said she. “I hope Mrs. Grantly got home without fatigue.”
Dr. Gwynne said that they had all been a little tired, but were none the worse this morning.
“An excellent person, Miss Thorne,” suggested the bishop.
“And an exemplary Christian, I am told,” said Mrs. Proudie.
Dr. Gwynne declared that he was very glad to hear it.
“I have not seen her Sabbath-day schools yet,” continued the lady, “but I shall make a point of doing so before long.”
Dr. Gwynne merely bowed at this intimation. He had heard something of Mrs. Proudie and her Sunday-schools, both from Dr. Grantly and Mr. Harding.
“By the by, Master,” continued the lady, “I wonder whether Mrs. Grantly would like me to drive over and inspect her Sabbath-day school. I hear that it is most excellently kept.”
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 at home.
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 iniquity. “The archdeacon, I know,” said she, “sets his face against these institutions.”
At this Dr. Gwynne laughed slightly. It was but a smile. Had he given his cap for it he could not have helped it.
Mrs. Proudie frowned again. “‘Suffer little children, and forbid them not,’“ she said. “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 her menacing forefinger.
“Certainly, madam, certainly,” said the master, “and so does the archdeacon, I am sure, on weekdays as well as on Sundays.”
“On weekdays you can’t take heed not to despise them,” said Mrs. Proudie, “because then they are out in the fields. On weekdays they belong to their parents, but on Sundays they ought to belong to the clergyman.” And the finger was again raised.
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 object.
“My lord,” said he, “I wanted to ask you a question on business, if you could spare me one moment’s leisure. I know I must apologize for so disturbing you, but in truth I will not detain you five minutes.”
“Certainly, Master, certainly,” said the bishop; “my time is quite yours—pray make no apology, pray make no apology.”
“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 room.
“Perhaps it’s about Hiram’s Hospital?” suggested Mrs. Proudie.
Dr. Gwynne, lost in astonishment, and not knowing what else on earth to do, confessed that his business with the bishop was connected with Hiram’s Hospital.
“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 dispatch from his friend Mr. Towers, which had the effect of putting him in that high good humour 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.
30/9/185––
There was more in this than in all Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin’s flummery; more than in all the bishop’s promises, even had they been ever so sincere; more than in any archbishop’s good word, even had it been possible to obtain it. Tom Towers would do for him what he could.
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 he 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 broadsheets dispersing themselves daily among his reading fellow citizens 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 with disrespect.
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 fitting man for the vacant post. It was pleasant for Mr. Slope to read the following lines in the Barchester news-room, 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 now about to meddle very deeply in the affairs of the diocese. If any of the chapter feel a qualm of conscience on reading thus far, 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 reverend towers of the old cathedral with an olive branch in our hands.
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 in 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 gentleman—and we say it in all sincerity and with no touch of sarcasm—had never looked on the matter in this light before. We do not wish to take praise to ourselves whether praise be due to us or not. But the consequence of our remark was that the warden did look into the matter, and finding on so doing that he himself
