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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looked down at a most unexceptionable pair of pantaloons, which had arrived from London only the day before. They were the very things, at least he thought so, for a picnic or fête champêtre, but he was not prepared to ride in them. Nor was he more encouraged than had been Mr. Thorne by the idea of being attacked from behind by the bag of flour, which Miss Thorne had graphically described to him.
“Well, I don’t know about riding, Miss Thorne,” said he; “I fear I’m not quite prepared.”
Miss Thorne sighed but said nothing further. She left the toxophilites to their bows and arrows and returned towards the house. But as she passed by the entrance to the small park, she thought that she might at any rate encourage the yeomen by her presence, as she could not induce her more fashionable guests to mix with them in their manly amusements. Accordingly she once more betook herself to the quintain post.
Here to her great delight she found Harry Greenacre ready mounted, with his pole in his hand, and a lot of comrades standing round him, encouraging him to the assault. She stood at a little distance and nodded to him in token of her good pleasure.
“Shall I begin, ma’am?” said Harry, fingering his long staff in a rather awkward way, while his horse moved uneasily beneath him, not accustomed to a rider armed with such a weapon.
“Yes, yes,” said Miss Thorne, standing triumphant as the queen of beauty on an inverted tub which some chance had brought thither from the farmyard.
“Here goes then,” said Harry as he wheeled his horse round to get the necessary momentum of a sharp gallop. The quintain post stood right before him, and the square board at which he was to tilt was fairly in his way. If he hit that duly in the middle, and maintained his pace as he did so, it was calculated that he would he carried out of reach of the flour bag, which, suspended at the other end of the cross-bar on the post, would swing round when the board was struck. It was also calculated that if the rider did not maintain his pace, he would get a blow from the flour bag just at the back of his head, and bear about him the signs of his awkwardness to the great amusement of the lookers-on.
Harry Greenacre did not object to being powdered with flour in the service of his mistress and therefore gallantly touched his steed with his spur, having laid his lance in rest to the best of his ability. But his ability in this respect was not great, and his appurtenances probably not very good; consequently, he struck his horse with his pole unintentionally on the side of the head as he started. The animal swerved and shied and galloped off wide of the quintain. Harry, well-accustomed to manage a horse, but not to do so with a twelve-foot rod on his arm, lowered his right hand to the bridle, and thus the end of the lance came to the ground and got between the legs of the steed. Down came rider and steed and staff. Young Greenacre was thrown some six feet over the horse’s head, and poor Miss Thorne almost fell off her tub in a swoon.
“Oh, gracious, he’s killed,” shrieked a woman who was near him when he fell.
“The Lord be good to him! His poor mother, his poor mother!” said another.
“Well, drat them dangerous plays all the world over,” said an old crone.
“He has broke his neck sure enough, if ever man did,” said a fourth.
Poor Miss Thorne. She heard all this and yet did not quite swoon. She made her way through the crowd as best she could, sick herself almost to death. Oh, his mother — his poor mother! How could she ever forgive herself. The agony of that moment was terrific. She could hardly get to the place where the poor lad was lying, as three or four men in front were about the horse, which had risen with some difficulty, but at last she found herself close to the young farmer.
“Has he marked himself? For heaven’s sake tell me that: has he marked his knees?” said Harry, slowly rising and rubbing his left shoulder with his right hand and thinking only of his horse’s legs. Miss Thorne soon found that he had not broken his neck, nor any of his bones, nor been injured in any essential way. But from that time forth she never instigated anyone to ride at a quintain.
Eleanor left Dr. Stanhope as soon as she could do so civilly and went in quest of her father, whom she found on the lawn in company with Mr. Arabin. She was not sorry to find them together. She was anxious to disabuse at any rate her father’s mind as to this report which had got abroad respecting her, and would have been well pleased to have been able to do the same with regard to Mr. Arabin. She put her own through her father’s arm, coming up behind his back, and then tendered her hand also to the vicar of St. Ewold’s.
“And how did you come?” said Mr. Harding, when the first greeting was over.
“The Stanhopes brought me,” said she; “their carriage was obliged to come twice, and has now gone back for the signora.” As she spoke she caught Mr. Arabin’s eye and saw that he was looking pointedly at her with a severe expression. She understood at once the accusation contained in his glance. It said as plainly as an eye could speak, “Yes, you came with the Stanhopes, but you did so in order that you might be in company with Mr. Slope.”
“Our party,” said she, still addressing her father, “consisted of the doctor and Charlotte Stanhope, myself, and Mr. Slope.” As she mentioned the last name she felt her father’s arm quiver slightly beneath her touch. At the same moment Mr. Arabin turned away from them and, joining his hands behind his back, strolled slowly away by one of the paths.
“Papa,” said she, “it was impossible to help coming in the same carriage with Mr. Slope; it was quite impossible. I had promised to come with them before I dreamt of his coming, and afterwards I could not get out of it without explaining and giving rise to talk. You weren’t at home, you know. I couldn’t possibly help it.” She said all this so quickly that by the time her apology was spoken she was quite out of breath.
“I don’t know why you should have wished to help it, my dear,” said her father.
“Yes, Papa, you do. You must know, you do know all the things they said at Plumstead. I am sure you do. You know all the archdeacon said. How unjust he was; and Mr. Arabin too. He’s a horrid man, a horrid odious man, but —”
Who is an odious man, my dear? Mr. Arabin?”
“No; but Mr. Slope. You know I mean Mr. Slope. He’s the most odious man I ever met in my life, and it was most unfortunate my having to come here in the same carriage with him. But how could I help it?”
A great weight began to move itself off Mr. Harding’s mind. So, after all, the archdeacon with all his wisdom, and Mrs. Grantly with all her tact, and Mr. Arabin with all his talent, were in the wrong. His own child, his Eleanor, the daughter of whom he was so proud, was not to become the wife of a Mr. Slope. He had been about to give his sanction to the marriage, so certified had he been of the fact, and now he learnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor’s was at any rate as much disliked by her as by any one of the family. Mr. Harding, however, was by no means sufficiently a man of the world to conceal the blunder he had made. He could not pretend that he had entertained no suspicion; he could not make believe that he had never joined the archdeacon in his surmises. He was greatly surprised and gratified beyond measure, and he could not help showing that such was the case.
“My darling girl,” said he, “I am so delighted, so overjoyed. My own child; you have taken such a weight off my mind.”
“But surely, Papa, you didn’t think —”
“I didn’t know what to think, my dear. The archdeacon told me that —”
“The archdeacon!” said Eleanor, her face lighting up with passion. “A man like the archdeacon might, one would think, he better employed than in traducing his sister-inlaw and creating bitterness between a father and his daughter!”
“He didn’t mean to do that, Eleanor.”
“What did he mean then? Why did he interfere with me and fill your mind with such falsehood?”
“Never mind it now, my child; never mind it now. We shall all know you better now.”
“Oh, Papa, that you should have thought it! That you