The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXVII.

  IN MEMORIAM.

  The bishop when he had heard the tidings of his wife's death walkedback to his seat over the fire, and Mrs. Draper, the housekeeper,came and stood over him without speaking. Thus she stood for tenminutes looking down at him and listening. But there was no sound;not a word, nor a moan, nor a sob. It was as though he also weredead, but that a slight irregular movement of his fingers on the topof his bald head, told her that his mind and body were still active."My lord," she said at last, "would you wish to see the doctor whenhe comes?" She spoke very low and he did not answer her. Then, afteranother minute of silence, she asked the same question again.

  "What doctor?" he said.

  "Dr. Filgrave. We sent for him. Perhaps he is here now. Shall I goand see, my lord?" Mrs. Draper found that her position there wasweary and she wished to escape. Anything on his behalf requiringtrouble or work she would have done willingly; but she could notstand there for ever watching the motion of his fingers.

  "I suppose I must see him," said the bishop. Mrs. Draper took thisas an order for her departure and crept silently out of the room,closing the door behind her with the long protracted elaborate clickwhich is always produced by an attempt at silence on such occasions.He did not care for noise or for silence. Had she slammed the doorhe would not have regarded it. A wonderful silence had come uponhim which for the time almost crushed him. He would never hear thatwell-known voice again!

  He was free now. Even in his misery,--for he was very miserable,--hecould not refrain from telling himself that. No one could now pressuncalled-for into his study, contradict him in the presence of thosebefore whom he was bound to be authoritative, and rob him of all hisdignity. There was no one else of whom he was afraid. She had atleast kept him out of the hands of other tyrants. He was now his ownmaster, and there was a feeling,--I may not call it of relief, for asyet there was more of pain in it than of satisfaction,--a feeling asthough he had escaped from an old trouble at a terrible cost of whichhe could not as yet calculate the amount. He knew that he might nowgive up all idea of writing to the archbishop.

  She had in some ways, and at certain periods of his life, been verygood to him. She had kept his money for him and made things gostraight, when they had been poor. His interests had always beenher interests. Without her he would never have been a bishop. So,at least, he told himself now, and so told himself probably withtruth. She had been very careful of his children. She had never beenidle. She had never been fond of pleasure. She had neglected noacknowledged duty. He did not doubt that she was now on her way toheaven. He took his hands down from his head, and clasping themtogether, said a little prayer. It may be doubted whether he quiteknew for what he was praying. The idea of praying for her soul, nowthat she was dead, would have scandalized him. He certainly was notpraying for his own soul. I think he was praying that God might savehim from being glad that his wife was dead.

  But she was dead;--and, as it were, in a moment! He had not stirredout of that room since she had been there with him. Then there hadbeen angry words between them,--perhaps more determined enmity on hispart than ever had before existed; and they had parted for the lasttime with bitter animosity. But he told himself that he had certainlybeen right in what he had done then. He thought he had been rightthen. And so his mind went back to the Crawley and Thumble question,and he tried to alleviate the misery which that last interview withhis wife now created by assuring himself that he at least had beenjustified in what he had done.

  But yet his thoughts were very tender to her. Nothing reopens thesprings of love so fully as absence, and no absence so thoroughly asthat which must needs be endless. We want that which we have not; andespecially that which we can never have. She had told him in the verylast moments of her presence with him that he was wishing that shewere dead, and he had made her no reply. At the moment he had felt,with savage anger, that such was his wish. Her words had now come topass, and he was a widower,--and he assured himself that he wouldgive all that he possessed in the world to bring her back again.

  Yes, he was a widower, and he might do as he pleased. The tyrantwas gone, and he was free. The tyrant was gone, and the tyranny haddoubtless been very oppressive. Who had suffered as he had done? Butin thus being left without his tyrant he was wretchedly desolate.Might it not be that the tyranny had been good for him?--that theLord had known best what wife was fit for him? Then he thought of astory which he had read,--and had well marked as he was reading,--ofsome man who had been terribly afflicted by his wife, whose wife hadstarved him and beaten him and reviled him; and yet this man had beenable to thank his God for having thus mortified him in the flesh.Might it not be that the mortification which he himself had doubtlesssuffered in his flesh had been intended for his welfare, and hadbeen very good for him? But if this were so, it might be that themortification was now removed because the Lord knew that his servanthad been sufficiently mortified. He had not been starved or beaten,but the mortification had been certainly severe. Then there camewords--into his mind, not into his mouth--"The Lord sent the thorn,and the Lord has taken it away. Blessed be the name of the Lord."After that he was very angry with himself, and tried to pray that hemight be forgiven. While he was so striving there came a low knock atthe door, and Mrs. Draper again entered the room.

  "Dr. Filgrave, my lord, was not at home," said Mrs. Draper; "but hewill be sent the very moment he arrives."

  "Very well, Mrs. Draper."

  "But, my lord, will you not come to your dinner? A little soup, ora morsel of something to eat, and a glass of wine, will enable yourlordship to bear it better." He allowed Mrs. Draper to persuade him,and followed her into the dining-room. "Do not go, Mrs. Draper," hesaid; "I would rather that you should stay with me." So Mrs. Draperstayed with him, and administered to his wants. He was desirous ofbeing seen by as few eyes as possible in these the first moments ofhis freedom.

  He saw Dr. Filgrave twice, both before and after the doctor had beenupstairs. There was no doubt, Dr. Filgrave said, that it was as Mrs.Draper had surmised. The poor lady was suffering, and had for yearsbeen suffering, from heart-complaint. To her husband she had neversaid a word on the subject. To Mrs. Draper a word had been said nowand again,--a word when some moment of fear would come, when somesharp stroke of agony would tell of danger. But Mrs. Draper had keptthe secret of her mistress, and none of the family had known thatthere was aught to be feared. Dr. Filgrave, indeed, did tell thebishop that he had dreaded all along exactly that which had happened.He had said the same to Mr. Rerechild, the surgeon, when they twohad had a consultation together at the palace on the occasion ofa somewhat alarming birth of a grandchild. But he mixed up thisinformation with so much medical Latin, and was so pompous over it,and the bishop was so anxious to be rid of him, that his words didnot have much effect. What did it all matter? The thorn was gone, andthe wife was dead, and the widower must balance his gain and loss asbest he might.

  He slept well, but when he woke in the morning the dreariness of hisloneliness was very strong on him. He must do something, and must seesomebody, but he felt that he did not know how to bear himself in hisnew position. He must send of course for his chaplain, and tell hischaplain to open all letters and to answer them for a week. Then heremembered how many of his letters in days of yore had been openedand been answered by the helpmate who had just gone from him. SinceDr. Tempest's visit he had insisted that the palace letter-bag shouldalways be brought in the first instance to him;--and this had beendone, greatly to the annoyance of his wife. In order that it mightbe done the bishop had been up every morning an hour before hisusual time; and everybody in the household had known why it wasso. He thought of this now as the bag was brought to him on thefirst morning of his freedom. He could have it where he pleasednow;--either in his bedroom or left for him untouched on thebreakfast-table till he should go to it. "Blessed be the name ofthe Lord," he said as he thought of all this; but he did not stopto analyse what he was saying. On this morning he would not enjoyhis l
iberty, but desired that the letter-bag might be taken to Mr.Snapper, the chaplain.

  The news of Mrs. Proudie's death had spread all over Barchesteron the evening of its occurrence, and had been received with thatfeeling of distant awe which is always accompanied by some degree ofpleasurable sensation. There was no one in Barchester to lament amother, or a sister, or a friend who was really loved. There werethose, doubtless, who regretted the woman's death,--and even somewho regretted it without any feeling of personal damage done tothemselves. There had come to be around Mrs. Proudie a party whothought as she thought on church matters, and such people had losttheir head, and thereby their strength. And she had been staunch toher own party, preferring bad tea from a low-church grocer, to goodtea from a grocer who went to the ritualistic church or to no churchat all. And it is due to her to say that she did not forget those whowere true to her,--looking after them mindfully where looking aftermight be profitable, and fighting their battles where fighting mightbe more serviceable. I do not think that the appetite for breakfastof any man or woman in Barchester was disturbed by the news of Mrs.Proudie's death, but there were some who felt that a trouble hadfallen on them.

  Tidings of the catastrophe reached Hiram's Hospital on the evening ofits occurrence,--Hiram's Hospital, where dwelt Mr. and Mrs. Quiverfulwith all their children. Now Mrs. Quiverful owed a debt of gratitudeto Mrs. Proudie, having been placed in her present comfortable homeby that lady's patronage. Mrs. Quiverful perhaps understood thecharacter of the deceased woman, and expressed her opinion respectingit, as graphically as did any one in Barchester. There was thenatural surprise felt at the Warden's lodge in the Hospital when thetidings were first received there, and the Quiverful family was atfirst too full of dismay, regrets and surmises, to be able to givethemselves impartially to criticism. But on the following morning,conversation at the breakfast-table naturally referring to the greatloss which the bishop had sustained, Mrs. Quiverful thus pronouncedher opinion of her friend's character: "You'll find that he'll feelit, Q.," she said to her husband, in answer to some sarcastic remarkmade by him as to the removal of the thorn. "He'll feel it, thoughshe was almost too many for him while she was alive."

  "I daresay he'll feel it at first," said Quiverful; "but I thinkhe'll be more comfortable than he has been."

  "Of course he'll feel it, and go on feeling it till he dies, if he'sthe man I take him to be. You're not to think that there has been nolove because there used to be some words, that he'll find himself thehappier because he can do things more as he pleases. She was a greathelp to him, and he must have known that she was, in spite of thesharpness of her tongue. No doubt she was sharp. No doubt she wasupsetting. And she could make herself a fool too in her struggles tohave everything her own way. But, Q., there were worse women thanMrs. Proudie. She was never one of your idle ones, and I'm quite surethat no man or woman ever heard her say a word against her husbandbehind his back."

  "All the same, she gave him a terribly bad life of it, if all is truethat we hear."

  "There are men who must have what you call a terribly bad life ofit, whatever way it goes with them. The bishop is weak, and he wantssomebody near to him to be strong. She was strong,--perhaps toostrong; but he had his advantage out of it. After all I don't knowthat his life has been so terribly bad. I daresay he's had everythingvery comfortable about him. And a man ought to be grateful for that,though very few men ever are."

  Mr. Quiverful's predecessor at the Hospital, old Mr. Harding, whosehalcyon days in Barchester had been passed before the coming of theProudies, was in bed playing cat's-cradle with Posy seated on thecounterpane, when the tidings of Mrs. Proudie's death were brought tohim by Mrs. Baxter. "Oh, sir," said Mrs. Baxter, seating herself ona chair by the bed-side. Mr. Harding liked Mrs. Baxter to sit down,because he was almost sure on such occasions to have the advantage ofa prolonged conversation.

  "What is it, Mrs. Baxter?"

  "Oh, sir!"

  "Is anything the matter?" And the old man attempted to raise himselfin his bed.

  "You mustn't frighten grandpa," said Posy.

  "No, my dear; and there isn't nothing to frighten him. There isn'tindeed, Mr. Harding. They're all well at Plumstead, and when I heardfrom the missus at Venice, everything was going on well."

  "But what is it, Mrs. Baxter?"

  "God forgive her all her sins--Mrs. Proudie ain't no more." Now therehad been a terrible feud between the palace and the deanery foryears, in carrying on which the persons of the opposed householdswere wont to express themselves with eager animosity. Mrs. Baxter andMrs. Draper never spoke to each other. The two coachmen each longedfor an opportunity to take the other before a magistrate for somebreach of the law of the road in driving. The footmen abused eachother, and the grooms occasionally fought. The masters and mistressescontented themselves with simple hatred. Therefore it was notsurprising that Mrs. Baxter, in speaking of the death of Mrs.Proudie, should remember first her sins.

  "Mrs. Proudie dead!" said the old man.

  "Indeed she is, Mr. Harding," said Mrs. Baxter, putting both herhands together piously. "We're just grass, ain't we, sir! and dustand clay and flowers of the field?" Whether Mrs. Proudie had mostpartaken of the clayey nature or of the flowery nature, Mrs. Baxterdid not stop to consider.

  "Mrs. Proudie dead!" said Posy, with a solemnity that was all herown. "Then she won't scold the poor bishop any more."

  "No, my dear; she won't scold anybody any more; and it will be ablessing for some, I must say. Everybody is always so considerate inthis house, Miss Posy, that we none of us know nothing about whatthat is."

  "Dead!" said Mr. Harding again. "I think, if you please, Mrs. Baxter,you shall leave me for a little time, and take Miss Posy with you."He had been in the city of Barchester some fifty years, and here wasone who might have been his daughter, who had come there scarcely tenyears since, and who now had gone before him! He had never loved Mrs.Proudie. Perhaps he had gone as near to disliking Mrs. Proudie as hehad ever gone to disliking any person. Mrs. Proudie had wounded himin every part that was most sensitive. It would be long to tell,nor need it be told now, how she had ridiculed his cathedral work,how she had made nothing of him, how she had despised him, alwaysmanifesting her contempt plainly. He had been even driven to rebukeher, and it had perhaps been the only personal rebuke which he hadever uttered in Barchester. But now she was gone; and he thought ofher simply as an active pious woman, who had been taken away from herwork before her time. And for the bishop, no idea ever entered Mr.Harding's mind as to the removal of a thorn. The man had lost hislife's companion at that time of life when such a companion is mostneeded; and Mr. Harding grieved for him with sincerity.

  The news went out to Plumstead Episcopi by the postman, and happenedto reach the archdeacon as he was talking to his sexton at the littlegate leading into the churchyard. "Mrs. Proudie dead!" he almostshouted, as the postman notified the fact to him. "Impossible!"

  "It be so for zartain, yer reverence," said the postman, who wasproud of his news.

  "Heavens!" ejaculated the archdeacon, and then hurried in to hiswife. "My dear," he said--and as he spoke he could hardly deliverhimself of his words, so eager was he to speak them--"who do youthink is dead? Gracious heavens! Mrs. Proudie is dead!" Mrs. Grantlydropped from her hand the teaspoonful of tea that was just going intothe pot, and repeated her husband's words. "Mrs. Proudie dead?" Therewas a pause, during which they looked into each other's faces. "Mydear, I don't believe it," said Mrs. Grantly.

  But she did believe it very shortly. There were no prayers atPlumstead rectory that morning. The archdeacon immediately went outinto the village, and soon obtained sufficient evidence of the truthof that which the postman had told him. Then he rushed back to hiswife. "It's true," he said. "It's quite true. She's dead. There's nodoubt about that. She's dead. It was last night about seven. That waswhen they found her, at least, and she may have died about an hourbefore. Filgrave says not more than an hour."

  "And how did she die?"
>
  "Heart-complaint. She was standing up, taking hold of the bedstead,and so they found her." Then there was a pause, during which thearchdeacon sat down to his breakfast. "I wonder how he felt when heheard it?"

  "Of course he was terribly shocked."

  "I've no doubt he was shocked. Any man would be shocked. But when youcome to think of it, what a relief!"

  "How can you speak of it in that way?" said Mrs. Grantly.

  "How am I to speak of it in any other way?" said the archdeacon. "Ofcourse I shouldn't go and say it out in the street."

  "I don't think you ought to say it anywhere," said Mrs. Grantly. "Thepoor man no doubt feels about his wife in the same way that anybodyelse would."

  "And if any other poor man has got such a wife as she was, you may bequite sure that he would be glad to be rid of her. I don't say thathe wished her to die, or that he would have done anything to contriveher death--"

  "Gracious, archdeacon do, pray, hold your tongue."

  "But it stands to reason that her going will be a great relief tohim. What has she done for him? She has made him contemptible toeverybody in the diocese by her interference, and his life has been aburden to him through her violence."

  "Is that the way you carry out your proverb of De mortuis?" said Mrs.Grantly.

  "The proverb of De mortuis is founded on humbug. Humbug out of doorsis necessary. It would not do for you and me to go into the HighStreet just now and say what we think about Mrs. Proudie; but I don'tsuppose that kind of thing need be kept up in here, between you andme. She was an uncomfortable woman,--so uncomfortable that I cannotbelieve that any one will regret her. Dear me! Only to think that shehas gone! You may as well give me my tea."

  I do not think that Mrs. Grantly's opinion differed much from thatexpressed by her husband, or that she was, in truth, the leastoffended by the archdeacon's plain speech. But it must be rememberedthat there was probably no house in the diocese in which Mrs. Proudiehad been so thoroughly hated as she had been at the Plumsteadrectory. There had been hatred at the deanery; but the hatred at thedeanery had been mild in comparison with the hatred at Plumstead. Thearchdeacon was a sound friend; but he was also a sound enemy. Fromthe very first arrival of the Proudies at Barchester, Mrs. Proudiehad thrown down her gauntlet to him, and he had not been slow inpicking it up. The war had been internecine, and each had given theother terrible wounds. It had been understood that there should beno quarter, and there had been none. His enemy was now dead, andthe archdeacon could not bring himself to adopt before his wife thenamby-pamby every-day decency of speaking well of one of whom hehad ever thought ill, or of expressing regret when no regret couldbe felt. "May all her sins be forgiven her," said Mrs. Grantly."Amen," said the archdeacon. There was something in the tone ofhis Amen which thoroughly implied that it was uttered only on theunderstanding that her departure from the existing world was to beregarded as an unmitigated good, and that she should, at any rate,never come back again to Barchester.

  When Lady Lufton heard the tidings, she was not so bold in speakingof it as was her friend the archdeacon. "Mrs. Proudie dead!" shesaid to her daughter-in-law. This was some hours after the news hadreached the house, and when the fact of the poor lady's death hadbeen fully recognized. "What will he do without her?"

  "The same as other men do," said young Lady Lufton.

  "But, my dear, he is not the same as other men. He is not at all likeother men. He is so weak that he cannot walk without a stick to leanupon. No doubt she was a virago, a woman who could not control hertemper for a moment! No doubt she had led him a terrible life! I haveoften pitied him with all my heart. But, nevertheless, she was usefulto him. I suppose she was useful to him. I can hardly believe thatMrs. Proudie is dead. Had he gone, it would have seemed so much morenatural. Poor woman. I daresay she had her good points." The readerwill be pleased to remember that the Luftons had ever been strongpartisans on the side of the Grantlys.

  The news made its way even to Hogglestock on the same day. Mrs.Crawley, when she heard it, went out after her husband, who was inthe school. "Dead!" said he, in answer to her whisper. "Do you tellme that the woman is dead?" Then Mrs. Crawley explained that thetidings were credible. "May God forgive her all her sins," said Mr.Crawley. "She was a violent woman, certainly, and I think that shemisunderstood her duties; but I do not say that she was a bad woman.I am inclined to think that she was earnest in her endeavours to dogood." It never occurred to Mr. Crawley that he and his affair had,in truth, been the cause of her death.

  It was thus that she was spoken of for a few days; and then men andwomen ceased to speak much of her, and began to talk of the bishopinstead. A month had not passed before it was surmised that a man solong accustomed to the comforts of married life would marry again;and even then one lady connected with low-church clergymen in andaround the city was named as a probable successor to the great ladywho was gone. For myself, I am inclined to think that the bishop willfor the future be content to lean upon his chaplain.

  The monument that was put up to our old friend's memory in one of theside aisles of the choir of the cathedral was supposed to be designedand executed in good taste. There was a broken column, and on thecolumn simply the words, "My beloved wife!" Then there was a slab bythe column, bearing Mrs. Proudie's name, with the date of her lifeand death. Beneath this was the common inscription,--

  "_Requiescat in pace._"