The dinner was rather long and ponderous, and occasionally almost dull. The archdeacon talked a good deal, but a bystander with an acute ear might have understood from the tone of his voice that he was not talking as he would have talked among friends. Mrs. Proudie felt this, and understood it, and was angry. She could never find herself in the presence of the archdeacon without becoming angry. Her accurate ear would always appreciate the defiance of episcopal authority, as now existing in Barchester, which was concealed, or only half concealed, by all the archdeacon’s words. But the bishop was not so keen, nor so easily roused to wrath; and though the presence of his enemy did to a certain degree cow him, he strove to fight against the feeling with renewed good-humour.
“You have improved so upon the old days,” said the archdeacon, speaking of some small matter with reference to the cathedral, “that one hardly knows the old place.”
“I hope we have not fallen off,” said the bishop, with a smile.
“We have improved, Dr. Grantly,” said Mrs. Proudie, with great emphasis on her words. “What you say is true. We have improved.”
“Not a doubt about that,” said the archdeacon. Then Mrs. Grantly interposed, strove to change the subject, and threw oil upon the waters.
“Talking of improvements,” said Mrs. Grantly, “what an excellent row of houses they have built at the bottom of High Street. I wonder who is to live in them?”
“I remember when that was the very worst part of the town,” said Dr. Thorne.
“And now they’re asking seventy pounds apiece for houses which did not cost above six hundred each to build,” said Mr. Thorne of Ullathorne, with that seeming dislike of modern success which is evinced by most of the elders of the world.
“And who is to live in them?” asked Mrs. Grantly.
“Two of them have been already taken by clergymen,” said the bishop, in a tone of triumph.
“Yes,” said the archdeacon, “and the houses in the Close which used to be the residences of the prebendaries have been leased out to tallow-chandlers and retired brewers. That comes of the working of the Ecclesiastical Commission.”
“And why not?” demanded Mrs. Proudie.
“Why not, indeed, if you like to have tallow-chandlers next door to you?” said the archdeacon. “In the old days, we would sooner have had our brethren near to us.”
“There is nothing, Dr. Grantly, so objectionable in a cathedral town as a lot of idle clergymen,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“It is beginning to be a question to me,” said the archdeacon, “whether there is any use in clergymen at all for the present generation.”
“Dr. Grantly, those cannot be your real sentiments,” said Mrs. Proudie. Then Mrs. Grantly, working hard in her vocation as a peacemaker, changed the conversation again, and began to talk of the American war. But even that was made matter of discord on church matters—the archdeacon professing an opinion that the Southerners were Christian gentlemen, and the Northerners infidel snobs; whereas Mrs. Proudie had an idea that the Gospel was preached with genuine zeal in the Northern States. And at each such outbreak the poor bishop would laugh uneasily, and say a word or two to which no one paid much attention. And so the dinner went on, not always in the most pleasant manner for those who preferred continued social good-humour to the occasional excitement of a half-suppressed battle.
Not a word was said about Mr. Crawley. When Mrs. Proudie and the ladies had left the dining-room, the bishop strove to get up a little lay conversation. He spoke to Mr. Thorne about his game, and to Dr. Thorne about his timber, and even to Mr. Gresham about his hounds. “It is not so very many years, Mr. Gresham,” said he, “since the Bishop of Barchester was expected to keep hounds himself,” and the bishop laughed at his own joke.
“Your lordship shall have them back at the palace next season,” said young Frank Gresham, “if you will promise to do the county justice.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the bishop. “What do you say, Mr. Tozer?” Mr. Tozer was the chaplain on duty.
“I have not the least objection in the world, my lord,” said Mr. Tozer, “to act as second whip.”
“I’m afraid you’ll find them an expensive adjunct to the episcopate,” said the archdeacon. And then the joke was over; for there had been a rumour, now for some years prevalent in Barchester, that Bishop Proudie was not liberal in his expenditure. As Mr. Thorne said afterwards to his cousin the doctor, the archdeacon might have spared that sneer.
“The archdeacon will never spare the man who sits in his father’s seat,” said the doctor. “The pity of it is that men who are so thoroughly different in all their sympathies should ever be brought into contact.”
“Dear, dear,” said the archdeacon, as he stood afterwards on the rug before the drawing-room fire, “how many rubbers of whist I have seen played in this room.”
“I sincerely hope that you will never see another played here,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“I’m quite sure that I shall not,” said the archdeacon. For this last sally his wife scolded him bitterly on their way home.
“You know very well,” she said, “that the times are changed, and that if you were Bishop of Barchester yourself you would not have whist played in the palace.”
“I only know,” said he, “that when we had the whist we had some true religion along with it, and some good
