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 a husband and wife, when the wife expressed a wish for a tête-à-tête with her husband.
‘Mr Slope,’ she repeated, ‘I wish to be alone with my lord.’
‘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 that trust was so woefully ill-placed. ‘My leaving him at the present moment is, I fear, impossible.’
‘Do you bandy words with me, you ungrateful man?’ said she. ‘My lord, will you do me the favour to beg Mr Slope to leave the room?’
My lord scratched his head, but for the moment said nothing. This was as much as Mr Slope expected from him, and was on the whole, for him, an active exercise of marital rights.
‘My lord,’ said the lady, ‘is Mr Slope to leave this room, or am I?’
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 as 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 other heroines, and she fell.
‘My lord,’ said she, ‘am I to be vouchsafed an answer or am I not?’
At last he broke his deep silence and proclaimed himself a Slopeite. ‘Why, my dear,’ said he, ‘Mr Slope and I are very busy.’
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 true to themselves!
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 have 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 that 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, 1 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 then intrude yourself when the wife wishes ‘to speak to my lord alone’?
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, in 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 were 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 not stout 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 also 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 out.
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 which he had so long been taking.
‘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 self-jurisdiction should be as nearly as possible a fait accompli.2 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 a 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 somewhat restored her courage, and gave her more 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 eye fell on her husband’s pillow. She would not despair. Having so resolved, she descended with dignified mien and refreshed countenance to Mrs Quiverful.
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 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 your husband has behaved in this matter in a very weak and foolish manner.’
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 rules 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 ill-mannered; 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 and talk at you!’
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 uncomfortable, and a second time essayed to rise from her chair.
‘Pray be seated, Mrs Quiverful, pray keep your seat. Your husband, T 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 now do nothing for you in this matter.’
‘Oh! Mrs Proudie – don’t say so,’ said the poor woman, again jumping up.
‘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 do – what we may finally decide on doing – I cannot now say. Knowing the extent of your family –’
‘Fourteen children, Mrs Proudie, fourteen of them! and barely bread – barely 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 streaming down her big coarse cheeks, on which the dust of the August road had left its traces.
Mrs Proudie has not been portrayed in these pages as an agreeable or an 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 a female angel, and a male and a 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 stiff-ribbed 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 their 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 Proudie was touched.
She did not show it as other women might have done. She did not give Mrs Quiverful eau-de-Cologne, 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 back to 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 were forthcoming. Instead of this, Mrs Proudie slapped one hand upon the other, and declared – not with an oath; for as a lady and a Sabbatarian and a she-bishop, she could not swear – but with an adjuration, that ‘she wouldn’t have it done’.
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 Quiverful.
‘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 foolish, nothing could have prevented your going to the hospital.’
Poor Mrs Quiverful was ready enough with her own tongue in accusing her husband to his face of being soft, and perhaps did not always speak of him to her children quite so respectfully as she might have done. But she did not at all 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 from 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 what Mr Slope had said.
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 on. As she repeated the 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 episcopari3 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 in making her visit.
CHAPTER 8
A Love Scene
MR SLOPE, as we have said, left the palace with a feeling of considerable triumph. Not that he thought that his difficulties were all 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, so he wrote the following note. It was the beginning of what, he trusted, might be a long and tender series of epistles.
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 been 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 now 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 blessing to the poor of this city.
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 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 assaults on those beautiful long silken tresses?
I can assure you your friends miss you from Barchester sorely; but it would be cruel to begrudge you your sojourn among flowers and fields during this truly sultry weather.
Pray believe me, my dear Mrs Bold,
Yours most sincerely,
OBAOIAH SLOPE
Barchester, Friday.
Now this letter, taken as a whole, and with the consideration th
at 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 contented himself instead with the compliment to the tresses.
Having finished 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 momentous fate in the next chapter.
There is an old song which gives us some very good advice about courting:
It’s gude to be off with the auld luve
Before ye be on wi’ the new. 1
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 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.
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