CHAPTER XI

       Mrs. Proudie’s Reception — Concluded

      Table of Contents

      “Bishop of Barchester, I presume?” said Bertie Stanhope, putting out his hand frankly; “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. We are in rather close quarters here, a’nt we?”

      In truth they were. They had been crowded up behind the head of the sofa — the bishop in waiting to receive his guest, and the other in carrying her — and they now had hardly room to move themselves.

      The bishop gave his hand quickly, made his little studied bow, and was delighted to make — He couldn’t go on, for he did not know whether his friend was a signor, or a count or a prince.

      “My sister really puts you all to great trouble,” said Bertie.

      “Not at all!” The bishop was delighted to have the opportunity of welcoming La Signora Vicinironi — so at least he said — and attempted to force his way round to the front of the sofa. He had, at any rate, learnt that his strange guests were brother and sister. The man, he presumed, must be Signor Vicinironi — or count, or prince, as it might be. It was wonderful what good English he spoke. There was just a twang of foreign accent, and no more.

      “Do you like Barchester, on the whole?” asked Bertie.

      The bishop, looking dignified, said that he did like Barchester.

      “You’ve not been here very long, I believe,” said Bertie.

      “No — not long,” said the bishop and tried again to make his way between the back of the sofa and heavy rector, who was staring over it at the grimaces of the signora.

      “You weren’t a bishop before, were you?”

      Dr. Proudie explained that this was the first diocese he had held.

      “Ah — I thought so,” said Bertie, “but you are changed about sometimes, a’nt you?”

      ‘Translations are occasionally made,” said Dr. Proudie, “but not so frequently as in former days.”

      “They’ve cut them all down to pretty nearly the same figure, haven’t they?” said Bertie.

      To this the bishop could not bring himself to make any answer, but again attempted to move the rector.

      “But the work, I suppose, is different?” continued Bertie. “Is there much to do here, at Barchester?” This was said exactly in the tone that a young Admiralty clerk might use in asking the same question of a brother acolyte at the Treasury.

      “The work of a bishop of the Church of England,” said Dr. Proudie with considerable dignity, “is not easy. The responsibility which he has to bear is very great indeed.”

      “Is it?” said Bertie, opening wide his wonderful blue eyes. “Well, I never was afraid of responsibility. I once had thoughts of being a bishop, myself.”

      “Had thoughts of being a bishop!” said Dr. Proudie, much amazed.

      That is, a parson — a parson first, you know, and a bishop afterwards. If I had once begun, I’d have stuck to it. But, on the whole, I like the Church of Rome the best.”

      The bishop could not discuss the point, so he remained silent.

      “Now, there’s my father,” continued Bertie; “he hasn’t stuck to it. I fancy he didn’t like saying the same thing over so often. By the by, Bishop, have you seen my father?”

      The bishop was more amazed than ever. Had he seen his father? “No,” he replied; he had not yet had the pleasure: he hoped he might; and, as he said so, he resolved to bear heavy on that fat, immovable rector, if ever he had the power of doing so.

      “He’s in the room somewhere,” said Bertie, “and he’ll turn up soon. By the by, do you know much about the Jews?”

      At last the bishop saw a way out. “I beg your pardon,” said he, “but I’m forced to go round the room.”

      “Well — I believe I’ll follow in your wake,” said Bertie. “Terribly hot — isn’t it?” This he addressed to the fat rector with whom he had brought himself into the closest contact. “They’ve got this sofa into the worst possible part of the room; suppose we move it. Take care, Madeline.”

      The sofa had certainly been so placed that those who were behind it found great difficulty in getting out; there was but a narrow gangway, which one person could stop. This was a bad arrangement, and one which Bertie thought it might be well to improve.

      “Take care, Madeline,” said he, and turning to the fat rector, added, “Just help me with a slight push.”

      The rector’s weight was resting on the sofa and unwittingly lent all its impetus to accelerate and increase the motion which Bertie intentionally originated. The sofa rushed from its moorings and ran half-way into the middle of the room. Mrs. Proudie was standing with Mr. Slope in front of the signora, and had been trying to be condescending and sociable; but she was not in the very best of tempers, for she found that, whenever she spoke to the lady, the lady replied by speaking to Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope was a favourite, no doubt, but Mrs. Proudie had no idea of being less thought of than the chaplain. She was beginning to be stately, stiff, and offended, when unfortunately the castor of the sofa caught itself in her lace train and carried away there is no saying how much of her garniture. Gathers were heard to go, stitches to crack, plaits to fly open, flounces were seen to fall, and breadths to expose themselves; a long ruin of rent lace disfigured the carpet and still clung to the vile wheel on which the sofa moved.

      So, when a granite battery is raised, excellent to the eyes of warfaring men, is its strength and symmetry admired. It is the work of years. Its neat embrasures, its finished parapets, its casemated stories show all the skill of modern science. But, anon, a small spark is applied to the treacherous fusee — a cloud of dust arises to the heavens — and then nothing is to be seen but dirt and dust and ugly fragments.

      We know what was the wrath of Juno when her beauty was despised. We know to what storms of passion even celestial minds can yield. As Juno may have looked at Paris on Mount Ida, so did Mrs. Proudie look on Ethelbert Stanhope when he pushed the leg of the sofa into her lace train.

      “Oh, you idiot, Bertie!” said the signora, seeing what had been done and what were to be the consequences.

      “Idiot!” re-echoed Mrs. Proudie, as though the word were not half strong enough to express the required meaning; “I’ll let him know —” and then looking round to learn, at a glance, the worst, she saw that at present it behoved her to collect the scattered débris of her dress.

      Bertie, when he saw what he had done, rushed over the sofa and threw himself on one knee before the offended lady. His object, doubtless, was to liberate the torn lace from the castor, but he looked as though he were imploring pardon from a goddess.

      “Unhand it, sir!” said Mrs. Proudie. From what scrap of dramatic poetry she had extracted the word cannot be said, but it must have rested on her memory and now seemed opportunely dignified for the occasion.

      “I’ll fly to the looms of the fairies to repair the damage,