He was shown into the drawing-room at once, and there he found Mrs. Harold Smith, with Mrs. and Miss Proudie, and a lady whom he had never before seen, and whose name he did not at first hear mentioned.
“Is that Mr. Robarts?” said Mrs. Harold Smith, getting up to greet him, and screening her pretended ignorance under the veil of the darkness. “And have you really driven over four-and-twenty miles of Barsetshire roads on such a day as this to assist us in our little difficulties? Well, we can promise you gratitude at any rate.”
And then the vicar shook hands with Mrs. Proudie, in that deferential manner which is due from a vicar to his bishop’s wife; and Mrs. Proudie returned the greeting with all that smiling condescension which a bishop’s wife should show to a vicar. Miss Proudie was not quite so civil. Had Mr. Robarts been still unmarried, she also could have smiled sweetly; but she had been exercising smiles on clergymen too long to waste them now on a married parish parson.
“And what are the difficulties, Mrs. Smith, in which I am to assist you?”
“We have six or seven gentlemen here, Mr. Robarts, and they always go out hunting before breakfast, and they never come back—I was going to say—till after dinner. I wish it were so, for then we should not have to wait for them.”
“Excepting Mr. Supplehouse, you know,” said the unknown lady, in a loud voice.
“And he is generally shut up in the library, writing articles.”
“He’d be better employed if he were trying to break his neck like the others,” said the unknown lady.
“Only he would never succeed,” says Mrs. Harold Smith. “But perhaps, Mr. Robarts, you are as bad as the rest; perhaps you, too, will be hunting to-morrow.”
“My dear Mrs. Smith!” said Mrs. Proudie, in a tone denoting slight reproach, and modified horror.
“Oh! I forgot. No, of course, you won’t be hunting, Mr. Robarts; you’ll only be wishing that you could.”
“Why can’t he?” said the lady, with a loud voice.
“My dear Miss Dunstable! a clergyman hunt, while he is staying in the same house with the bishop? Think of the proprieties!”
“Oh—ah! The bishop wouldn’t like it—wouldn’t he? Now, do tell me, sir, what would the bishop do to you if you did hunt?”
“It would depend upon his mood at the time, madam,” said Mr. Robarts. “If that were very stern, he might perhaps have me beheaded before the palace gates.”
Mrs. Proudie drew herself up in her chair, showing that she did not like the tone of the conversation; and Miss Proudie fixed her eyes vehemently on her book, showing that Miss Dunstable and her conversation were both beneath her notice.
“If these gentlemen do not mean to break their necks to-night,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, “I wish they’d let us know it. It’s half-past six already.”
And then Mr. Robarts gave them to understand that no such catastrophe could be looked for that day, as Mr. Sowerby and the other sportsmen were within the stable-yard when he entered the door.
“Then, ladies, we may as well dress,” said Mrs. Harold Smith. But as she moved towards the door, it opened, and a short gentleman, with a slow, quiet step, entered the room; but was not yet to be distinguished through the dusk by the eyes of Mr. Robarts. “Oh! bishop, is that you?” said Mrs. Smith. “Here is one of the luminaries of your diocese.” And then the bishop, feeling through the dark, made his way up to the vicar and shook him cordially by the hand. “He was delighted to meet Mr. Robarts at Chaldicotes,” he said—”quite delighted. Was he not going to preach on behalf of the Papuan Mission next Sunday? Ah! so he, the bishop, had heard. It was a good work, an excellent work.” And then Dr. Proudie expressed himself as much grieved that he could not remain at Chaldicotes, and hear the sermon. It was plain that his bishop thought no ill of him on account of his intimacy with Mr. Sowerby. But then he felt in his own heart that he did not much regard his bishop’s opinion.
“Ah, Robarts, I’m delighted to see you,” said Mr. Sowerby, when they met on the drawing-room rug before dinner. “You know Harold Smith? Yes, of course you do. Well, who else is there? Oh! Supplehouse. Mr. Supplehouse, allow me to introduce to you my friend Mr. Robarts. It is he who will extract the five-pound note out of your pocket next Sunday for these poor Papuans whom we are going to Christianize. That is, if Harold Smith does not finish the work out of hand at his Saturday lecture. And, Robarts, you have seen the bishop, of course:” this he said in a whisper. “A fine thing to be a bishop, isn’t it? I wish I had half your chance. But, my dear fellow, I’ve made such a mistake; I haven’t got a bachelor parson for Miss Proudie. You must help me out, and take her in to dinner.” And then the great gong sounded, and off they went in pairs.
At dinner Mark found himself seated between Miss Proudie and the lady whom he had heard named as Miss Dunstable. Of the former he was not very fond, and, in spite of his host’s petition, was not inclined to play bachelor parson for her benefit. With the other lady he would willingly have chatted during the dinner, only that everybody else at table seemed to be intent on doing the same thing. She was neither young, nor beautiful, nor peculiarly ladylike; yet she seemed to enjoy a popularity which must have excited the envy of Mr. Supplehouse, and which certainly was not altogether to the taste of Mrs. Proudie—who, however, fêted her as much as did the others. So that our clergyman found himself unable to obtain more than an inconsiderable share of the lady’s attention.
“Bishop,” said she, speaking across the table, “we have missed you so all day! we have had no one on earth to say a word to us.”
“My dear Miss Dunstable, had I known that— But I really was engaged on business of some importance.”
“I don’t believe in business of importance; do you, Mrs. Smith?”
“Do I not?” said Mrs. Smith. “If you were married to Mr. Harold Smith for one week, you’d believe in it.”
“Should I, now? What a pity that I can’t have that chance of improving my faith! But you are a man of business, also, Mr. Supplehouse; so they tell me.” And she turned to her neighbour on her right hand.
“I cannot compare myself to Harold Smith,” said he. “But perhaps I may equal the bishop.”
“What does a man do, now, when he sits himself down to business? How does he set about it? What are his tools? A quire of blotting paper, I suppose, to begin with?”
“That depends, I should say, on his trade. A shoemaker begins by waxing his thread.”
“And Mr. Harold Smith—?”
“By counting up his yesterday’s figures, generally, I should say; or else by unrolling a ball of red tape. Well-docketed papers and statistical facts are his forte.”
“And what does a bishop do? Can you tell me that?”
“He sends forth to his clergy either blessings or blowings-up, according to the state of his digestive organs. But Mrs. Proudie can explain all that to you with the greatest accuracy.”
“Can she now? I understand what you mean, but I don’t believe a word of it. The bishop manages his own affairs himself, quite as much as you do, or Mr. Harold Smith.”
“I, Miss Dunstable?”
“Yes, you.”
“But I, unluckily, have not a wife to manage them for me.”
“Then you should not laugh at those who have, for you don’t know what you may come to yourself, when you’re married.”
Mr. Supplehouse began to make a pretty speech, saying that he would be delighted to incur any danger in that respect to which he might be subjected by the companionship of Miss Dunstable. But before he was half through it, she had turned her back upon him, and begun a conversation with Mark Robarts.
“Have you much work in your parish, Mr. Robarts?” she asked. Now, Mark was not aware that she knew his name, or the fact of his having a parish, and was rather surprised by the question. And he had not quite liked the tone in which she had seemed to speak of the bishop and his work. His desire for her further acquaintance was therefore somewhat moderated, and he was not prepared to answer
her question with much zeal.
“All parish clergymen have plenty of work, if they choose to do it.”
“Ah, that is it; is it not, Mr. Robarts? If they choose to do it? A great many do—many that I know, do; and see what a result they have. But many neglect it—and see what a result they have. I think it ought to be the happiest life that a man can lead, that of a parish clergyman, with a wife and family and a sufficient income.”
“I think it is,” said Mark Robarts, asking himself whether the contentment accruing to him from such blessings had made him satisfied at all points. He had all these things of which Miss Dunstable spoke, and yet he had told his wife, the other day, that he could not afford to neglect the acquaintance of a rising politician like Harold Smith.
“What I find fault with is this,” continued Miss Dunstable, “that we expect clergymen to do their duty, and don’t give them a sufficient income—give them hardly any income at all. Is it not a scandal, that an educated gentleman with a family should be made to work half his life, and perhaps the whole, for a pittance of seventy pounds a year!”
Mark said that it was a scandal, and thought of Mr. Evan Jones and his daughter; and thought also of his own worth, and his own house, and his own nine hundred a year.
“And yet you clergymen are so proud—aristocratic would be the genteel word, I know—that you won’t take the money of common, ordinary poor people. You must be paid from land and endowments, from tithe and church property. You can’t bring yourself to work for what you earn, as lawyers and doctors do. It is better that curates should starve than undergo such ignominy as that.”
“It is a long subject, Miss Dunstable.”
“A very long one; and that means that I am not to say any more about it.”
“I did not mean that exactly.”
“Oh! but you did though, Mr. Robarts. And I can take a hint of that kind when I get it. You clergymen like to keep those long subjects for your sermons, when no one can answer you. Now if I have a longing heart’s desire for anything at all in this world, it is to be able to get up into a pulpit, and preach a sermon.”
“You can’t conceive how soon that appetite would pall upon you, after its first indulgence.”
“That would depend upon whether I could get people to listen to me. It does not pall upon Mr. Spurgeon, I suppose.” Then her attention was called away by some question from Mr. Sowerby, and Mark Robarts found himself bound to address his conversation to Miss Proudie. Miss Proudie, however, was not thankful, and gave him little but monosyllables for his pains.
“Of course you know Harold Smith is going to give us a lecture about these islanders,” Mr. Sowerby said to him, as they sat round the fire over their wine after dinner. Mark said that he had been so informed, and should be delighted to be one of the listeners.
“You are bound to do that, as he is going to listen to you the day afterwards—or, at any rate, to pretend to do so, which is as much as you will do for him. It’ll be a terrible bore—the lecture, I mean, not the sermon.” And he spoke very low into his friend’s ear. “Fancy having to drive ten miles after dusk, and ten miles back, to hear Harold Smith talk for two hours about Borneo! One must do it, you know.”
“I dare say it will be very interesting.”
“My dear fellow, you haven’t undergone so many of these things as I have. But he’s right to do it. It’s his line of life; and when a man begins a thing he ought to go on with it. Where’s Lufton all this time?”
“In Scotland, when I last heard from him; but he’s probably at Melton now.”
“It’s deuced shabby of him, not hunting here in his own county. He escapes all the bore of going to lectures, and giving feeds to the neighbours; that’s why he treats us so. He has no idea of his duty, has he?”
“Lady Lufton does all that, you know.”
“I wish I’d a Mrs. Sowerby mère to do it for me. But then Lufton has no constituents to look after—lucky dog! By-the-by, has he spoken to you about selling that outlying bit of land of his in Oxfordshire? It belongs to the Lufton property, and yet it doesn’t. In my mind it gives more trouble than it’s worth.”
Lord Lufton had spoken to Mark about this sale, and had explained to him that such a sacrifice was absolutely necessary, in consequence of certain pecuniary transactions between him, Lord Lufton, and Mr. Sowerby. But it was found impracticable to complete the business without Lady Lufton’s knowledge, and her son had commissioned Mr. Robarts not only to inform her ladyship, but to talk her over, and to appease her wrath. This commission he had not yet attempted to execute, and it was probable that this visit to Chaldicotes would not do much to facilitate the business.
“They are the most magnificent islands under the sun,” said Harold Smith to the bishop.
“Are they, indeed!” said the bishop, opening his eyes wide, and assuming a look of intense interest.
“And the most intelligent people.”
“Dear me!” said the bishop.
“All they want is guidance, encouragement, instruction—”
“And Christianity,” suggested the bishop.
“And Christianity, of course,” said Mr. Smith, remembering that he was speaking to a dignitary of the Church. It was well to humour such people, Mr. Smith thought. But the Christianity was to be done in the Sunday sermon, and was not part of his work.
“And how do you intend to begin with them?” asked Mr. Supplehouse, the business of whose life it had been to suggest difficulties.
“Begin with them—oh—why—it’s very easy to begin with them. The difficulty is to go on with them, after the money is all spent. We’ll begin by explaining to them the benefits of civilization.”
“Capital plan!” said Mr. Supplehouse. “But how do you set about it, Smith?”
“How do we set about it? How did we set about it with Australia and America? It is very easy to criticize; but in such matters the great thing is to put one’s shoulder to the wheel.”
“We sent our felons to Australia,” said Supplehouse, “and they began the work for us. And as to America, we exterminated the people instead of civilizing them.”
“We did not exterminate the inhabitants of India,” said Harold Smith, angrily.
“Nor have we attempted to Christianize them, as the bishop so properly wishes to do with your islanders.”
“Supplehouse, you are not fair,” said Mr. Sowerby, “neither to Harold Smith nor to us—you are making him rehearse his lecture, which is bad for him; and making us hear the rehearsal, which is bad for us.”
“Supplehouse belongs to a clique which monopolizes the wisdom of England,” said Harold Smith, “or, at any rate, thinks that it does. But the worst of them is that they are given to talk leading articles.”
“Better that, than talk articles which are not leading,” said Mr. Supplehouse. “Some first-class official men do that.”
“Shall I meet you at the duke’s next week, Mr. Robarts?” said the bishop to him, soon after they had gone into the drawing-room.
Meet him at the duke’s!—the established enemy of Barsetshire mankind, as Lady Lufton regarded his grace! No idea of going to the duke’s had ever entered our hero’s mind; nor had he been aware that the duke was about to entertain anyone.
“No, my lord; I think not. Indeed, I have no acquaintance with his grace.”
“Oh—ah! I did not know. Because Mr. Sowerby is going; and so are the Harold Smiths, and, I think, Mr. Supplehouse. An excellent man is the duke—that is, as regards all the county interests,” added the bishop, remembering that the moral character of his bachelor grace was not the very best in the world.
And then his lordship began to ask some questions about the church affairs of Framley, in which a little interest as to Framley Court was also mixed up, when he was interrupted by a rather sharp voice, to which he instantly attended.
“Bishop,” said the rather sharp voice; and the bishop trotted across the room to the back of the sofa, on which his wife was sitting.
/>
“Miss Dunstable thinks that she will be able to come to us for a couple of days, after we leave the duke’s.”
“I shall be delighted above all things,” said the bishop, bowing low to the dominant lady of the day. For be it known to all men, that Miss Dunstable was the great heiress of that name.
“Mrs. Proudie is so very kind as to say that she will take me in, with my poodle, parrot, and pet old woman.”
“I tell Miss Dunstable that we shall have quite room for any of her suite,” said Mrs. Proudie. “And that it will give us no trouble.”
“‘The labour we delight in physics pain,’” said the gallant bishop, bowing low, and putting his hand upon his heart.
In the meantime, Mr. Fothergill had got hold of Mark Robarts. Mr. Fothergill was a gentleman and a magistrate of the county, but he occupied the position of managing man on the Duke of Omnium’s estates. He was not exactly his agent; that is to say, he did not receive his rents; but he “managed” for him, saw people, went about the county, wrote letters, supported the electioneering interest, did popularity when it was too much trouble for the duke to do it himself, and was, in fact, invaluable. People in West Barsetshire would often say that they did not know what on earth the duke would do, if it were not for Mr. Fothergill. Indeed, Mr. Fothergill was useful to the duke.
“Mr. Robarts,” he said, “I am very happy to have the pleasure of meeting you—very happy indeed. I have often heard of you from our friend Sowerby.”
Mark bowed, and said that he was delighted to have the honour of making Mr. Fothergill’s acquaintance.
“I am commissioned by the Duke of Omnium,” continued Mr. Fothergill, “to say how glad he will be if you will join his grace’s party at Gatherum Castle, next week. The bishop will be there, and indeed nearly the whole set who are here now. The duke would have written when he heard that you were to be at Chaldicotes; but things were hardly quite arranged then, so his grace has left it for me to tell you how happy he will be to make your acquaintance in his own house. I have spoken to Sowerby,” continued Mr. Fothergill, “and he very much hopes that you will be able to join us.”
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 146
