Eleanor Bold, Mr. Harding’s daughter, was a widow in prosperous circumstances, and when Mr. Slope had made her acquaintance, and learnt of her income, he decided that he would woo her.  Mr. Harding at the hospital, and placed there by his means, would be more inclined to receive him as a son-in-law.  Mr. Slope wanted a wife, and he wanted money, but he wanted power more than either.  He had fully realised that sooner or later he must come to blows with Mrs. Proudie.  He had no desire to remain in Barchester as her chaplain; he had higher views of his own destiny.  Either he or Mrs. Proudie must go to the wall, and now had come the time when he would try which it should be.

To that end, he rode over to Puddingdale and persuaded Mr. Quiverful to give up all hope of the wardenship.  Mrs. Quiverful, however, with fourteen children, refused to yield without a struggle, and went off there and then to Mrs. Proudie at the palace.

She told her tale, and Mrs. Proudie walked quickly into her husband’s room, and found him seated at his office table, with Mr. Slope opposite to him.

“What is this, bishop, about Mr. Quiverful?” said she, coming to the end of the table and standing there.

“I have been out to Puddingdale this morning, ma’am,” replied Mr. Slope, “and have seen Mr. Quiverful; and he has abandoned all claim to the hospital.  Under these circumstances I have strongly advised his lordship to nominate Mr. Harding.”

“Who desired you to go to Mr. Quiverful?” said Mrs. Proudie, now at the top of her wrath—­for it was plain to her the chaplain was taking too much upon himself.  “Did anyone send you, sir?”

There was a dead pause in the room.  The bishop sat twiddling his thumbs.  How comfortable it would be, he thought, if they could fight it out between them; fight it out so that one should kill the other utterly, as far as diocesan life was concerned, so that he, the bishop, might know clearly by whom he ought to be led.  If he had a wish as to which might prove victor, that wish was not antagonistic to Mr. Slope.

“Will you answer me, sir?” Mrs. Proudie repeated.  “Who instructed you to call on Mr. Quiverful?”

“Mrs. Proudie,” said Mr. Slope, “I am quite aware how much I owe to your kindness.  But my duty in this matter is to his lordship.  He has approved of what I have done, and having that approval, and my own, I want none other.”

What horrid words were these which greeted the ear of Mrs. Proudie?  Here was premeditated mutiny in the camp.  The bishop had not yet been twelve months in the chair, and rebellion had already reared her hideous head in the palace.

“Mr. Slope,” said Mrs. Proudie, with slow and dignified voice, “I will trouble you, if you please, to leave the apartment.  I wish to speak to my lord alone.”

Mr. Slope felt that everything depended on the present interview.  Should the bishop now be repetticoated his thralldom would be complete and for ever.  Now was the moment for victory or rout.  It was now that Mr. Slope must make himself master of the diocese, or else resign his place and begin his search for fortune elsewhere.