“I don’t know what your father means when he talks so much of what is due to Mr. Harding,” she said to her eldest 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 rapacity for promotion and of disregard to his honour, the inner world of his own household was falling foul of him, with equal vehemence, for his willingness to sacrifice their interests to a false feeling of sentimental 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 dreading 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 acting 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 prudent.”
“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 diabolical 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 extricate ourselves. Mrs. Proudie is a most excellent lady, kind-hearted, charitable, pious, and in every way estimable. But, my dear Mr. Quiverful, the patronage 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 sufficiently collected his thoughts.
“If you will allow me, I will tell you exactly how the matter rests. You certainly did receive a promise conditional 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 hampered, 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 vacancy. 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