of twenty-four. If you bind him with leading-strings 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 knowledge of the subject gathered from long experience.
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 Barchester.
“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 our share and never shall, I suppose, but we must at least have one out of three.”
“Those sort of rules are all gone by now,” said Mr. Arabin.
“Everything has gone by, I believe,” said Tom Staple. “The cigar has been smoked out, and we are the ashes.”
“Speak for yourself, Staple,” said the master.
“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.”
“And who will be warden of the hospital?” said Mr. Arabin.
“I hear that Mr. Quiverful is already appointed,” said Tom Staple.
“I think not,” said the master. “And I think, moreover, that Dr. Proudie will not be so shortsighted as to run against such a rock: Mr. Slope should himself have sense enough to prevent it.”
“But perhaps Mr. Slope may have no objection to see his patron on a rock,” said the suspicious tutor.
“What could he get by that?” asked Mr. Arabin.
“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 Tom Staple, sighing deeply, “that the welfare and fortunes of good men may depend on his intrigues.”
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 permanent in the palace, his own expulsion therefrom had been already decided on by the high powers of the diocese.
“I’ll tell you what,” said the tutor, “if this Quiverful is thrust into the hospital and Dr. Trefoil does die, I should not wonder if the Government were to make Mr. Harding Dean of Barchester. They would feel bound to do something for him after all that was said when he resigned.”
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 their journey to Plumstead on the morrow.
Chapter XXXV.
Miss Thorne’s Fête Champêtre
The day of the Ullathorne party arrived, and all the world were 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 church dignitaries on the platform of the railway.
The Stanhope party was finally arranged in the odious manner already described, and Eleanor got into the doctor’s carriage full of apprehension and presentiment of further misfortune, whereas Mr. Slope entered the vehicle elate with triumph.
He had received that morning a very civil note from Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin, 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 triumphs, 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 the gala 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 without his express sanction. In these matters he was sometimes driven to run counter to his mistress, but he rarely allowed his mistress to carry the point against him.
But on occasions such as the present Mr. Plomacy 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, he always took the management into
