The Complete Chronicles of Barsetshire: (The Warden + Barchester Towers + Doctor Thorne + Framley Parsonage + The Small House at Allington + The Last Chronicle of Barset). Anthony Trollope
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in the drawing-room; “do look at my roque-laure. It’s clean spoilt, and forever. I wouldn’t but wear it because I knew you wished us all to be grand today, and yet I had my misgivings. Oh dear, oh dear! It was five-and-twenty shillings a yard.”
The Barchester post-horses had misbehaved in some unfortunate manner just as Mrs. Clantantram was getting out of the chaise and had nearly thrown her under the wheel.
Mrs. Clantantram belonged to other days, and therefore, though she had but little else to recommend her, Miss Thorne was to a certain extent fond of her. She sent the roque-laure away to be cleaned and lent her one of her best shawls out of her own wardrobe.
The next comer was Mr. Arabin, who was immediately informed of Mrs. Clantantram’s misfortune and of her determination to pay neither master nor post-boy, although, as she remarked, she intended to get her lift home before she made known her mind upon that matter. Then a good deal of rustling was heard in the sort of lobby that was used for the ladies’ outside cloaks, and the door having been thrown wide open, the servant announced, not in the most confident of voices, Mrs. Lookaloft, and the Miss Lookalofts, and Mr. Augustus Lookaloft.
Poor man!— we mean the footman. He knew, none better, that Mrs. Lookaloft had no business there, that she was not wanted there, and would not be welcome. But he had not the courage to tell a stout lady with a low dress, short sleeves, and satin at eight shillings a yard that she had come to the wrong tent; he had not dared to hint to young ladies with white dancing shoes and long gloves that there was a place ready for them in the paddock. And thus Mrs. Lookaloft carried her point, broke through the guards, and made her way into the citadel. That she would have to pass an uncomfortable time there she had surmised before. But nothing now could rob her of the power of boasting that she had consorted on the lawn with the squire and Miss Thorne, with a countess, a bishop, and the county grandees, while Mrs. Greenacre and such-like were walking about with the ploughboys in the park. It was a great point gained by Mrs. Lookaloft, and it might be fairly expected that from this time forward the tradesmen of Barchester would, with undoubting pens, address her husband as T. Lookaloft, Esquire.
Mrs. Lookaloft’s pluck carried her through everything, and she walked triumphant into the Ullathorne drawing-room, but her children did feel a little abashed at the sort of reception they met with. It was not in Miss Thorne’s heart to insult her own guests, but neither was it in her disposition to overlook such effrontery.
“Oh, Mrs. Lookaloft, is this you?” said she. “And your daughters and son? Well, we’re very glad to see you, but I’m sorry you’ve come in such low dresses, as we are all going out of doors. Could we lend you anything?”
“Oh dear, no thank ye, Miss Thorne,” said the mother; “the girls and myself are quite used to low dresses, when we’re out.”
“Are you, indeed?” said Miss Thorne shuddering — but the shudder was lost on Mrs. Lookaloft.
“And where’s Lookaloft?” said the master of the house, coming up to welcome his tenant’s wife. Let the faults of the family be what they would, he could not but remember that their rent was well paid; he was therefore not willing to give them a cold shoulder.
“Such a headache, Mr. Thorne!” said Mrs. Lookaloft. “In fact he couldn’t stir, or you may be certain on such a day he would not have absented hisself.”
“Dear me,” said Miss Thorne. “If he is so ill, I’m sure you’d wish to be with him.”
“Not at all!” said Mrs. Lookaloft. “Not at all, Miss Thorne. It is only bilious you know, and when he’s that way, he can bear nobody nigh him.”
The fact, however, was that Mr. Lookaloft, having either more sense or less courage than his wife, had not chosen to intrude on Miss Thorne’s drawing-room, and as he could not very well have gone among the plebeians while his wife was with the patricians, he thought it most expedient to remain at Rosebank.
Mrs. Lookaloft soon found herself on a sofa, and the Miss Lookalofts on two chairs, while Mr. Augustus stood near the door; and here they remained till in due time they were seated, all four together, at the bottom of the dining-room table.
Then the Grantlys came — the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly and the two girls, and Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Harding. As ill-luck would have it, they were closely followed by Dr. Stanhope’s carriage. As Eleanor looked out of the carriage window, she saw her brother-inlaw helping the ladies out and threw herself back into her seat, dreading to be discovered. She had had an odious journey. Mr. Slope’s civility had been more than ordinarily greasy, and now, though he had not in fact said anything which she could notice, she had for the first time entertained a suspicion that he was intending to make love to her. Was it after all true that she had been conducting herself in a way that justified the world in thinking that she liked the man? After all, could it be possible that the archdeacon and Mr. Arabin were right, and that she was wrong? Charlotte Stanhope had also been watching Mr. Slope and had come to the conclusion that it behoved her brother to lose no further time, if he meant to gain the widow. She almost regretted that it had not been contrived that Bertie should be at Ullathorne before them.
Dr. Grantly did not see his sister-inlaw in company with Mr. Slope, but Mr. Arabin did. Mr. Arabin came out with Mr. Thorne to the front door to welcome Mrs. Grantly, and he remained in the courtyard till all their party had passed on. Eleanor hung back in the carriage as long as she well could, but she was nearest to the door, and when Mr. Slope, having alighted, offered her his hand, she had no alternative but to take it. Mr. Arabin, standing at the open door while Mrs. Grantly was shaking hands with someone within, saw a clergyman alight from the carriage whom he at once knew to be Mr. Slope, and then he saw this clergyman hand out Mrs. Bold. Having seen so much, Mr. Arabin, rather sick at heart, followed Mrs. Grantly into the house.
Eleanor was, however, spared any further immediate degradation, for Dr. Stanhope gave her his arm across the courtyard, and Mr. Slope was fain to throw away his attention upon Charlotte.
They had hardly passed into the house and from the house to the lawn when, with a loud rattle and such noise as great men and great women are entitled to make in their passage through the world, the Proudies drove up. It was soon apparent that no everyday comer was at the door. One servant whispered to another that it was the bishop, and the word soon ran through all the hangers-on and strange grooms and coachmen about the place. There was quite a little cortège to see the bishop and his “lady” walk across the courtyard, and the good man was pleased to see that the church was held in such respect in the parish of St. Ewold’s.
And now the guests came fast and thick, and the lawn began to be crowded, and the room to be full. Voices buzzed, silk rustled against silk, and muslin crumpled against muslin. Miss Thorne became more happy than she had been and again bethought her of her sports. There were targets and bows and arrows prepared at the further end of the lawn. Here the gardens of the place encroached with a somewhat wide sweep upon the paddock and gave ample room for the doings of the toxophilites. Miss Thorne got together such daughters of Diana as could bend a bow and marshalled them to the targets. There were the Grantly girls and the Proudie girls and the Chadwick girls, and the two daughters of the burly chancellor, and Miss Knowle; and with them went Frederick and Augustus Chadwick, and young Knowle of Knowle Park, and Frank Foster of the Elms, and Mr. Vellem Deeds, the dashing attorney of the High Street, and the Rev. Mr. Green, and the Rev. Mr. Brown, and the Rev. Mr. White, all of whom, as in duty bound, attended the steps of the three Miss Proudies.
“Did you ever ride at the quintain, Mr. Foster?” said Miss Thorne as she walked with her party across the lawn.
“The quintain?” said young Foster, who considered himself a dab at horsemanship. “Is it a sort of gate, Miss Thorne?”
Miss Thorne had to explain the noble game she spoke of, and Frank Foster had to own that he never had ridden at the quintain.
“Would you like to come and see?” said Miss Thorne. “There’ll be plenty here you know without you, if you like it.”
“Well, I don’t mind,” said Frank. “I suppose the ladies can come too.”
“Oh,