The next two weeks passed pleasantly enough at Plumstead. The whole party there assembled seemed to get on well together. Eleanor made the house agreeable, and the archdeacon and Mr. Grantly seemed to have forgotten her iniquity1 as regarded Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding had his violoncello and played to them while his daughters accompanied him. Johnny Bold, by the help either of Mr. Rerechild or else by that of his coral and carrot-juice, got through his teething troubles. There had been gaieties, too, of all sorts. They had dined at Ullathorne, and the Thornes had dined at the rectory. Eleanor had been duly put to stand on her box and in that position had found herself quite unable to express her opinion on the merits of flounces, such having been the subject given to try her elocution. Mr. Arabin had of course been much in his own parish, looking to the doings at his vicarage, calling on his parishioners, and taking on himself the duties of his new calling. But still he had been every evening at Plumstead, and Mrs. Grantly was partly willing to agree with her husband that he was a pleasant inmate2 in a house.
They had also been at a dinner-party at Dr. Stanhope’s, of which Mr. Arabin had made one. He also, mothlike, burnt his wings in the flames of the signora’s candle. Mrs. Bold, too, had been there and had felt somewhat displeased3 with the taste — want of taste she called it — shown by Mr. Arabin in paying so much attention to Madame Neroni. It was as infallible that Madeline should displease4 and irritate the women as that she should charm and captivate the men. The one result followed naturally on the other. It was quite true that Mr. Arabin had been charmed. He thought her a very clever and a very handsome woman; he thought also that her peculiar5 affliction entitled her to the sympathy of all. He had never, he said, met so much suffering joined to such perfect beauty and so clear a mind. ’Twas thus he spoke6 of the signora, coming home in the archdeacon’s carriage, and Eleanor by no means liked to hear the praise. It was, however, exceedingly unjust of her to be angry with Mr. Arabin, as she had herself spent a very pleasant evening with Bertie Stanhope, who had taken her down to dinner and had not left her side for one moment after the gentlemen came out of the dining-room. It was unfair that she should amuse herself with Bertie and yet begrudge7 her new friend his license8 of amusing himself with Bertie’s sister. And yet she did so. She was half-angry with him in the carriage and said something, about meretricious9 manners. Mr. Arabin did not understand the ways of women very well, or else he might have flattered himself that Eleanor was in love with him.
But Eleanor was not in love with him. How many shades there are between love and indifference10, and how little the graduated scale is, understood! She had now been nearly three weeks in the same house with Mr. Arabin and had received much of his attention and listened daily to his conversation. He had usually devoted11 at least some portion of his evening to her exclusively. At Dr. Stanhope’s he had devoted himself exclusively to another. It does not require that a woman should be in love to be irritated at this; it does not require that she should even acknowledge to herself that it is unpleasant to her. Eleanor had no such self-knowledge. She thought in her own heart that it was only on Mr. Arabin’s account that she regretted that he could condescend12 to be amused by the signora. “I thought he had more mind,” she said to herself as she sat watching her baby’s cradle on her return from the party. “After all, I believe Mr. Stanhope is the pleasanter man of the two.” Alas13 for the memory of poor John Bold! Eleanor was not in love with Bertie Stanhope, nor was she in love with Mr. Arabin. But her devotion to her late husband was fast fading when she could revolve14 in her mind over the cradle of his infant the faults and failings of other aspirants15 to her favour.
Will anyone blame my heroine for this? Let him or her rather thank God for all His goodness — for His mercy endureth forever.
Eleanor, in truth, was not in love; neither was Mr. Arabin. Neither indeed was Bertie Stanhope, though he had already found occasion to say nearly as much as that he was. The widow’s cap had prevented him from making a positive declaration, when otherwise he would have considered himself entitled to do so on a third or fourth interview. It was, after all, but a small cap now and had but little of the weeping willow16 left in its construction. It is singular how these emblems17 of grief fade away by unseen gradations. Each pretends to be the counterpart of the forerunner18, and yet the last little bit of crimped white crape that sits so jauntily19 on the back of the head is as dissimilar to the first huge mountain of woe20 which disfigured the face of the weeper as the state of the Hindu is to the jointure of the English dowager.
But let it be clearly understood that Eleanor was in love with no one and that no one was in love with Eleanor. Under these circumstances her anger against Mr. Arabin did not last long, and before two days were over they were both as good friends as ever. She could not but like him, for every hour spent in his company was spent pleasantly. And yet she could not quite like him, for there was always apparent in his conversation a certain feeling on his part that he hardly thought it worth his while to be in earnest. It was almost as though he were playing with a child. She knew well enough that he was in truth a sober, thoughtful man who, in some matters and on some occasions, could endure an agony of earnestness. And yet to her he was always gently playful. Could she have seen his brow once clouded, she might have learnt to love him.
So things went on at Plumstead, and on the whole not unpleasantly, till a huge storm darkened the horizon and came down upon the inhabitants of the rectory with all the fury of a water-spout. It was astonishing how in a few minutes the whole face of the heavens was changed. The party broke up from breakfast in perfect harmony, but fierce passions had arisen before the evening which did not admit of their sitting at the same board for dinner. To explain this it will be necessary to go back a little.
It will be remembered that the bishop21 expressed to Mr. Slope in his dressing-room his determination that Mr. Quiverful should be confirmed in his appointment to the hospital, and that his lordship requested Mr. Slope to communicate this decision to the archdeacon. It will also be remembered that the archdeacon had indignantly declined seeing Mr. Slope and had instead written a strong letter to the bishop in which he all but demanded the situation of warden22 for Mr. Harding. To this letter the archdeacon received an immediate23 formal reply from Mr. Slope, in which it was stated that the bishop had received and would give his best consideration to the archdeacon’s letter.
The archdeacon felt himself somewhat checkmated by this reply. What could he do with a man who would neither see him, nor argue with him by letter, and who had undoubtedly24 the power of appointing any clergyman he pleased? He had consulted with Mr. Arabin, who had suggested the propriety26 of calling in the aid of the Master of Lazarus. “If,” said he, “you and Dr. Gwynne formally declare your intention of waiting upon the bishop, the bishop will not dare to refuse to see you; and if two such men as you are see him together, you will probably not leave him without carrying your point.”
The archdeacon did not quite like admitting the necessity of his being backed by the Master of Lazarus before he could obtain admission into the episcopal palace of Barchester, but still he felt that the advice was good, and he resolved to take it. He wrote again to the bishop, expressing a hope that nothing further would be done in the matter of the hospital till the consideration promised by his lordship had been given, and then sent off a warm appeal to his friend the master, imploring27 him to come to Plumstead and assist in driving the bishop into compliance28. The. master had rejoined, raising some difficulty but not declining, and the archdeacon had again pressed his point, insisting on the necessity for immediate action. Dr. Gwynne unfortunately had the gout, and could therefore name no immediate day, but still agreed to come, if it should be finally found necessary. So the matter stood, as regarded the party at Plumstead.
But Mr. Harding had another friend fighting his battle for him, quite as powerful as the Master of Lazarus, and this was Mr. Slope. Though the bishop had so pertinaciously29 insisted on giving way to his wife in the matter of the hospital, Mr. Slope did not think it necessary to abandon his object. He had, he thought, daily more and more reason to imagine that the widow would receive his overtures30 favourably31, and he could not but feel that Mr. Harding at the hospital, and placed there by his means, would be more likely to receive him as a son-inlaw than Mr. Harding growling32 in opposition33 and disappointment under the archdeacon’s wing at Plumstead. Moreover, to give Mr. Slope due credit, he was actuated by greater motives34 even than these. He wanted a wife, and he wanted money, but he wanted power more than either. He had fully35 realized the fact that he must come to blows with Mrs. Proudie. He had no desire to remain in Barchester as her chaplain. Sooner than do so, he would risk the loss of his whole connexion with the diocese. What! Was he to feel within him the possession of no ordinary talents — was he to know himself to be courageous36, firm, and, in matters where his conscience did not interfere37, unscrupulous — and yet he contented38 to be the working factotum39 of a woman prelate? Mr. Slope had higher ideas of his own destiny. Either he or Mrs. Proudie must go to the wall, and now had come the time when he would try which it should be.
The bishop had declared that Mr. Quiverful should be the new warden. As Mr. Slope went downstairs, prepared to see the archdeacon, if necessary, but fully satisfied that no such necessity would arise, he declared to himself that Mr. Harding should be warden. With the object of carrying this point, he rode over to Puddingdale and had a further interview with the worthy40 expectant of clerical good things. Mr. Quiverful was on the whole a worthy man. The impossible task of bringing up as ladies and gentlemen fourteen children on an income which was insufficient41 to give them with decency42 the common necessaries of life had had an effect upon him not beneficial either to his spirit or his keen sense of honour. Who can boast that he would have supported such a burden with a different result? Mr. Quiverful was an honest, painstaking43, drudging man, anxious indeed for bread and meat, anxious for means to quiet his butcher and cover with returning smiles the now sour countenance44 of the baker’s wife, but anxious also to be right with his own conscience. He was not careful, as another might be who sat on an easier worldly seat, to stand well with those around him, to shun45 a breath which might sully his name or a rumour46 which might affect his honour. He could not afford such niceties of conduct, such moral luxuries. It must suffice for him to be ordinarily honest according to the ordinary honesty of the world’s ways, and to let men’s tongues wag as they would.
He had felt that his brother clergymen, men whom he had known for the last twenty years, looked coldly on him from the first moment that he had shown himself willing to sit at the feet of Mr. Slope; he had seen that their looks grew colder still when it became bruited47 about that he was to he the bishop’s new warden at Hiram’s Hospital. This was painful enough, but it was the cross which he was doomed48 to bear. He thought of his wife, whose last new silk dress was six years in wear. He thought of all his young flock, whom he could hardly take to church with him on Sundays, for there were not decent shoes and stockings for them all to wear. He thought of the well-worn sleeves of his own black coat and of the stern face of the draper, from whom he would fain ask for cloth to make another, did he not know that the credit would be refused him. Then he thought of the comfortable house in Barchester, of the comfortable income, of his boys sent to school, of his girls with books in their hands instead of darning needles, of his wife’s face again covered with smiles, and of his daily board again covered with plenty. He thought of these things; and do thou also, reader, think of them, and then wonder, if thou canst, that Mr. Slope had appeared to him to possess all those good gifts which could grace a bishop’s chaplain. “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings.”
Why, moreover, should the Barchester clergy25 have looked coldly on Mr. Quiverful? Had they not all shown that they regarded with complacency the loaves and fishes of their mother church? Had they not all, by some hook or crook49, done better for themselves than he had done? They were not burdened as he was burdened. Dr. Grantly had five children and nearly as many thousands a year on which to feed them. It was very well for him to turn up his nose at a new bishop who could do nothing for him and a chaplain who was beneath his notice, but it was cruel in a man so circumstanced to set the world against the father of fourteen children because he was anxious to obtain for them an honourable50 support! He, Mr. Quiverful, had not asked for the wardenship51; he had not even accepted it till he had been assured that Mr. Harding had refused it. How hard then that he should he blamed for doing that which not to have done would have argued a most insane imprudence!
Thus in this matter of the hospital poor Mr. Quiverful had his trials, and he had also his consolations52. On the whole the consolations were the more vivid of the two. The stern draper heard of the coming promotion53, and the wealth of his warehouse54 was at Mr. Quiverful’s disposal. Coming events cast their shadows before, and the coming event of Mr. Quiverful’s transference to Barchester produced a delicious shadow in the shape of a new outfit55 for Mrs. Quiverful and her three elder daughters. Such consolations come home to the heart of a man and quite home to the heart of a woman. Whatever the husband might feel, the wife cared nothing for frowns of dean, archdeacon, or prebendary. To her the outsides and insides of her husband and fourteen children were everything. In her bosom56 every other ambition had been swallowed up in that maternal57 ambition of seeing them and him and herself duly clad and properly fed. It had come to that with her that life had now no other purpose. She recked nothing of the imaginary rights of others. She had no patience with her husband when he declared to her that he could not accept the hospital unless he knew that Mr. Harding had refused it. Her husband had no right to be quixotic at the expense of fourteen children. The narrow escape of throwing away his good fortune which her lord had had almost paralysed her. Now, indeed, they had received a full promise, not only from Mr. Slope, but also from Mrs. Proudie. Now, indeed, they might reckon with safety on their good fortune. But what if all had been lost? What if her fourteen bairns had been resteeped to the hips58 in poverty by the morbid59 sentimentality of their father? Mrs. Quiverful was just at present a happy woman, but yet it nearly took her breath away when she thought of the risk they had run.
“I don’t know what your father means when he talks so much of what is due to Mr. Harding,” she said to her eldest61 daughter. “Does he think that Mr. Harding would give him ￡450 a year out of fine feeling? And what signifies it whom he offends, as long as he gets the place? He does not expect anything better. It passes me to think how your father can he so soft, while everybody around him is so griping.”
Thus, while the outer world was accusing Mr. Quiverful of rapacity62 for promotion and of disregard to his honour, the inner world of his own household was falling foul63 of him, with equal vehemence64, for his willingness to sacrifice their interests to a false feeling of sentimental60 pride. It is astonishing how much difference the point of view makes in the aspect of all that we look at!
Such were the feelings of the different members of the family at Puddingdale on the occasion of Mr. Slope’s second visit. Mrs. Quiverful, as soon as she saw his horse coming up the avenue from the vicarage gate, hastily packed up her huge basket of needlework and hurried herself and her daughter out of the room in which she was sitting with her husband. “It’s Mr. Slope,” she said. “He’s come to settle with you about the hospital. I do hope we shall now be able to move at once.” And she hastened to bid the maid of all work go to the door, so that the welcome great man might not be kept waiting.
Mr. Slope thus found Mr. Quiverful alone. Mrs. Quiverful went off to her kitchen and back settlements with anxious beating heart, almost dreading65 that there might be some slip between the cup of her happiness and the lip of her fruition, but yet comforting herself with the reflexion that after what had taken place, any such slip could hardly be possible.
Mr. Slope was all smiles as he shook his brother clergyman’s hand and said that he had ridden over because he thought it right at once to put Mr. Quiverful in possession of the facts of the matter regarding the wardenship of the hospital. As he spoke; the poor expectant husband and father saw at a glance that his brilliant hopes were to be dashed to the ground and that his visitor was now there for the purpose of unsaying what on his former visit he had said. There was something in the tone of the voice, something in the glance of the eye, which told the tale. Mr. Quiverful knew it all at once. He maintained his self-possession, however, smiled with a slight unmeaning smile, and merely said that he was obliged to Mr. Slope for the trouble he was taking.
“It has been a troublesome matter from first to last,” said Mr. Slope, “and the bishop has hardly known how to act. Between ourselves — but mind this of course must go no further, Mr. Quiverful.”
Mr. Quiverful said that of course it should not. “The truth is that poor Mr. Harding has hardly known his own mind. You remember our last conversation, no doubt.”
Mr. Quiverful assured him that he remembered it very well indeed.
“You will remember that I told you that Mr. Harding had refused to return to the hospital.”
Mr. Quiverful declared that nothing could be more distinct on his memory.
“And acting66 on this refusal, I suggested that you should take the hospital,” continued Mr. Slope.
“I understood you to say that the bishop had authorised you to offer it to me.
“Did I? Did I go so far as that? Well, perhaps it may he that in my anxiety in your behalf I did commit myself further than I should have done. So far as my own memory serves me, I don’t think I did go quite so far as that. But I own I was very anxious that you should get it, and I may have said more than was quite prudent67.”
“But,” said Mr. Quiverful in his deep anxiety to prove his case, “my wife received as distinct a promise from Mrs. Proudie as one human being could give to another.”
Mr. Slope smiled and gently shook his head. He meant the smile for a pleasant smile, but it was diabolical68 in the eyes of the man he was speaking to. “Mrs. Proudie!” he said. “If we are to go to what passes between the ladies in these matters, we shall really be in a nest of troubles from which we shall never extricate69 ourselves. Mrs. Proudie is a most excellent lady, kind-hearted, charitable, pious70, and in every way estimable. But, my dear Mr. Quiverful, the patronage71 of the diocese is not in her hands.”
Mr. Quiverful for a moment sat panic-stricken and silent. “Am I to understand, then, that I have received no promise?” he said as soon as he had sufficiently72 collected his thoughts.
“If you will allow me, I will tell you exactly how the matter rests. You certainly did receive a promise conditional73 on Mr. Harding’s refusal. I am sure you will do me the justice to remember that you yourself declared that you could accept the appointment on no other condition than the knowledge that Mr. Harding had declined it”
“Yes,” said Mr. Quiverful; “I did say that, certainly.”
“Well, it now appears that he did not refuse it.”
“But surely you told me, and repeated it more than once, that he had done so in your own hearing.”
“So I understood him. But it seems I was in error. But don’t for a moment, Mr. Quiverful, suppose that I mean to throw you over. No. Having held out my hand to a man in your position, with your long family and pressing claims, I am not now going to draw it back again. I only want you to act with me fairly and honestly.”
“Whatever I do I shall endeavour at any rate to act fairly,” said the poor man, feeling that he had to fall back for support on the spirit of martyrdom within him.
“I am sure you will,” said the other. “I am sure you have no wish to obtain possession of an income which belongs by all right to another. No man knows better than you do Mr. Harding’s history, or can better appreciate his character. Mr. Harding is very desirous of returning to his old position, and the bishop feels that he is at the present moment somewhat hampered74, though of course he is not bound, by the conversation which took place on the matter between you and me.”
“Well,” said Mr. Quiverful, dreadfully doubtful as to what his conduct under such circumstances should be, and fruitlessly striving to harden his nerves with some of that instinct of self-preservation which made his wife so bold.
“The wardenship of this little hospital is not the only thing in the bishop’s gift, Mr. Quiverful, nor is it by many degrees the best. And his lordship is not the man to forget anyone whom he has once marked with approval. If you would allow me to advise you as a friend —”
“Indeed, I shall be most grateful to you,” said the poor vicar of Puddingdale.
“I should advise you to withdraw from any opposition to Mr. Harding’s claims. If you persist in your demand, I do not think you will ultimately succeed. Mr. Harding has all but a positive right to the place. But if you will allow me to inform the bishop that you decline to stand in Mr. Harding’s way, I think I may promise you — though, by the by, it must not he taken as a formal promise — that the bishop will not allow you to be a poorer man than you would have been had you become warden.”
Mr. Quiverful sat in his armchair, silent, gazing at vacancy75. What was he to say? All this that came from Mr. Slope was so true. Mr. Harding had a right to the hospital. The bishop had a great many good things to give away. Both the bishop and Mr. Slope would be excellent friends and terrible enemies to a man in his position. And then he had no proof of any promise; he could not force the bishop to appoint him.
“Well, Mr. Quiverful, what do you say about it?”
“Oh, of course, whatever you think fit, Mr. Slope. It’s a great disappointment, a very great disappointment. I won’t deny that I am a very poor man, Mr. Slope.”
“In the end, Mr. Quiverful, you will find that it will have been better for you.”
The interview ended in Mr. Slope receiving a full renunciation from Mr. Quiverful of any claim he might have to the appointment in question. It was only given verbally and without witnesses, but then the original promise was made in the same way.
Mr. Slope again assured him that he should not be forgotten and then rode back to Barchester, satisfied that he would now be able to mould the bishop to his wishes.
收听单词发音 |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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begrudge
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| vt.吝啬，羡慕 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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emblems
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forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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pertinaciously
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| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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bruited
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| v.传播（传说或谣言）( bruit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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wardenship
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| n.warden之职权（或职务） | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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54
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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