be kissed, as she did to all her mother's visitors; and then Mr Thorne found that he had

got her, and, which was much more terrible 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 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 used.

'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle,' said he, putting the child on one knee, and working away with it as though he

'Mamma, mamma,' said Julia, crossly. 'I don't want to be diddle diddled. Let me go, you naughty old man,

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

'Go to Aunt Charlotte, lovey,' said the mamma, 'and ask her it if is not time for you to go out.'

But little 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 muchtalked of

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

The signora was ready enough to avenge him. 'Mr Slope,' said she, 'I hear that you are triumphing on all

'How so,' said he smiling. He did not dislike being talked to about the deanery, though, of course, he strongly

'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?'

'Indeed, signora,' said Mr Slope, 'we all know nothing about it. I can assure you I myself'

'The archdeacon would not accept it,' said Mr Arabin; whereupon Mr Slope smiled abominably, and said, as

'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

'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.

'Oh! we know when the affair of the dean will be: a week will settle that. The new hat, I have no doubt, has

'Well, just then I meant yours, though perhaps, after all, Mr Arabin's may be first. But we know nothing of

him. He is too close for any of us. Now all is open and above board with you; which, by the bye, Mr Arabin, I

beg to tell you I like much the best. He who runs can read that Mr Slope is a favoured lover. Come, Mr Slope,

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

'Come, come, Mr Slope, don't be so bashful,' continued the signora. 'We all know that you proposed to the

lady the other day at Ullathorne. Tell us with what words she accepted you. Was it with a simple "yes", or

with two "no, no's", which makes 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

Mr Slope had seldom in his life felt himself less at his case. There sat Mr Thorne, laughing silently. There

stood his old antagonist, Mr Arabin, gazing at him with all his eyes. There round the door between the two

rooms were clustered a little group of people, including Miss Stanhope and the Rev. Messrs. Gray and Green,

all listening to his discomfiture. He knew that it depended solely on his own wit whether or no he could

throw the joke back upon the lady. He knew that it stood him to do so if he possibly could; but he said not a

word. ''Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all.' He felt on his cheek the sharp points of Eleanor's fingers,

and did not know who might have seen the blow, who might have told the tale to this pestilent woman who

took such delight in jeering him. He stood there, therefore, red as a carbuncle and mute as a fish; grinning just

But the signora had no pity; she knew nothing of mercy. Her present object was to put Mr Slope down, and

'What, Mr Slope, no answer? Why it can't possibly be that this woman has been fool enough to refuse you?

She surely can't 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

'Signora,' said he at last, trying to speak in a tone of dignified reproach, 'you really permit yourself to talk on

'Solemn subjectswhat solemn subjects? 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 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,

And the signora, throwing herself back on her sofa, laughed merrily. She little recked how those who heard

her would, in their own imagination, 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 him his had 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 preeminent place in his

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 firstclass ticket for London, there was no longer

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

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

'I don't know what has come to the Master,' said the archdeacon over and over again. 'He used to be ready

'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

'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 the 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

And there was yet another ground of misery which cut him to the quick, nearly as closely as either of the two

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,

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 out 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

They were sitting talking over their sorrows, in the drawingroom before dinner on that day after Mr Slope's

departure for London; and on this occasion Mrs Grantly spoke her mind freely. She had opinions of her own

'It you would have been led by me, archdeacon, you would never have put a bachelor into St Ewold's.'

'But, my dear, you don't mean to say that all bachelor clergymen misbehave themselves.'

'I don't know that clergymen are so much better than other men,' said Mrs Grantly. 'It's all very well with a

curate whom you have under your own eye, and whom you can get rid of if he persists in improprieties.'

'Yes, to be sure they are, when they got 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

'You really must speak to him, archdeacon. Only think what the Thornes will say if they hear that their parish

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

'You can advise him to find a wife for himself, and he will understand well enough what that means,' said

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 bout to achieve respectability and wealth; and excellent family mansion, and a

family carriage; he would soon be among the comfortable elite of the ecclesiastical world of Barchester;

whereas his own protege, the true scion of the true church, by whom he had sworn, would still be a poor

vicar, and that with a very indifferent character for moral conduct! It might be all very well recommending

Things were ordering themselves thus at Plumstead drawingroom when Dr and Mrs Grantly were disturbed

in their sweet discourse by the quick rattle of a carriage and a pair of horses on the gravel sweep. The sound

was not that of visitors, whose private carriages are generally brought up to countryhouse doors with

demure propriety, but belonged rather to some person or persons who were in a hurry to reach the house, and

had not 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 to the door of a country house in such a manner who had the slightest

'Who on earth can it be?' said the archdeacon to his wife. He then quietly got up and stood with the

It was indeed Mr Harding, and Mr Harding alone. He had come by himself in a postchaise 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

'We are very glad you are come, papa,' said his daughter. 'I'll go and get your room ready at once.'

Oh, I know, I know,' said the archdeacon, petulantly. 'I forgot all about it at the moment. Is anything the

'Don't go at the moment, Susan,' said Mr Harding; 'I have something to tell you.'

'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

'If you have anything of moment to tell us, said the archdeacon, 'pray let us hear it at once. Has Eleanor gone

'They have offered it to me,' said Mr Harding, with a modesty which almost prevented his speaking.

'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 heartwith 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 fatherinlaw'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 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 Lordthe 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

'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

'I would give twenty pounds,' said the archdeacon, 'to see how Mr Slope will look when he hears it.' The idea

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

fatherinlaw Mr Dean before the men; and therefore, it was soon matter for 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

'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

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 the opportunity of speaking. It was,

'It's very kind of Lordvery kind, and I feel it deeply, most deeply. I am, I must confess, gratified by the

The decanter almost fell from the archdeacon's had upon the table; and the start he made was so great as to

make his wife jump from her chair. Not accept the deanship! If it really ended in this, there would be no

longer any doubt that his fatherinlaw was demented. The question now was whether a clergyman with low

rank, and preferment amounting to less than 200 pounds a year, should accept high rank, 1200 pounds a year,

'What!' said the archdeacon, gasping for breath, and staring at his guest as though the violence of his emotion

'Oh, papa,' said Mrs Grantly, 'nothing can be easier that what a dean has to do. Surely you are more active

'Yes; and I saw that the Jupiter said all that it could to induce the appointment of Mr Slope. Perhaps you

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 soninlaw 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

'And where on earth can a man have peace and rest if not in a deanery?' said the archdeacon.

'Dear papa,' said Mrs Grantly, 'men ten years older than you have been appointed to new situations day after

'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,

'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 great poverty, he

did fully recognise the satisfaction of having those belonging to him in comfortable positions. It would be

much more suitable that Mr Harding should be dean of Barchester than vicar of St Cuthbert's and precentor to

boot. And then the great discomfiture of that arch enemy of all that was respectable in Barchester, of that new

low church clerical parvenu that had fallen amongst them, that alone would be worth more, almost than the

situation itself. It was frightful to think that such unhoped for good fortune should be marred by the absurd

crotchets and unwholesome hallucinations by which Mr Harding allowed himself to be led astray. To have

the cup so near his lips and then to lose the drinking of it, was more than Dr Grantly could endure.

And yet it appears as though he would have to endure it. In vain he threatened and in vain he coaxed. Mr

Harding did not indeed speak with perfect decision of refusing the proffered glory, but he would not speak

with anything like decision of accepting it. When pressed again and again, he would again and again allege

that he was wholly unfitted to new duties. It was in vain that the archdeacon tried to insinuate, though he

could not plainly declare, that there were no new duties to perform. It was in vain he hinted that in all cases of

difficulty he, the archdeacon, was willing and able to guide a weakminded dean. Mr Harding seemed to

have a foolish idea, not only that there were new duties to do, and that no one should accept the place who

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

On the following morning the archdeacon was to drive Mr Harding back to Barchester.

On Mr Harding's return to Barchester from Plumstead, which was effected by him in due course in company

with the archdeacon, some 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 barely 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 to 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 goodnatured 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 a promotion as a country parsonage affords, she could think of no one

more eligible than Mrs Bold; and, consequently, losing no time, she went into Barchester on the day of Mr

Slope's discomfiture, the same day that her brother, had had his interesting interview with the last of the

Neros, and invited Mrs Bold to bring her nurse and baby to Ullathorne and make 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 kindhearted lady gave herself some not undeserved praise for her matching genius.

Eleanor was taken a little by surprise, but the matter ended in her promising to go to Ullathorne, for at any

rate a week or two; and on the day previous to that on which her father drove out to Plumstead, she had had

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 no maintain, with tears that she could not suppress,

with a flutter which she could not conquer, and a joy which she could not hide, told Miss Thorne that she was

engaged to marry Mr Arabin, and that it behoved her to get back home to Barchester as quick as she could.

To say simply that Miss Thorne was rejoiced at the success of the schemed, 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 terrible 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 have 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 an

inexperienced gunner, who has ill calculated the length of the train that he has laid. The gunpowder exploded

much too soon and poor Miss Thorne felt that she was blown up by the strength of her own petard.

Miss Thorne had had lovers of her own, but they had been gentlemen of oldfashioned 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 middleaged studious clergyman,

and a discreet matron who might possibly be induced to marry again; and in doing 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

She said, however, nothing about it to any one, 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 that in former times. For aught Miss Thorne knew of the matter, a

couple of hours might be quite sufficient under the new regime to complete that for which she in her

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

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 she 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 was conspiring in her favour. Well, did she not deserve it? In that affair of Mr Slope, had not all the

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, she hinted that any little rumour which might be

illnaturedly 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 vicaragehouse in the

country than St Ewold's, Mrs Bold remembering the projected bowwindow and the projected priestess still

held her tongue; though her ears tingled with the conviction that all the world would know that she was in

love with Mr Arabin. Well; what could that matter if they could only meet and tell each other what each now

And they did meet. Mr Arabin came early in the day, and found the two ladies together at work in the

drawingroom. 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

luncheontime. 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

And then they had lunch, and then Mr Arabin went out on parish duty; and Eleanor and Miss Thorne were

'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 any one

considers her lovely. She is a woman all men would like to look at; but few I imagine would be glad to take

There was some comfort in this. Eleanor made the most of it till she got back to the house. She was then left

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

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 the 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 resolve. 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

'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 hearthrug, as he had to go close to her.

'Very lovely,' said he, standing modestly so far away from her s 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

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,

'Do you like Ullathorne?' said Mr Arabin, speaking from the safely distant position which he had assumed on

'I don't mean Mr and Miss Thorne. I know you like them; but the style of the house. There is something about

oldfashioned mansions, built as this is, and oldfashioned gardens, that to me is especially delightful.'

'I like everything oldfashioned,' said Eleanor; 'oldfashioned 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

'And you, Mr Arabin, what do you think?' said Eleanor. She felt somewhat surprised at the tone which this

conversation was taking, and yet she was quite relieved at his saying something which enabled herself to

'What do I think, Mrs Bold?' and then he rumbled his money with his hand 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 over in different

directions. I hardly know whether or no we do lead more confidently than our fathers did on those high hopes

'That is because you see more of it than when you were younger. But we should hardly judge by what we

see,we see so very very little.' There was then a pause for a while, during which Mr Arabin continued to

turn over his shillings and halfcrowns. 'If we believe in Scripture, we can hardly think that mankind in

Eleanor, whose mind was certainly engaged otherwise than on the general state of mankind, made no answer

to this. She felt thoroughly dissatisfied with herself. She could not force her thoughts away from the topic on

which the signora had spoken to her in so strange a way, and yet she knew that she could not converse with

Mr Arabin in an unrestrained natural tone till she did so. She was most anxious not to show to him any

special emotion, and yet she felt that if he looked at her he would at once see that she was not at ease.

But he did not look at her. Instead of doing so, he left the fireplace and began walking up and down the

room. Eleanor took up her book resolutely; but she could not read, for there was a tear in her eye, and do

what she would it fell on her cheek. When Mr Arabin's back was turned to her she wiped it away; but another

was soon coming 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

Mr Arabin, thus passing up and down the room, took four of 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

'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

'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 connection, Dr Grantly, could justify it. Nor could the acquaintance which

existed between ourselves.' The word acquaintance struck cold on Eleanor's heart. Was this to 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 this? 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

'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 to so offend you. I have not forgiven myself, but I hope to hear that you forgive

She was now past speaking calmly, though she still continued to hide her tears, and Mr Arabin, after pausing

a moment in vain for her reply, was walking off towards the door. She felt that she could not allow him to go

unanswered without grievously sinning against all charity; so, rising from her seat, she gently touched his

arm and said: 'Oh, Mr Arabin, do not go till I speak to you! I do forgive you. You know that I forgive you.'

He took the hand that had so gently touched his arm, and then gazed into her face as if he would peruse there,

as though written in a book, the whole future destiny of his life; and as he did so, there was a sober and

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 both. Eleanor was sure now that she was loved. No words, be their eloquence what it might,

Why did he look into her eyes? Why did he not speak to her? Could it be that he looked for her to make the

And he, though he knew 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

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 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

'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

'Eleanor, my own Eleanor, my own, my wife!' She ventured to look 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

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,

'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 his 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 any one 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 a 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 there,

while he lay sprawling on the bed, she poured forth the praises, so unmeaning to him, of the man she had

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 in her arms, and, opening her door,

ran quickly down to the drawingroom. She at once found, by the 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

Mr Arabin met her in the middle of the room. 'There,' said she, breathless with her haste; 'there, take

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

It was then 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 drawingroom, as we have before

said, she told Miss Thorne what had occurred. The next morning she returned to Barchester, and Mr Arabin

went over with his budget of news to the archdeacon. As Dr Grantly was not there, he could only satisfy

himself by telling Mrs Grantly how that he intended himself the honour of becoming her brotherinlaw. In

the ecstasy of her joy at hearing such tidings, Mrs Grantly vouchsafed him a warmer welcome than any he

'Good heavens!' she exclaimedit was the general exclamation of the rectory. 'Poor Eleanor! Dear Eleanor.

What monstrous injustice has been done her!Well, it shall all be made up now.' And then she thought of

When Miss Thorne left the diningroom, 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 was 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

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,

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.

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 diningroom. Might it not be that she would

calculate that an interview would thus be possible? Thus thinking, Eleanor was dressed a full hour before the

time fixed at 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

When she found herself at the diningroom 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 hearthrug, 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

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 the 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 bother her hands in

She looked up into his face, and her lips formed themselves into a single syllable. She uttered no sound, but

'It isit is,' said Eleanor, not exactly taking what he had said in the sense that he had meant. 'It is a very great

'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 in 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 wayand that way had

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

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

What is the turret without its ivy, or the high garden wall without the jasmine which gives it its beauty and

There is s 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

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 around 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

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

Immediately after this, Mr Thorne appeared, and they were both delighted to hear that the tail of the

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

How much each of them had to tell the other, and how certain each was that the story which he or she had to

'Oh, papa, I have so much to tell you!' said the daughter, returning his embrace.

'My dear, they have offered me the deanery!' said Mr Harding, anticipating by the suddenness of the

'Oh, papa,' said she, forgetting her own love and happiness in her joy at the surprising news; 'oh, papa, can it

'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

'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.'

'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

'Are you, dearest? Then I certainly will rejoice with you. Come, Nelly, come to me, and tell me what it is.'

He led her to the sofa, and seating himself beside her, with both her hands in his. 'You are going to be

'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

Mr Harding thought for a moment who the man could be whom he was to be called upon to welcome as his

soninlaw. 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 his

place. For a moment he thought that the man might be Bertie Stanhope, and his very soul sank within him.

'Dearest, I must love any one that you love.' Then she turned he face to his, and whispered into his ear the

No man that she could have named could have more surprised or more delighted him. Had he looked round

the world for a soninlaw to his taste, he could have selected no one whom he would have preferred to Mr

Arabin. He was a clergyman; he held a living in the neighbourhood; he was of a set to which all Mr Harding's

own partialities most closely adhered; he was the great friend of Dr Grantly; and he was, moreover, a man of

whom Mr Harding knew nothing but what he approved. Nevertheless his surprise was so great as to prevent

the immediate expression of his joy. He had never thought of Mr Arabin in connection with his daughter; he

had never imagined that they had any feeling in common. He had feared that his daughter had been made

hostile to clergymen of Mr Arabin's stamp by her intolerance of the archdeacon's pretensions. Had he been

put to wish, he might have wished for Mr Arabin for a soninlaw; but had he been put to guess, the name

'Oh, papa, for heaven's sake don't say anything against him! If you do love me, don't say anything against

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, highminded, everything that a good man possibly can be?' and she clung to her father,

'My Nelly, my child, my own daughter! He is; he is noble and good and highminded; he is all that a woman

can love and admire. He shall be my son, my own son. He shall be as close to my heart as you are. My Nelly,

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 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 headWhy should not Mr Arabin be the new dean?

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 soninlaw'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

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 the daughter were yet in the middle of their conference. Mr Harding

had had so much to hear and to say that he had forgotten to advertise Eleanor of the honour that awaited her,

and she heard her brotherinlaw's voice in the hall, while she quite unprepared to see him.

'Yes, my dear. He told me to tell you that he would come to see you; but, to tell the truth, I had forgotten all

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

'Is anything the matter?' asked the doctor, who at once anticipated that the whole truth about Mr Slope had at

The archdeacon saw by his fatherinlaw's manner that after all he had nothing to tell him about Mr Slope.

'No,' said he, 'certainly notnothing will ever surprise me again.' Very many men nowadays, besides the

archdeacon, adopt or affect to adopt the nil admirari doctrine; but nevertheless, to judge from their

appearance, they are just as subject to sudden emotions as their grandfathers and grandmothers were before

'Not that woman! Is he going to do anything about any woman? Why can't you speak out if yo have anything

'There shall be no mystery with you, archdeacon; though, of course, it must go no further at present.'

'Nonsense!' exclaimed the archdeacon, who was becoming angry in his suspense. 'You can't have any secret

It was quite clear to see by the archdeacon's face, that he did not believe a word of it. 'Mr Arabin! It's

'Well, I can't say I think it is impossible. It certainly took me by surprise; but that does not make it

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 to 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

'Good heavens!' said the archdeacon, walking up and down Eleanor's drawingroom. 'Good heavens! Good

Now, these exclamations certainly betokened faith. Mr Harding properly gathered from it that, at last, Dr

Grantly did believe the fact. The first utterances clearly evinced a certain amount of distaste at the

information he had received; the second, simply indicated surprise; and the tone of the third, Mr Harding

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 the

marriage himself when he first brought Mr Arabin into the country, his character for judgment and wisdom

would have received an addition which would have classed him at any rate next to Solomon. And why had he

not done so? Might he not have foreseen that Mr Arabin would want a wife in the 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

Then his surprise was intense. How sly the pair of young turtle doves had been with him. How egregiously

they had hoaxed him. He had preached at Eleanor against her fancied attachment to Mr Slope, at the very

time she was in love with his own protege, Mr Arabin; and had absolutely taken that same Mr Arabin into his

confidence with reference to the dread of Mr Slope's alliance. It was very natural that the archdeacons should

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

brotherinlaw was in itself a great comfort. Then Mr Arabin was, of all men, one with whom it would best

suit him to be utterly connected. But the crowning comfort was the blow that 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 breath the pure air.

'Well, well,' said he. 'Good heavens! Good heavens!' and the tone of the fifth exclamation made Mr Harding

And then slowly, gradually, and craftily, Mr Harding propounded his own new scheme. Why should not Mr

Slowly, gradually, thoughtfully, Dr Grantly fell into his fatherinlaw's views. Much as he liked Mr Arabin,

sincere as he was in his admiration for that gentleman's ecclesiastical abilities, he would not have sanctioned

a measure which would have robbed his fatherinlaw of his fairlyearned promotion, were it at all

practicable to induce his fatherinlaw 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

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 at each other full in the face, and Mr Slope's countenance was

as impudent, as triumphant, as defiant as ever. Had Dr Grantly not known to the contrary, he would have

imagined that his enemy had won the deanship, the wife, and all the rich honours, for which he had been

striving. As it was he had lost everything that he had in the world, and had just received his conge from the

In leaving the town the archdeacon drove by the wellremembered entrance of Hiram's hospital. There, at the

gate, was a large, untidy, farmer's wagon, laden with untidylooking furniture; and there, inspecting the

arrival, was good Mrs Quiverfulnot dressed in her Sunday bestnot very clean in her apparelnot

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 were very slight indeed. The archdeacon, as a matter of

course, knew every clergyman in the archdeaconry; it may almost be said 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 for 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 at 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

'Pray tell Mr Quiverful from me,' he continued, 'that I am rejoiced at his appointment. It is a comfortable

place, Mrs Quiverful, and a comfortable house, and I am very glad to see you in it. Goodbye, goodbye.'

And he drove on, leaving the lady wellpleased 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 every one in Barchester their sins, excepting only Mrs Proudie

and Mr Slope. Had he seen the bishop, he would have felt inclined to pat even him kindly on the head.

He determined to go home by St Ewold's. This would take him some three miles out of his way; but he felt

that he could not leave Plumstead comfortably without saying one word of good fellowship to Mr Arabin.

When he reached the parsonage the vicar was still out; but, from what he had heard, he did not doubt but that

he would meet him on the road between their two houses. He was right in this, for about halfway home, at a

'Well, well, well, well,' said the archdeacon loudly, joyously, and with supreme good humour; 'well, well,

'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,

'I have had no secret, archdeacon,'said the other with a quiet smile. 'None at allnot for a day. It was only

yesterday that I knew my own good fortune, and today I went over to Plumstead to ask your approval. From

'With all my heart, with all my heart,' said the archdeacon cordially, holding his friend by the hand. 'It's just

as I would have it. She is an excellent young woman; she will not come to you emptyhanded; 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

'And mind, Arabin,' said he, 'no one but myself shall tie the knot. We'll get Eleanor out to Plumstead, and it

shall come off there. I'll make Susan stir herself, and we'll do it in style. I must be off to London tomorrow

on special business. Harding goes with me. But I'll be back before your bride has got her weddingdress

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 bowwindow to the diningroom at St

'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.

And there was great content in Plumstead rectory that evening; and Mrs Grantly promised her husband that

she would now open her heart, and take Mr Arabin into it. Hitherto she had declined to do so.

We must now take leave of Mr Slope, and of the bishop, and of Mrs Proudie. These leavetakings 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 Duncan, 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 you 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 hear at the end of the third volume. The consequence was, that no one should 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 439 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 kindesthearted

critic of them all invariably twit 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 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 them 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 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 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 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, Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.'

Having received a formal command to wait upon the bishop, he rose and proceeded to obey it. He rang the

bell and desired the servant to inform his master that if it suited his lordship, he, Mr Slope, was ready to wait

upon him. The servant, who well understood that Mr Slope was no longer in the ascendant, brought back a

message, saying that, 'his lordship desired that Mr Slope would attend him immediately in his study.' Mr

Slope waited about ten minutes more to prove his independence, and then went into the bishop's room. There,

'Thank ye, thank ye,'said Mr Slope, and walking round to the fire, he threw himself into one of the

'Mr Slope,' said the bishop, 'it has become necessary that I should speak to you definitively on a matter that

'May I ask whether the subject is in any way connected with myself?' said Mr Slope.

'Then, my lord, if I may be allowed to express a wish, I would prefer that no discussion on the subject should

'Don't alarm yourself, Mr Slope,' said Mrs Proudie, 'no discussion is at all necessary. The bishop merely

'I merely intend, Mr Slope, to express my own wishesno discussion will be at all necessary,' said the

'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.'

'Mr Slope,' began the bishop, in a solemn, serious voice, 'it grieves me to have to find fault. It grieves me

much to find fault with a clergyman; but especially so with a clergyman in your position.'

'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, sire, but you will have words,' said she; 'you must have words. Why have you had so may words with

that Signora Neroni? Why have you disgraced yourself, you a clergyman, by constantly consorting with such

a woman as thatwith a married womanwith one altogether unfit for a clergyman's society?'

'And shamefully you behave 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

'What!' said the lady; 'I am not to have the privilege of saying who shall and who shall not frequent my own

drawingroom! I am not to save my servants and dependents from having their morals corrupted by improper

conduct! I am not to save my own daughters from impurity! I will let you see, Mr Slope, whether I have the

power or whether I have not. You will have the goodness to understand that you no longer fill any situation

about the bishop; and as your room will be immediately wanted in the palace for another chaplain, I must ask

'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 and 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 you are well

'That Signora Neroni is one fault,' said Mrs Proudie; 'and a very abominable fault she is; very abominable,

'My lord, I desire to know for what fault I am turned out of your lordship's house.'

'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 as 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 feetthat is if

she has any feetand 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 meanfor defamation of

'I think, Mr Slope, you had better now retire,' said the bishop. 'I will enclose to you a cheque for any balance

that may be due to you; and, under the present circumstances, it will of course be better for all parties that you

'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 by 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

Mrs Proudie was right in this; namely, that Mr Slope was not insane enough to publish to the world any of his

doings in Barchester. He did not trouble his friend Mr Towers with any written statement of the iniquity of

Mrs Proudie, or the imbecility of her husband. He was aware that it would be wise in him to drop for the

future all allusions to his doings in the cathedral city. Soon after the interview just recorded, he left

Barchester, shaking the dust off his feet as he entered the railway carriage; and he gave no longing lingering

look after the cathedral towers, as the train hurried him quickly out of their sight.

It is well known that the family of the Slopes never starve; they always fall on their feet like cats, and let

them fall where they will, they live on the fat of the land. Our Mr Slope did so. On his return to town he

found that the sugarrefiner had died, and that the widow was inconsolable; or, in other words, in want of

consolation. Mr Slope consoled her, and soon found himself settled with much comfort in the house in Baker

Street. He possessed himself, also before long, of a church in the vicinity of the New Road, and become

known to fame as one of the most eloquent preachers and pious clergymen in that part of the metropolis.

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 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

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

He is still bishop of Barchester. He has so graced that throne, that the Government has been adverse to

translate him, even to higher duties. 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

Mr Harding and the archdeacon together made their way to Oxford, and there, by dint of cunning argument,

they induced the Master of Lazarus also to ask himself this momentous question: 'Why should not Mr Arabin

be Dean of Barchester?' He of course, for a while tried his hand at persuading Mr Harding that he was

foolish, overscrupulous, selfwilled, and weakminded; 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

soninlaw, he confessed that he also would, under such circumstances, be glad to see his old friend and

protege, the fellow of his college, placed in the comfortable position that was going abegging.

'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, 'that our college chaplain. I know 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 of Mr Harding had from 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

At length an answer from the great man came. The Master of Lazarus had made his proposition through the

Bishop of Belgravia. Now the bishop, tough but newly gifted with his diocesan honours, was a man of much

weight in the clericopolitical 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 drawingroom 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 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 utmost mirth of his heart; he poked fun at the archdeacon

about Mr Slope's marriage, and quizzed him for his improper love for Mrs Proudie. On the following day

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 fatherinlaw. In order that no time 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 bah 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 were not brokenhearted

by his failure. The inhabitants of the city, even the highsouled ecstatic young ladies of thirtyfive, had

begun to comprehend that their welfare and the welfare of the place, was connected in some mysterious

manner with the daily chants of the biweekly anthems. The expenditure of the palace had not added greatly

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, as 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 of his future

fatherinlaw's preferment. There was nothing more natural, more necessary, than that they should meet each

Mr Arabin was waiting at the deanery parlour when Mr Harding and Dr Grantly were driven up from the

There was some excitement in the bosoms of them all, as they met and shook hands; but 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 fearshopes 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

'But! But! But' said Mr Harding; and then failing to get any further, he looked imploringly at the

'The truth is, Arabin,' said the doctor, 'that, after all you are not destined to be the soninlaw to a dean. Nor

Mr Arabin looked to 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 for unhappiness in the matter, at least not of an

'Yes, that is 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 soninlaw. 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

Nor can we pretend to describe the rapture with which Mr Harding was received by his daughter. She wept

with grief and 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 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 her, Mr Harding again showed his weakness. In the melee of the exposal of their loves and

reciprocal affection, he found himself unable to resist the entreaties of all parties that his 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 codean with him. The archdeacon declared that

his fatherinlaw 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 at their own mansion.

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 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 not having been but quite lately carried to his

restbut five of the full number, which had hitherto been twelve, and which was now to be raised to

twentyfour, 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 from driving that warden from his home,

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

It was a bright clear morning, though in November, that Mr Harding and Mr Quiverful, arm in arm, walked

through the hospital gate. It was one trait in our old friend's character that he did nothing with parade. He

omitted, even in the more important doings of his life, that sort of parade by which most of us deem it

necessary to grace our important doings. We have housewarmings, christenings, and gala days; we keep, if

not our own birthdays, those of our children; we are apt to fuss ourselves, if called upon to change our

residences, and have, almost all of us, our little state occasions. Mr Harding, had no state occasions. When he

left his old house, he went forth from it with the same quiet composure as though he were merely taking his

daily walk; and now that he reentered 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 nearly six years

ago; he walked perhaps a little slower; his footfall was perhaps a thought less firm; otherwise one might have

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 fatherinlaw 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 soninlaw for a fool. Few

men, however, are constituted as was Mr Harding. He had that nice appreciation of the feelings of others

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 ceremony but the old man gave him no

'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.'

'Certainlycertainly, 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

'I need not tell you, my good friends,' said Mr Quiverful, 'how extremely grateful I am to Mr Harding for his

'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 wellloved friend and

'No, no, sir,' said old Bunce, who hitherto had held his peace; 'no one can be that. Not if the new bishop sent a

hangel to us from heaven. We doesn't doubt you'll do your best, sir, but you'll not be like the old master; not

'Fie, Bunce, fie! how dare you talk in that way!' said Mr Harding; but as he scolded the old man he still held

There was no getting any enthusiasm in the matter. How could five old men tottering away to their final

restingplace 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

And here in their new abode we will leave Mr and Mrs Quiverful and their fourteen children. May they enjoy

The end of a novel, like the end of a children's dinnerparty, must be made up of sweetmeats and

sugarplums. 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

Mrs Bold had been somewhat more than two years a widow before she was married to her second husband,

and little Johnnie was then able with due assistance to walk on his own legs into the drawingroom to receive

the salutations of the assembled guests. Mr Harding gave away the bride, the archdeacon performed the

service, and the two Miss Grantlys, who were joined in their labours by other young ladies of the

neighbourhood, performed the duties of bridesmaids with equal diligence and grace. Mrs Grantly

superintended the breakfast and bouquets and Mary Bold distributed the cards and cake. The archdeacon's

three sons had also come home for the occasion. The eldest was great with learning, being regarded by all

who knew him as a certain future double first. The second, however, bore the palm on this occasion, being

resplendent in his new uniform. The third was just entering the university, and was probably the proudest of

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 diningroom was of course abandoned; but he would have refurnished the

whole deanery had he been allowed. He sent down a magnificent piano by Erard, gave Mr Arabin a cob

which any dean in the land might have been proud to bestride, and made a special present to Eleanor of a new

pony chair that had gained a prize in the Exhibition. Nor did he even stay his hand here; he bought a set of

cameos for his wife, and a sapphire bracelet for Miss Bold; showered pearls and workboxes on is daughters,

and to each of his sons he presented a cheque for 20 pounds. On Mr Harding he bestowed a magnificent

violoncello with all the newfashioned arrangements and expensive additions, which, on account of these

novelties, that gentleman could never use with satisfaction to his audience or pleasure to himself.

Those who knew the archdeacon well, perfectly understood the cause of his extravagance. 'Twas thus that he

sang his song of triumph over Mr Slope. This was his paean, his hymn of thanksgiving, his loud oration. He

had girded himself with his sword, and gone forth to the war; now he was returning from the field laden with

the spoils of the foe. The cob, the cameos, the violoncello and the pianoforte, were all as it were trophies reft

The Arabins after their marriage went abroad for a couple of months, according 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 oldestablished

customs of the close, and from his failure she has learnt experience. The burly chancellor and the meagre

little prebendary are not teased by any application respecting Sabbathday schools, the dean is left to his own

dominions, and the intercourse between Mrs Proudie and Mrs Arabin is confined to a yearly dinner 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

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 High Street of Barchester without feeling that those who see him are

comparing his claims with those of Mr Slope. The intercourse between Plumstead and the deanery is of the

most constant and familiar description. Since Eleanor has been married to a clergyman, and especially to a

dignitary of the church, Mrs Grantly has found many more points of sympathy with her sister; and on a

coming occasion, which is much looked forward to by all parties, she intends to spend a month or two at the

deanery. She never thought of spending a month in Barchester when little Johnny Bold was born!

The two sisters do not quite agree on matters of church doctrine, though their differences are of the most

amicable description. Mr Arabin's church is two degrees higher than that of Mrs Grantly. This may seem

strange to those who will remember that Eleanor was once accused of partiality to Mr Slope; but it is no less

the fact. She likes her husband's silken vest, she likes his adherence to the rubric, she specially likes the

eloquent philosophy of his sermons, and she likes the red letters in her own prayerbook. 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 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 the cesspool of abomination in which it was once suspected that she would wallow and

grovel. Anathema maranatha! Let anything 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

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

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, hardworking 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

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 always were; and so ended the friendship between Eleanor and the Stanhopes.

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

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 strives to teach,