Barchester Towers, Anthony Trollope [top business books of all time .txt] 📗

his dressing-room with somewhat of a palpitating heart; he had overstayed his alloted time by three days, and was not without much fear of penalties. Nothing, however, could be more affectionately cordial than the greeting he received; the girls came out and kissed him in a manner that was quite soothing to his spirit; and Mrs. Proudie, “albeit, unused to the melting mood,” squeezed him in her arms and almost in words called him her dear, darling, good, pet, little bishop. All this was a very pleasant surprise.

Mrs. Proudie had somewhat changed her tactics; not that she had seen any cause to disapprove of her former line of conduct, but she had now brought matters to such a point that she calculated that she might safely do so. She had got the better of Mr. Slope, and she now thought well to show her husband that when allowed to get the better of everybody, when obeyed by him and permitted to rule over others, she would take care that he should have his reward. Mr. Slope had not a chance against her; not only could she stun the poor bishop by her midnight anger, but she could assuage and soothe him, if she so willed, by daily indulgences. She could furnish his room for him, turn him out as smart a bishop as any on the bench, give him good dinners, warm fires, and an easy life⁠—all this she would do if he would but be quietly obedient. But, if not⁠—! To speak sooth, however, his sufferings on that dreadful night had been so poignant as to leave him little spirit for further rebellion.

As soon as he had dressed himself, she returned to his room. “I hope you enjoyed yourself at ⸻,” said she, seating herself on one side of the fire while he remained in his armchair on the other, stroking the calves of his legs. It was the first time he had had a fire in his room since the summer, and it pleased him, for the good bishop loved to be warm and cosy. Yes, he said, he had enjoyed himself very much. Nothing could be more polite than the archbishop, and Mrs. Archbishop had been equally charming.

Mrs. Proudie was delighted to hear it; nothing, she declared, pleased her so much as to think

Her bairn respectit like the lave.

She did not put it precisely in these words, but what she said came to the same thing; and then, having petted and fondled her little man sufficiently, she proceeded to business.

“The poor dean is still alive,” said she.

“So I hear, so I hear,” said the bishop. “I’ll go to the deanery directly after breakfast tomorrow.”

“We are going to this party at Ullathorne tomorrow morning, my dear; we must be there early, you know⁠—by twelve o’clock I suppose.”

“Oh⁠—ah!” said the bishop; “then I’ll certainly call the next day.”

“Was much said about it at ⸻?” asked Mrs. Proudie.

“About what?” said the bishop.

“Filling up the dean’s place,” said Mrs. Proudie. As she spoke, a spark of the wonted fire returned to her eye, and the bishop felt himself to be a little less comfortable than before.

“Filling up the dean’s place; that is, if the dean dies? Very little, my dear. It was mentioned, just mentioned.”

“And what did you say about it, Bishop?”

“Why, I said that I thought that if, that is, should⁠—should the dean die, that is, I said I thought⁠—” As he went on stammering and floundering, he saw that his wife’s eye was fixed sternly on him. Why should he encounter such evil for a man whom he loved so slightly as Mr. Slope? Why should he give up his enjoyments and his ease and such dignity as might be allowed to him to fight a losing battle for a chaplain? The chaplain, after all, if successful, would be as great a tyrant as his wife. Why fight at all? Why contend? Why be uneasy? From that moment he determined to fling Mr. Slope to the winds and take the goods the gods provided.

“I am told,” said Mrs. Proudie, speaking very slowly, “that Mr. Slope is looking to be the new dean.”

“Yes⁠—certainly, I believe he is,” said the bishop.

“And what does the archbishop say about that?” asked Mrs. Proudie.

“Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised Mr. Slope to speak to the archbishop. Mr. Slope spoke to me about it. It is very arrogant of him, I must say⁠—but that is nothing to me.”

“Arrogant!” said Mrs. Proudie; “it is the most impudent piece of pretension I ever heard of in my life. Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester, indeed! And what did you do in the matter, Bishop?”

“Why, my dear, I did speak to the archbishop.”

“You don’t mean to tell me,” said Mrs. Proudie, “that you are going to make yourself ridiculous by lending your name to such a preposterous attempt as this? Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester, indeed!” And she tossed her head and put her arms akimbo with an air of confident defiance that made her husband quite sure that Mr. Slope never would be Dean of Barchester. In truth, Mrs. Proudie was all but invincible; had she married Petruchio, it may be doubted whether that arch wife-tamer would have been able to keep her legs out of those garments which are presumed by men to be peculiarly unfitted for feminine use.

“It is preposterous, my dear.”

“Then why have you endeavoured to assist him?”

“Why⁠—my dear, I haven’t assisted him⁠—much.”

“But why have you done it at all? Why have you mixed your name up in anything so ridiculous? What was it you did say to the archbishop?”

“Why, I just did mention it; I just did say that⁠—that in the event of the poor dean’s death, Mr. Slope would⁠—would⁠—”

“Would what?”

“I forget how I put it⁠—would take it if he could get it; something of that sort. I didn’t say much more than that.”

“You shouldn’t have said anything at all. And what did the archbishop say?”

“He didn’t say anything; he just bowed and rubbed his hands. Somebody else came up at the moment, and as we were discussing the new parochial universal