Chronicles of Barsetshire - Complete Edition (All 6 Books in One Edition). Anthony Trollope
on the cards. Dr. Proudie had interest with the government, and the man carried as it were Dr. Proudie in his pocket. How should they all conduct themselves if Mr. Slope were to become Dean of Barchester? The bare idea for a moment struck even Dr. Grantly dumb.
“It would certainly not be very pleasant for us to have Mr. Slope at the deanery,” said the little prebendary, chuckling inwardly at the evident consternation which his surmise had created.
“About as pleasant and as probable as having you in the palace,” said the chancellor.
“I should think such an appointment highly improbable,” said the minor canon, “and, moreover, extremely injudicious. Should not you, Mr. Archdeacon?”
“I should presume such a thing to be quite out of the question,” said the archdeacon, “but at the present moment I am thinking rather of our poor friend who is lying so near us than of Mr. Slope.”
“Of course, of course,” said the vicar choral with a very solemn air; “of course you are. So are we all. Poor Dr. Trefoil; the best of men, but —”
“It’s the most comfortable dean’s residence in England,” said a second prebendary. “Fifteen acres in the grounds. It is better than many of the bishops’ palaces.”
“And full two thousand a year,” said the meagre doctor.
“It is cut down to £1,200,” said the chancellor.
“No,” said the second prebendary. “It is to be fifteen. A special case was made.”
“No such thing,” said the chancellor.
“You’ll find I’m right,” said the prebendary.
“I’m sure I read it in the report,” said the minor canon.
“Nonsense,” said the chancellor. “They couldn’t do it. There were to be no exceptions but London and Durham.”
“And Canterbury and York,” said the vicar choral modestly.
“What do you say, Grantly?” said the meagre little doctor.
“Say about what?” said the archdeacon, who had been looking as though he were thinking about his friend the dean but who had in reality been thinking about Mr. Slope.
“What is the next dean to have, twelve or fifteen?”
“Twelve,” said the archdeacon authoritatively, thereby putting an end at once to all doubt and dispute among his subordinates as far as that subject was concerned.
“Well, I certainly thought it was fifteen,” said the minor canon.
“Pooh!” said the burly chancellor. At this moment the door opened and in came Dr. Fillgrave.
“How is he?” “Is he conscious?” “Can he speak?” “I hope not dead?” “No worse news, Doctor, I trust?” “I hope, I trust, something better, Doctor?” said half a dozen voices all at once, each in a tone of extremest anxiety. It was pleasant to see how popular the good old dean was among his clergy.
“No change, gentlemen; not the slightest change. But a telegraphic message has arrived — Sir Omicron Pie will be here by the 9.15 P.M. train. If any man can do anything, Sir Omicron Pie will do it. But all that skill can do has been done.”
“We are sure of that, Dr. Fillgrave,” said the archdeacon; “we are quite sure of that. But yet you know —”
“Oh, quite right,” said the doctor, “quite right — I should have done just the same — I advised it at once. I said to Rerechild at once that with such a life and such a man, Sir Omicron should be summoned — of course I knew expense was nothing — so distinguished, you know, and so popular. Nevertheless, all that human skill can do has been done.”
Just at this period Mrs. Grantly’s carriage drove into the close, and the archdeacon went down to confirm the news which she had heard before.
By the 9.15 P.M. train Sir Omicron Pie did arrive. And in the course of the night a sort of consciousness returned to the poor old dean. Whether this was due to Sir Omicron Pie is a question on which it may be well not to offer an opinion. Dr. Fillgrave was very clear in his own mind, but Sir Omicron himself is thought to have differed from that learned doctor. At any rate Sir Omicron expressed an opinion that the dean had yet some days to live.
For the eight or ten next days, accordingly, the poor dean remained in the same state, half-conscious and half-comatose, and the attendant clergy began to think that no new appointment would be necessary for some few months to come.
CHAPTER XXXII
A New Candidate for Ecclesiastical Honours
The dean’s illness occasioned much mental turmoil in other places besides the deanery and adjoining library, and the idea which occurred to the meagre little prebendary about Mr. Slope did not occur to him alone.
The bishop was sitting listlessly in his study when the news reached him of the dean’s illness. It was brought to him by Mr. Slope, who of course was not the last person in Barchester to hear it. It was also not slow in finding its way to Mrs. Proudie’s ears. It may be presumed that there was not just then much friendly intercourse between these two rival claimants for his lordship’s obedience. Indeed, though living in the same house, they had not met since the stormy interview between them in the bishop’s study on the preceding day.
On that occasion Mrs. Proudie had been defeated. That the prestige of continual victory should have been torn from her standards was a subject of great sorrow to that militant lady, but, though defeated, she was not overcome. She felt that she might yet recover her lost ground, that she might yet hurl Mr. Slope down to the dust from which she had picked him and force her sinning lord to sue for pardon in sackcloth and ashes.
On that memorable day, memorable for his mutiny and rebellion against her high behests, he had carried his way with a high hand and had really begun to think it possible that the days of his slavery were counted. He had begun to hope that he was now about to enter into a free land, a land delicious with milk which he himself might quaff and honey which would not tantalize him by being only honey to the eye. When Mrs. Proudie banged the door as she left his room, he felt himself every inch a bishop. To be sure, his spirit had been a little cowed by his chaplain’s subsequent lecture, but on the whole he was highly pleased with himself, and he flattered himself that the worst was over. Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute, he reflected, and now that the first step had been so magnanimously taken, all the rest would follow easily.
He met his wife as a matter of course at dinner, where little or nothing was said that could ruffle the bishop’s happiness. His daughters and the servants were present and protected him.
He made one or two trifling remarks on the subject of his projected visit to the archbishop, in order to show to all concerned that he intended to have his own way; the very servants, perceiving the change, transferred a little of their reverence from their mistress to their master. All which the master perceived, and so also did the mistress. But Mrs. Proudie bided her time.
After dinner he returned to his study, where Mr. Slope soon found him, and there they had tea together and planned many things. For some few minutes the bishop was really happy; but as the clock on the chimney-piece warned him that the stilly hours of night were drawing on, as he looked at his chamber candlestick and knew that he must use it, his heart sank within him again. He was as a ghost, all whose power of wandering free through these upper regions ceases at cock-crow; or, rather, he was the opposite of the ghost, for till cock — crow he must again be a serf. And would that be all? Could he trust himself to come down to breakfast a free man in the morning?
He was nearly an hour later than usual when he betook himself to his rest. Rest! What rest? However, he took a couple of glasses of sherry and mounted the stairs. Far be it from us to follow him