There was no need for more than the tone of her voice to tell them that all was right. The Irish stew might burn itself to cinders now.
Then there was such kissing and hugging, such crying and laughing. Mr Quiverful could not sit still at all, but kept walking from room to room, then out into the garden, then down the avenue into the road, and then back again to his wife. She, however, lost no time so idly.
'We must go to work at once, girls; and that in earnest. Mrs
Proudie expects us to be in the hospital house on the 15th of
October.'
Had Mrs Proudie expressed a wish that they should all be there on the next morning, the girls would have had nothing to say against it.
'And when will the pay begin?' asked the eldest boy.
'To-day, my dear,' said the gratified mother.
'Oh,—that is jolly,' said the boy.
'Mrs Proudie insisted on our going down to the house,' continued the mother; 'and when there I thought I might save a journey by measuring some of the rooms and windows; so I got a knot of tape from Bobbins. Bobbins is as civil as you please, now.'
'I wouldn't thank him,' said Letty the younger.
'Oh, that's the way of the world, my dear. They all do just the same. You might just as well be angry with the turkey cock for gobbling at you. It's the bird's nature.' And as she enunciated to her bairns the upshot of her practical experience, she pulled from her pocket the portions of tape which showed the length and breadth of the various rooms at the hospital house.
And so we will leave her happy in her toils.
The Quiverfuls had hardly left the palace, and Mrs Proudie was still holding forth on the matter to her husband, when another visitor was announced in, the person of Dr Gwynne. The master of Lazarus had asked for the bishop, and not for Mrs Proudie, and therefore, when he was shown into the study, he was surprised rather than rejoiced to find the lady there.
But we must go back a little, and it shall be but a little, for a difficulty begins to make itself manifest in the necessity of disposing of all our friends in the small remainder of this one volume. Oh, that Mr Longman would allow me a fourth! It should transcend the other three as the seventh heaven transcends all the lower stages of celestial bliss.
Going home in the carriage that evening from Ullathorne, Dr Gwynne had not without difficulty brought round his friend the archdeacon to a line of tactics much less bellicose than that which his own taste would have preferred. 'It will be unseemly in us to show ourselves in a bad humour; and moreover we have no power in this matter, and it will therefore be bad policy to act as though we had.' 'Twas thus the master of Lazarus argued. 'If,' he continued, 'the bishop is determined to appoint another to the hospital, threats will not prevent him, and threats should not be lightly used by an archdeacon to his bishop. If he will place a stranger in the hospital, we can only leave him to the indignation of others. It is probable that such a step may not eventually injure your father-in-law. I will see the bishop, if you will allow me,—alone.' At this the archdeacon winced visibly; 'yes, alone; for so I shall be calmer: and then I shall at any rate learn what he does mean to do in the matter.
The archdeacon puffed and blew, put up the carriage window and then put it down again, argued the matter up to his own gate, and at last gave way. Everybody was against him; his own wife, Mr Harding, and Dr Gwynne.
'Pray keep him out of hot water, Dr Gwynne,' Mrs Grantly had said to her guest. 'My dearest madam, I'll do my best,' the courteous master had replied. 'Twas thus he did it; and earned for himself the gratitude of Mrs Grantly.
And now we may return to the bishop's study.
Dr Gwynne had certainly not foreseen the difficulty which here presented itself. He,—together with all the clerical world of England,—had heard it rumoured about that Mrs Proudie did not confine herself to her wardrobes, still-rooms, and laundries; but yet it had never occurred to him that if he called on a bishop at one o'clock in the day, he could by any possibility find himself closeted with his wife; or that if he did so, the wife would remain longer than necessary to make her curtsey. It appeared, however, as though in the present case Mrs Proudie had no idea of retreating.
The bishop had been very much pleased with Dr Gwynne on the preceding day, and of course thought that Dr Gwynne had been very much pleased with him. He attributed the visit solely to compliment, and thought it was an extremely gracious and proper thing for the master of Lazarus to drive over from Plumstead specially to call at the palace so soon after his arrival in the country. The fact that they were not on the same side either in politics or doctrines made the compliment the greater. The bishop, therefore, was all smiles. And Mrs Proudie, who liked people with good handles to their names, was also very well disposed to welcome the master of Lazarus.
'We had a charming party at Ullathorne, Master, had we not?' said she. 'I hope Mrs Grantly got home without fatigue.'
Dr Gwynne said that they had all been a little tired, but were none the worse this morning.
'An excellent person, Miss Thorne,' suggested the bishop.
'An exemplary Christian, I am told,' said Mrs Proudie.
Dr Gwynne declared that he was very glad to hear it.
'I have not seen her Sabbath-day schools yet,' continued the lady, 'but I shall make a point of doing so before long.'
Dr Gwynne merely bowed at this intimation. He had something of Mrs
Proudie and her Sunday schools, both from Dr Grantly and Mr
Harding.
'By the bye, Master,' continued the lady, 'I wonder whether Mrs Grantly would like me to drive over and inspect her Sabbath-day school. I hear that it is most excellently kept.'
Dr Gwynne really could not say. He had no doubt Mrs Grantly would be most happy to see Mrs Proudie any day Mrs Proudie would do her the honour of calling: that was, of course, if Mrs Grantly should happen to be at home.
A slight cloud darkened the lady's brow. She saw that her offer was not taken in good part. This generation of unregenerated vipers was still perverse, stiffnecked, and hardened in their antiquity. 'The archdeacon, I know,' said she, 'sets his face against these institutions.'
At this Dr Gwynne laughed slightly. It was but a smile. Had he given his cap for it he could not have helped it.
Mrs Proudie frowned again. '"Suffer little children, and forbid them not,"' said she. 'Are we not to remember that, Dr Gwynne? "Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones." Are we not to remember that, Dr Gwynne?' And at each of these questions she raised at him a menacing forefinger.
'Certainly, madam, certainly,' said the master, 'and so does the archdeacon, I am sure, on week days as well as on Sundays.'
'On week days you can't take heed not to despise them,' said Mrs Proudie, 'because they are out in the fields. On week days they belong to their parents, but on Sundays they ought to belong to the clergyman.' And the finger was again raised.
The master began to understand and to share the intense disgust which the archdeacon always expressed when Mrs Proudie's name was mentioned. What was he to do with such a woman as this? To take his hat and go would have been his natural resource; but then he did not wish to be foiled in his subject.
'My lord,' said he, 'I wanted to ask you a question on business, if you would spare me one moment's leisure. I know I must apologise for so disturbing you; but in truth, I will not detain you five minutes.'
'Certainly, Master, certainly,' said the bishop; 'my time is quite yours—pray make no apology, pray make no apology.'
'You have a great deal to do just at the present moment, bishop. Do not forget how extremely busy you are at present,' said Mrs Proudie, whose spirit was now up; for she was angry with her visitor.
'I will not delay his lordship much above a minute,' said the master of Lazarus, rising from his chair, and expecting that Mrs Proudie would now go, or else that the bishop would lead the way into another room.
But neither event seemed likely to occur, and Dr Gwynne stood for a moment silent in the middle of the room.
'Perhaps it's about Hiram's Hospital,' suggested Mrs Proudie.
Dr Gwynne, lost in astonishment, and not knowing what else on earth to do, confessed that his business with the bishop was connected with Hiram's Hospital.
'His lordship has finally conferred the appointment on Mr Quiverful this morning,' said the lady.
Dr Gwynne made a simple reference to the bishop, and finding that the lady's statement was formally confirmed, he took his leave. 'That comes of the reform bill,' he said to himself as he walked down the bishop's avenue. 'Well, at any rate the Greek play bishops were not so bad as that.'
It has been said that Mr Slope, as he started for Ullathorne, received a despatch from his friend Mr Towers, which had the effect of putting him in that high good-humour which subsequent events somewhat untowardly damped. It ran as follows. Its shortness will be its sufficient apology:
My dear Sir,—I wish you every success. I don't know that I can help you, but if I can I will. 'Yours ever' T.T. '30/9/185-'
There was more in this than in all Sir Nicholas Fitzwiggin's flummery; more than in all the bishop's promises, even had they been ever so sincere; more than in any archbishop's good work, even had it been possible to obtain it. Tom Towers would do for him what he could.
Mr Slope had from his youth upwards been a firm believer in the public press. He had dabbled in it himself ever since he had taken his degree, and regarded it as the great arranger and distributor of all future British terrestrial affairs whatever. He had not yet arrived at the age, an age which sooner or later comes to most of us, which dissipates the golden dreams of youth. He delighted in the idea of wresting power from the hands of his country's magnates, and placing it in a custody which was at any rate nearer to his own reach. Sixty thousand broad sheets dispersing themselves daily among his reading fellow-citizens, formed in his eyes a better depot for supremacy than a throne at Windsor, a cabinet in Downing Street, or even an assembly at Westminster. And on this subject we must not quarrel with Mr Slope, for the feeling is too general to be met with disrespect.
Tom Towers was as good, if not better than his promise. On the following morning the Jupiter, spouting forth public opinion with sixty thousand loud clarions, did proclaim to the world that Mr Slope was the fittest man for the vacant post. It was pleasant for Mr Slope to read the following line in the Barchester news-room, which he did within thirty minutes after the morning train from London had reached the city.
"It is just now five years since we called the attention of our readers to the quiet city of Barchester. From that day to this, we have in no way meddled with the affairs of that happy ecclesiastical community. Since then, an old bishop has died there, and a young bishop has been installed; but we believe we did not do more than give some customary record of the interesting event. Nor are we about to meddle very deeply in the affairs of the diocese. If any of the chapter feel a qualm of conscience on reading this, let it be quieted. Above all, let the mind of the new bishop be at rest. We are now not armed for war, but approach the revered towers of the old cathedral with an olive-branch in our hands.
'It will be remembered that at the time alluded to, now five years past, we had occasion to remark on the state of a charity at Barchester called Hiram's Hospital. We thought that it was maladministered, and that the very estimable and reverend gentleman who held the office of warden was somewhat too highly paid for duties which were somewhat too easily performed. This gentleman—and we say it in all sincerity and with no touch of sarcasm—had never looked on the matter in this light before. We do not wish to take praise to ourselves whether praise is due or not. But the consequence of our remark was, that the warden did look into the matter, and finding on doing so that he himself could come to no other opinion than that expressed by us, he very creditably threw up the appointment. The then bishop then as creditably declined to fill the vacancy till the affair was put on a better footing. Parliament then took it up; and we have now the satisfaction of informing our readers that Hiram's Hospital will be immediately re-opened under new auspices. Heretofore, provision was made for the maintenance of twelve old men. This will now be extended to the fair sex, and twelve elderly women if any such can be found in Barchester, will be added to the establishment. There will be a matron; there will, it is hoped, be schools attached for the poorest of the children of the poor, and there will be a steward. The warden, for there will still be a warden, will receive an income more in keeping with the extent of the charity than that heretofore paid. The stipend we believe will be L 450. We may add that the excellent house which the former warden inhabited will still be attached to the situation.
'Barchester hospital cannot perhaps boast a world-wide reputation; but as we advertised to its state of decadence, we think it right also to advert to its renaissance. May it go up and prosper. Whether the salutary reform which has been introduced within its walls has been carried as far as could have been desired, may be doubtful. The important question of the school appears to be somewhat left to the discretion of the new warden. This might have been made the most important part of the establishment, and the new warden, whom we trust we shall not offend by the freedom of our remarks, might have been selected with some view to his fitness as schoolmaster. But we will not now look a gift horse in the mouth. May the hospital go on and prosper! The situation of warden has of course been offered to the gentleman who so honourable vacated it five years since; but we are given to understand that he has declined it. Whether the ladies who have been introduced, be in his estimation too much for his powers of control, whether it be that the diminished income does not offer to him sufficient temptation to resume the old place, or that he has in the meantime assumed other clerical duties, we do not know. We are, however, informed that he has refused the offer, and that the situation has been accepted by Mr Quiverful, the vicar of Puddingdale.
'So much we think is due to Hiram redivivus. But while we are on the subject of Barchester, we will venture with all respectful humility to express our opinion on another matter, connected with the ecclesiastical polity of that ancient city. Dr Trefoil, the dean, died yesterday. A short record of his death, giving his age, and the various pieces of preferment which he has at different times held, will be found in another column in this paper. The only fault we knew in him was his age, and as that is a crime of which we may all hope to be guilty, we will not bear heavily on it. May he rest in peace! But though the great age of an expiring dean cannot be made matter of reproach, we are not inclined to look on such a fault as at all pardonable in a dean just brought to the birth. We do hope the days of sexagenarian appointments are past. If we want deans, we must want them for some purpose. That purpose will necessarily be better fulfilled by a man of forty than by a man of sixty. If we are to pay deans at all, we are to pay them for some sort of work. That work, be it what it may, will be best performed by a workman in the prime of life. Dr Trefoil, we see, was eighty when he died. As we have as yet completed no plan for positioning superannuated clergymen, we do not wish to get rid of any existing deans of that age. But we prefer having as few such as possible. If a man of seventy be now appointed, we beg to point out to Lord—that he will be past all use in a year or two, if indeed he is not so at the present moment. His lordship will allow us to remind him that all men are not evergreens like himself.
'We hear that Mr Slope's name has been mentioned for this preferment. Mr Slope is at present chaplain to the bishop. A better man could hardly be selected. He is a man of talent, young, active, and conversant with the affairs of the cathedral; he is moreover, we conscientiously believe, a truly pious clergyman. We know that his services in the city of Barchester have been highly appreciated. He is an eloquent preacher and a ripe scholar. Such a selection as this would go far to raise the confidence of the public in the present administration of church patronage, and would teach men to believe that from henceforth the establishment of our church will not afford easy couches to worn-out clerical voluptuaries.'
Standing at a reading-desk in the Barchester news-room, Mr Slope digested this article with considerable satisfaction. What was therein said as the hospital was now comparatively matter of indifference to him. He was certainly glad that he had not succeeded in restoring to the place the father of that virago who had so audaciously outraged all decency in his person; and was so far satisfied. But Mrs Proudie's nominee was appointed, and he was so far dissatisfied. His mind, however, was now soaring above Mrs Bold or Mrs Proudie.
He was sufficiently conversant with the tactics of the Jupiter to know that the pith of the article would lie in the last paragraph. The place of honour was given to him, and it was indeed as honourable as even he could have wished. He was very grateful to his friend Mr Towers, and with full heart looked forward to the day when he might entertain him in princely style at his own full-spread board in the deanery dining-room.
It had been well for Mr Slope that Dr Trefoil had died in the autumn. Those caterers for our morning repast, the staff of the Jupiter, had been sorely put to it for the last month to find a sufficiency of proper pabulum. Just then there was no talk of a new American president. No wonderful tragedies had occurred on railway trains in Georgia, or elsewhere. There was a dearth of broken banks, and a dead dean with the necessity for a live one was a godsend. Had Dr Trefoil died in June, Mr Towers would probably not have known so much about the piety of Mr Slope.
And here we will leave Mr Slope for a while in his triumph; explaining, however, that his feelings were not altogether of a triumphant nature. His rejection by the widow, or rather the method of his rejection, galled him terribly. For days to come he positively felt the sting upon his cheek, whenever he thought of what had been done to him. He could not refrain from calling her by harsh names, speaking to himself as he walked through the streets of Barchester. When he said his prayers, he could not bring himself to forgive her. When he strove to do so, his mind recoiled from the attempt, and in lieu of forgiving, ran off in a double spirit of vindictiveness, dwelling on the extent of the injury he had received. And so his prayers dropped senseless from his lips.
And then the signora; what would he not have given to be able to hate her also? As it was, he worshipped the very sofa on which she was ever lying. And thus it was not all rose colour with Mr Slope, although his hopes ran high.
CHAPTER XLIV
MRS BOLD AT HOME
Poor Mrs Bold, when she got home from Ullathorne on the evening of
Miss Thorne's party, was very unhappy, and moreover very tired.
Nothing fatigues the body so much as weariness of spirit, and
Eleanor's spirit was indeed weary.
Dr Stanhope had civilly but not very cordially asked her in to tea, and her manner of refusal convinced the worthy doctor that he need not repeat the invitation. He had not exactly made himself a party to the intrigue which was to convert the late Mr Bold's patrimony into an income for his hopeful son, but he had been well aware what was going on. And he was thus well aware also, when he perceived that Bertie declined accompanying them home in the carriage, that the affair had gone off.
Eleanor was very much afraid that Charlotte would have darted out upon her, as the prebendary got out at his own door, but Bertie thoughtfully saved her from this, by causing the carriage to go round by her house. This also Dr Stanhope understood, and allowed to pass by without remark.
When she got home, she found Mary Bold in the drawing-room with the child in her lap. She rushed forward, and, throwing herself on her knees, kissed the little fellow till she almost frightened him.
'Oh, Mary, I am so glad you did not go. It was an odious party.'
Now the question of Mary's going had been one greatly mooted between them. Mrs Bold, when invited, had been the guest of the Grantlys, and Miss Thorne, who had chiefly known Eleanor at the hospital or at Plumstead rectory, had forgotten all about Mary Bold. Her sister-in-law had implored her to go under her wing, and had offered to write to Miss Thorne, or to call on her. But Miss Bold had declined. In fact, Mr Bold had not been very popular with such people as the Thornes, and his sister would not go among them unless she were specially asked to do so.
'Well then,' said Mary cheerfully, 'I have the less to regret.'
'You have nothing to regret; but oh! Mary, I have—so much—so much;'—and then she began kissing her boy, whom her caresses had aroused from his slumbers. When she raised her head, Mary saw that the tears were running down her cheeks.
'Good heavens, Eleanor, what is the matter? What has happened to you?—Eleanor, dearest Eleanor—what is the matter?' and Mary got up with the boy still in her arms.
'Give him to me—give him to me,' said the young mother. 'Give him to me, Mary,'and she almost tore the child out of her sister's arms. The poor little fellow murmured somewhat at the disturbance, but nevertheless nestled himself close into his mother's bosom.
'Here, Mary, take the cloak from me. My own, own darling, darling, darling jewel. You are not false to me. Everybody else is false; everybody else is cruel. Mamma will care for nobody, nobody, nobody, but her own, own, own, little man;' and she again kissed and pressed the baby, and cried till the tears ran down over the child's face.
'Who has been cruel to you, Eleanor?' said Mary. 'I hope I have not.'
Now, in this matter, Eleanor had great cause for uneasiness.
She could not certainly accuse her loving sister-in-law of cruelty; but she had to do that which was more galling; she had to accuse herself of an imprudence against which her sister-in-law had warned her. Miss Bold had never encouraged Eleanor's acquaintance with Mr Slope, and she had positively discouraged the friendship of the Stanhopes as far as her usual gentle mode of speaking had permitted. Eleanor had only laughed at her, however, when she said that she disapproved of married women who lived apart from their husbands, and suggested that Charlotte Stanhope never went to church. Now, however, Eleanor must either hold her tongue, which was quite impossible, or confess herself to have been utterly wrong, which was nearly equally so. So she staved off the evil day by more tears, and consoled herself by inducing little Johnny to rouse himself sufficiently to return her caresses.
'He is a darling—as true as gold. What would mamma do without him? Mamma would lie down and die if she had not her own Johnny Bold to give her comfort.' This and much more she said of the same kind, and for a time made no other answer to Mary's inquiries.
This kind of consolation from the world's deceit is very common.
Mothers obtain it from their children, and men from their dogs. Some men even do so from their walking-sticks, which is just as rational. How is it that we can take joy to ourselves in that we are not deceived by those who have not attained the art to deceive us? In a true man, if such can be found, or a true woman, much consolation may indeed be taken.
In the caresses of her child, however, Eleanor did receive consolation; and may ill befall the man who would begrudge it to her. The evil day, however, was only postponed. She had to tell her disagreeable tale to Mary, and she had also to tell it to her father. Must it not, indeed, be told to the whole circle of her acquaintance before she could be made to stand all right with them? At the present moment there was no one to whom she could turn for comfort. She hated Mr Slope; that was a matter of course, in that feeling she revelled. She hated and despised the Stanhopes; but that feeling distressed her greatly. She had, as it were, separated herself from her old friends to throw herself into the arms of this family; and then how had they intended to use her? She could hardly reconcile herself to her own father, who had believed ill of her. Mary Bold had turned Mentor. That she could have forgiven had the Mentor turned out to be in the wrong; but Mentors in the right are not to be pardoned. She could not but hate the archdeacon; and now she hated him even worse than ever, for she must in some sort humble herself before him. She hated her sister, for she was part and parcel of the archdeacon. And she would have hated Mr Arabin if she could. He had pretended to regard her, and yet before her face he had hung over that Italian woman as though there had been no beauty in the world but hers—no other woman worth a moment's attention. And Mr Arabin would have to learn all this about Mr Slope! She told herself she hated him, and she knew that she was lying to herself as she did so. She had no consolation but her baby, and of that she made the most. Mary, though she could not surmise what it was that had so violently affected her sister-in-law, saw at once her grief was too great to be kept under control, and waited patiently till the child should be in his cradle.
'You'll have some tea, Eleanor,' she said.
'Oh, I don't care,' said she; though in fact she must have been very hungry, for she had eaten nothing at Ullathorne.
Mary quietly made the tea, and buttered the bread, laid aside the cloak, and made things look comfortable.
'He's fast asleep,' said she, 'you're very tired; let me take him up to bed.'
But Eleanor would not let her sister touch him. She looked wistfully at her baby's eyes, saw that they were lost in the deepest slumber, and then made a sort of couch for him on the sofa. She was determined that nothing should prevail upon her to let him out of her sight that night.
'Come, Nelly,' said Mary, 'don't be cross with me. I at least have done nothing to offend you.'
'I an't cross,' said Eleanor.
'Are you angry then? Surely you can't be angry with me.'
'No, I an't angry; at least not with you.'
'If you are not, drink the tea I have made for you. I am sure you must want it.'
Eleanor did drink it, and allowed herself to be persuaded. She ate and drank, and as the inner woman was recruited she felt a little more charitable towards the world at large. At last she found words to begin her story, and before she went to bed, she had made a clean breast of it and told everything—everything, that is, as to the lovers she had rejected: of Mr Arabin she said not a word.
'I know I was wrong,' said she, speaking of the blow she had given to Mr Slope; 'but I didn't know what he might do, and I had to protect myself.'
'He richly deserved it,' said Mary.
'Deserved it!' said Eleanor, whose mind as regarded Mr Slope was almost bloodthirsty. 'Had I stabbed him with a dagger, he would have deserved it. But what will they say about it at Plumstead?'
'I don't think I should tell them,' said Mary. Eleanor began to think that she would not.
There could have been no kinder comforter than Mary Bold. There was not the slightest dash of triumph about her when she heard of the Stanhope scheme, nor did she allude to her former opinion when Eleanor called her late friend Charlotte a base, designing woman. She re-echoed all the abuse that was heaped on Mr Slope's head, and never hinted that she had said as much before. 'I told you so! I told you so!' is the croak of a true Job's comforter. But Mary, when she found her friend lying in her sorrow and scraping herself with potsherds, forbore to argue and to exult. Eleanor acknowledged the merit of the forbearance, and at length allowed herself to be tranquillised.
On the next day she did not go out of the house. Barchester she thought would be crowded with Stanhopes and Slopes; perhaps also with Arabins and Grantlys. Indeed there was hardly any one among her friends whom she could have met, without some cause of uneasiness.
In the course of the afternoon she heard that the dean was dead; and she also heard that Mr Quiverful had been finally appointed to the hospital.
In the evening her father came to her, and then the story, or as much of it as she could bring herself to tell him, had to be repeated. He was not in truth much surprised at Mr Slope's effrontery; but he was obliged to act as though he had been, to save his daughter's feelings. He was, however, anything but skilful in his deceit, and she saw through it.
'I see,' said she, 'that you think it only the common course of things that Mr Slope should have treated me in this way.'
She had said nothing to him about the embrace, nor yet of the way in which it had been met.
'I do not think it at all strange,' said he, 'that any one should admire my Eleanor.'
'It is strange to me,' said she, 'that any man should have so much audacity, without ever having received the slightest encouragement.'
To this Mr Harding answered nothing. With the archdeacon it would have been the text for a rejoinder, which would not have disgraced Bildad the Shuhite.
'But you'll tell the archdeacon,' asked Mr Harding.
'Tell him what?' said she sharply.
'Or Susan?' continued Mr Harding. 'You'll tell Susan; you'll let them know that they wronged you in supposing that this man's addresses would be agreeable to you.'
'They may find out their own way,' said she; 'I shall not ever willingly mention Mr Slope's name to either of them.'
'But I may.'
'I have no right to hinder you from doing anything that may be necessary to your own comfort, but pray do not do it for my sake. Dr Grantly never thought well of me, and never will. I don't know now that I an even anxious that he should do so.'
And then they went to the affair of the hospital. 'But is it true, papa?'
'What, my dear,' said he. 'About the dean? Yes, I fear quite true.
Indeed, I know there is no doubt about it.'
'Poor Miss Trefoil. I am so sorry for her. But I did not mean that,' said Eleanor. 'But about the hospital, papa?
'Yes, my dear. I believe it is true that Mr Quiverful is to have it.'
'Oh, what a shame!'
'No, my dear, not at all, not at all a shame: I am sure I hope it will suit him.'
'But, papa, you know it is a shame. After all your hopes, all your expectations to get back your old house, to see it given away in this way to a perfect stranger!'
'My dear, the bishop had a right to give it to whom he pleased.'
'I deny that, papa. He had no such right. It is not as though you were a candidate for a new piece of preferment. If the bishop has a grain of justice—'
'The bishop offered it to me on his terms, and as I did not like the terms, I refused it. After that, I cannot complain.'
'Terms! He had not right to make terms.'
'I don't know about that; but it seems he had the power. But to tell you the truth, Nelly, I am as well satisfied as it is. When the affair became the subject of angry discussion, I thoroughly wished to be rid of it altogether.'
'But you did want to go back to the old house, papa. You told me so yourself.'
'Yes, my child, I did. For a short time I did wish it. And I was foolish in doing so. I am getting old now; and my chief worldly wish is for peace and rest. Had I gone back to the hospital, I should have had the endless contentions with the bishop, contentions with his chaplain, and contentions with the archdeacon. I am not up to this now, I am not able to meet such troubles; and therefore I am not ill-pleased to find myself left to the little church of St Cuthbert's. I shall never starve,' added he, laughing 'as long as you are here.'
'But if you will come and live with me, papa?' she said earnestly, taking him by both his hands. 'If you will do that, if you will promise that, I will own that you are right.'
'I will dine with you to-day, at any rate.'
'No, but live here altogether. Give up that close, odious little room in High Street.'
'My dear, it's a very nice little room; and you are really quite uncivil.'
'Oh, papa, don't joke. It's not a nice place for you. You say you are growing old, though I am sure you are not.'
'Am I not, my dear?'
'No, papa, not old—not to say old. But you are quite old enough to feel the want of a decent room to sit in. You know how lonely Mary and I are here. You know nobody ever sleeps in the big front bed-room. It is really unkind of you to remain there alone, when you are so much wanted here.'
'Thank you, Nelly—thank you. But, my dear—'
'If you had been living here, papa, with us, as I really think you ought to have done, considering how lonely we are, there would have been none of all this dreadful affair about Mr Slope.'
Mr Harding, however, did not allow himself to be talked over into giving up his own and only little pied a terre in the High Street. He promised to come and dine with his daughter, and stay with her, and visit her, and do everything but absolutely live with her. It did not suit the peculiar feelings of the man to tell his daughter that though she had rejected Mr Slope, and been ready to reject Mr Stanhope, some other more favoured suitor would probably soon appear; and that on the appearance of such a suitor the big front bed-room might perhaps be more frequently in requisition than at present. But doubtless such an idea crossed his mind, and added its weight to the other reasons which made him decide on still keeping the close, odious little room in High Street.
The evening passed over quietly and in comfort. Eleanor was always happier with her father than with any one else. He had not, perhaps, any natural taste for baby-worship, but he was always ready to sacrifice himself, and therefore made an excellent third in a trio with his daughter and Mary Bold in singing the praises of the wonderful child.
They were standing together over their music in the evening, the baby having again been put to bed upon the sofa, when the servant brought in a very small note in a beautiful pink envelope. It quite filled the room with perfume as it lay upon the small salver. Mary Bold and Mrs Bold were both at the piano, and Mr Harding was sitting close to them, with the violoncello between his legs; so that the elegance of the epistle was visible to them all.
'Please, ma'am, Dr Stanhope's coachman says he is to wait for an answer,' said the servant.
Eleanor got very red in the face as she took the note in her hand. She had never seen the writing before. Charlotte's epistles, to which she was well accustomed, were of a very different style and kind. She generally wrote on large note-paper; she twisted up her letter into the shape and sometimes into the size of cocked hats; she addressed them in a sprawling manly hand, and not unusually added a blot or a smudge, as though such were her own peculiar sign-manual. The address of this note was written in a beautiful female hand, and the gummed wafer bore on it an impress of a gilt coronet. Though Eleanor had never seen such a one before, she guessed that it came from the signora. Such epistles were very numerously sent out from any house in which the signora might happen to be dwelling, but they were rarely addressed to ladies. When the coachman was told by the lady's maid to take the letter to Mrs Bold, he openly expressed his opinion that there was some mistake about it. Whereupon the lady's maid boxed the coachman's ears. Had Mr Slope seen in how meek a spirit the coachman took the rebuke, he might have learnt a useful lesson, both in philosophy and religion.
The note was as follows. It may be taken as a faithful promise that no further letter whatever shall be transcribed at length in these pages.
'My dear Mrs Bold—May I ask you, as a great favour, to call on me to-morrow? You can say what hour will best suit you; but quite early, if you can. I need hardly say that if I could call upon you I should not take this liberty with you.
'I partly know what occurred the other day, and I promise you that you shall meet with no annoyance if you will come to me. My brother leaves us for London to-day; from thence he goes to Italy.
'It will probably occur to you that I should not thus intrude on you, unless I had that to say to you which may be of considerable moment. Pray therefore excuse me, even if you do not grant my request, and believe me, 'Very sincerely yours, M.VESEY NERONI
The three of them sat in consultation on this epistle for some ten or fifteen minutes, and then decided that Eleanor should write a line saying that she would see the signora the next morning, at twelve o'clock.
CHAPTER XLV
THE STANHOPES AT HOME
We must now return to the Stanhopes, and see how they behaved themselves on their return from Ullathorne.
Charlotte, who came back in the first homeward journey with her sister, waited in palpitating expectation till the carriage drove up to the door a second time. She did not run down or stand at the window, or show in any outward manner that she looked for anything wonderful to occur; but, when she heard the carriage-wheels, she stood up with erect ears, listening for Eleanor's footfall on the pavement or the cheery sound of Bertie's voice welcoming her in. Had she heard either, she would have felt that all was right; but neither sound was there for her to hear. She heard only her father's slow step, as he ponderously let himself down from the carriage, and slowly walked along the hall, till he got into his own private room on the ground floor. 'Send Miss Stanhope to me,' he said to the servant.
'There's something wrong now,' said Madeline, who was lying on her sofa in the back drawing-room.
'It's all up with Bertie,' replied Charlotte. 'I know, I know,' she said to the servant, as he brought up the message. 'Tell my father I will be with him immediately.'
'Bertie's wooing gone astray,' said Madeline. 'I knew it would.'
'It has been his own fault then. She was ready enough. I am quite sure,' said Charlotte, with that sort of ill-nature which is not uncommon when one woman speaks of another.
'What will you say to him now?' By 'him' the signora meant their father.
'That will be as I find him. He was ready to pay two hundred pounds for Bertie, to stave off the worst of his creditors, if this marriage had gone on. Bertie must now have the money instead, and go and take his chances.'
'Where is he now?'
'Heaven knows! Smoking at the bottom of Mr Thorne's ha-ha, or philandering with some of those Miss Chadwicks. Nothing will ever make an impression on him. But he'll be furious if I don't go down.'
'No; nothing ever will. But don't be long, Charlotte, for I want my tea.'
And so Charlotte went down to her father. There was a very black cloud on the old man's brow; blacker than his daughter could ever remember to have seen there. He was sitting in his own arm-chair, not comfortably over the fire, but in the middle of the room, waiting till she should come and listen to him.
'What has become of your brother?' he said, as soon as the door was shut.
'I should rather ask you,' said Charlotte. 'I left you both at
Ullathorne, when I came away. What have you done with Mrs Bold?'
'Mrs Bold! nonsense. The woman has gone home as she ought to do. And heartily glad I am that she should not be sacrificed to so heartless a reprobate.'
'Oh, papa!'
'A heartless reprobate! Tell me now where he is, and what he is going to do. I have allowed myself to be fooled between you. Marriage indeed! Who on earth that has money, or credit, or respect in the world to lose, would marry him?'
'It is no use your scolding me, papa. I have done the best I could for him and you.'
'And Madeline is nearly as bad,' said the prebendary, who was in truth, very, very angry.
'Oh, I suppose we are all bad,' replied Charlotte.
The old man emitted a huge leonine sigh. If they were all bad, who had made them so? If they were unprincipled, selfish, and disreputable, who was to be blamed for the education which had had so injurious an effect.
'I know you'll ruin me among you,' said he.
'Why, papa, what nonsense that is. You are living within your income this minute, and if there are any new debts, I don't know of them. I am sure there ought to be none, for we are dull enough here.'
'Are those bills of Madeline's paid?'
'No, they are not. Who was to pay them?'
'Her husband may pay them.'
'Her husband! Would you wish me to tell her you say so? Do you wish to turn her out of your home?'
'I wish she would know how to behave herself.'
'Why, what on earth has she done now? Poor Madeline! To-day is only the second time she has gone out since we came to this vile town.'
He then sat silent for a time, thinking in what shape he would declare his resolve. 'Well, papa,' said Charlotte, 'shall I stay here, or may I go up-stairs and give mamma her tea?'
'You are in your brother's confidence. Tell me what he is going to do?'
'Nothing, that I am aware of.'
'Nothing—nothing! Nothing but eat and drink, and spend every shilling of my money he can lay his hands upon. I have made up my mind, Charlotte. He shall eat and drink no more in this house.'
'Very well. Then I suppose he must go back to Italy.'
'He may go where he pleases.'
'That's easily said, papa; but what does it mean? You can't let him live—'
'It means this,' said the doctor, speaking more loudly than was his wont, and with wrath flashing from his eyes; 'that as sure as God rules in heaven, I will not maintain him any longer in idleness.'
'Oh, ruling in heaven!' said Charlotte. 'It is no use talking about that. You must rule him here on earth; and the question is, how you can do it. You can't turn him out of the house penniless, to beg about the street.'
'He may beg where he likes.'
'He must go back to Carrara. That is the cheapest place he can live at, and nobody there will give him credit for above two or three hundred pauls. But you must let him have the means of going.'
'As sure as—'
'Oh papa, don't swear. You know you must do it. You were ready to pay two hundred pounds for him if the marriage came off. Half that will start him to Carrara.'
'What? Give him a hundred pounds!'
'You know we are all in the dark, papa,' said she, thinking it expedient to change the conversation. 'For anything we know, he may be at this moment engaged to Mrs Bold.'
'Fiddlestick,' said the father, who had seen the way in which Mrs Bold had got into the carriage, while his son stood apart without even offering her his hand.
'Well, then, he must go to Carrara.' said Charlotte.
Just at this moment the lock of the front door was heard, and Charlotte's quick care detected her brother's cat-like step in the hall. She said nothing, feeling that for the present Bertie had better keep out of her father's way. But Dr Stanhope also heard the sound of the lock.
'Who's that?' he demanded. Charlotte made no reply, and he asked again. 'Who is that that has just come in? Open the door. Who is it?'
'I suppose it is Bertie.'
'Bid him to come here,' said the father. But Bertie, who was close to the door and heard the call, required no further bidding, but walked in with a perfectly unconcerned and cheerful air. It was this peculiar insouciance which angered Dr Stanhope, even more than his son's extravagance.
'Well, sir,' said the doctor.
'And how did you get home, sir, with your fair companion?' said
Bertie. 'I suppose she is not up-stairs, Charlotte?'
'Bertie,' said Charlotte, 'papa is in no humour for joking. He is very angry with you.'
'Angry!' said Bertie, raising his eyebrows, as though he had never yet given his parent cause for a single moment's uneasiness.
'Sit down, if you please, sir,' said Dr Stanhope very sternly, but not now very loudly. 'And I'll trouble you to sit down, too, Charlotte. Your mother can wait for her tea a few minutes.'
Charlotte sat down on the chair nearest the door, in somewhat of a perverse sort of manner; as much as though she would say—Well, here I am; you shan't say I don't do as I am bid; but I'll be whipped if I give way to you. And she was determined not to give way. She too was angry with Bertie; but she was not the less ready on that account to defend him from his father. Bertie also sat down. He drew his chair close to the library table, upon which he put his elbow, and then resting his face comfortably on one hand, he began drawing little pictures on a sheet of paper with the other. Before the scene was over had had completed admirable figures of Miss Thorne, Mrs Proudie, and Lady De Courcy, and began a family piece to comprise the whole set of Lookalofts.
'Would it suit you, sir,' said the father, 'to give me some idea as to what your present intentions are?—what way of living you propose to yourself?'
'I'll do anything you suggest, sir,' said Bertie.
'No, I shall suggest nothing further. My time for suggesting has gone by. I have only one order to give, and that is, that you leave my house.'
'To-night?' said Bertie; and the simple tone of the question left the doctor without any adequately dignified method of reply.
'Papa does not quite mean to-night,' said Charlotte, 'at least I suppose not.'
'To-morrow perhaps,' suggested Bertie.
'Yes sir, to-morrow,' said the doctor. 'You shall leave this to-morrow.'
'Very well, sir. Will the 4.30 P.M. train be soon enough?' said Bertie, as he asked, put the finishing touch to Miss Thorne's high-heeled boots.
'You may go how and when and where you please, so that you leave my house to-morrow. You have disgraced me, sir; you have disgraced yourself, and me, and your sisters.'
'I am glad at least sir, that I have not disgraced my mother,' said
Bertie.
Charlotte could hardly keep her countenance; but the doctor's brow grew still blacker than ever. Bertie was executing his chef d'ouvre in the delineation of Mrs Proudie's nose and mouth.
'You are a heartless reprobate, sir; a heartless, thankless, good-for-nothing reprobate. I have done with you. You are my son—that I cannot help; but you shall have no more part or parcel in me as my child, nor I in you as your father.'
'Oh, papa, papa! You must not, shall not say so,' said Charlotte.
'I will say so, and do say so,' said the father, rising from his chair. 'And now leave the room, sir.'
'Stop, stop,' said Charlotte; 'why don't you speak, Bertie? Why don't you look up and speak? It is your manner that makes him so angry.'
'He is perfectly indifferent to all decency, to all propriety,' said the doctor; and then he shouted out, 'Leave the room, sir! Do you hear what I say?'
'Papa, papa, I will not let you part so. I know you will be sorry for it.' And then she added, getting up and whispering into his ear. 'Is he only to blame? Think of that. We have made our own bed, and, such as it is, we must lie on it. It is no use for us to quarrel among ourselves,' and as she finished her whisper, Bertie finished off the countess's bustle, which was so well done that it absolutely seemed to be swaying to and fro on the paper with its usual lateral motion.
'My father is angry at the present time,' said Bertie, looking up for a moment from his sketches, 'because I am not going to marry Mrs Bold. What can I say on the matter? It is true that I am not going to marry her. In the first place—'
'That is not true, sir,' said Dr Stanhope; 'but I will not argue with you.'
'You were angry just this moment because I would not speak,' said
Bertie, going on with a young Lookaloft.
'Give over drawing,' said Charlotte, going up to him and taking the paper from under his hand. The caricature, however, she preserved, and showed them afterwards to the friends of the Thornes, the Proudies, and De Courcys. Bertie, deprived of his occupation, threw himself back in his chair and waited further orders.
'I think it will certainly be for the best that Bertie should leave this at once, perhaps to-morrow,' said Charlotte; 'but pray, papa, let us arrange some scheme together.'
'If he will leave to-morrow, I will give him L 10, and he shall be paid L 5 a month by the banker at Carrara as long as he stays permanently in that place.'
'Well, sir! it won't be long,' said Bertie; 'for I shall be starved to death in about three months.'
'He must have marble to work with,' said Charlotte.
'I have plenty there in the studio to last me three months,' said Bertie. 'It will be no use attempting anything large in so limited a time; unless I do my own tombstone.'
Terms, however, were ultimately come to, somewhat more liberal than those proposed, and the doctor was induced to shake hands with his son, and bid him good-night. Dr Stanhope would not go up to tea, but had it brought to him in his study by his daughter.
But Bertie went up-stairs and spent a pleasant evening. He finished the Lookalofts, greatly to the delight of his sisters, though the manner of portraying their decollete dresses was not the most refined. Finding how matters were going, he by degrees allowed it to escape from him that he had not pressed his suit upon the widow in a very urgent way.
'I suppose, in point of fact, you never proposed at all?' said
Charlotte.
'Oh, she understood that she might have me if she wished,' said he.
'And she didn't wish,' said the signora.
'You have thrown me over in the most shameful manner,' said
Charlotte. 'I suppose you told her all about my little plan?'
'Well, it came out somehow; at least the most of it.'
'There's an end of that alliance,' said Charlotte; 'but it doesn't matter much. I suppose we shall all be back in Como soon.'
'I am sure I hope so,' said the signora; 'I'm sick of the sight of black coats. If that Mr Slope comes here any more, he'll be the death of me.'
'You've been the ruin of him, I think,' said Charlotte.
'And as for a second black-coated lover of mine, I am going to make a present to him of another lady with most singular disinterestedness.'
The next day, true to his promise, Bertie packed up and went of by the 4.30 P.M. train, with L 20 in his pocket, bound for the marble quarries of Carrara. And so he disappears from our scene.
At twelve o'clock on the day following that on which Bertie went, Mrs Bold, true also to her word, knocked at Dr Stanhope's door with a timid hand and palpitating heart. She was at once shown up to the back drawing-room, the folding doors of which were closed, so that in visiting the signora, Eleanor was not necessarily thrown into any communication with those in the front room. As she went up the stairs, she none of the family, and was so far saved much of the annoyance which she had dreaded.
'This is very kind of you, Mrs Bold; very kind, after what has happened,' said the lady on the sofa with her sweetest smile.
'You wrote in such a strain that I could not but come to you.'
'I did, I did; I wanted to force you to see me.'
'Well, signora; I am here.'
'How cold you are to me. But I suppose I must put up with that. I know you think you have reason to be displeased with us all. Poor Bertie! if you knew all, you would not be angry with him.'
'I am not angry with your brother—not in the least. But I hope you did not send for me to talk about him.'
'If you are angry with Charlotte, that is worse; for you have no warmer friend in all Barchester. But I did not send for you to talk about this—pray bring your chair nearer, Mrs Bold, so that I may look at you. It is so unnatural to see you keeping so far off from me.'
Eleanor did as she was bid, and brought her chair closer to the sofa.
'And now, Mrs Bold, I am going to tell you something which you may think indelicate; but yet I know that I am right in doing so.'
Hereupon Mrs Bold said nothing, but felt inclined to shake in her chair. The signora, she knew, was not very particular, and that which to her appeared to be indelicate might to Mrs Bold appear to be extremely indecent.
'I believe you know Mr Arabin?'
Mrs Bold would have given the world not to blush, but her blood was not at her own command. She did blush up to her forehead, and the signora, who had made her sit in a special light in order that she might watch her, saw that she did so.
'Yes—I am acquainted with him. That is, slightly. He is an intimate friend of Dr Grantly, and Dr Grantly is my brother-in-law.'
'Well; if you know Mr Arabin, I am sure you must like him. I know and like him much. Everybody that knows him must like him.'
Mrs Bold felt it quite impossible to say anything in reply to this. Her blood was rushing about her body she knew not how or why. She felt as though she were swinging in her chair; and she knew that she was not only red in the face, but also almost suffocated with heat. However, she sat still and said nothing.
'How stiff you are with me, Mrs Bold,' said the signora; 'and I the while am doing for you all that one woman can do to serve another.'
A kind of thought came over the widow's mind that perhaps the signora's friendship was real; and that at any rate it could not hurt her; and another kind of thought, a glimmering of a thought, came to her also,—that Mr Arabin was to precious to be lost. She despised the signora; but might she not stoop to conquer? It should be but the smallest fraction of a stoop!
'I don't want to be stiff,' she said, 'but your questions are so very singular.'
'Well, then, I will ask you one more singular still,' said Madeline Neroni, raising herself on her elbow and turning her own face full upon her companion's. 'Do you love him, love him with all your heart and soul, with all the love your bosom can feel? For I can tell you that he loves you, worships you, thinks of you and nothing else, is now thinking of you as he attempts to write his sermon for next Sunday's preaching. What would I not give to be loved in such a way by such a man, that is, if I were an object for any man to love!'
Mrs Bold got up from her seat and stood speechless before the woman who was now addressing her in this impassioned way. When the signora thus alluded to herself, the widow's heart was softened, and she put her own hand, as though caressingly, on that of her companion which was resting on the table. The signora grasped it and went on speaking.
'What I tell you is God's own truth; and it is for you to use it as may be best for your own happiness. But you must not betray me. He knows nothing of this. He knows nothing of my knowing his inmost heart. He is simple as a child in these matters. He told me his secret in a thousand ways because he could not dissemble; but he does not dream that has told it. You know it now, and I advise you to use it.'
Eleanor returned the pressure of the other's hand with an infinitesimal soupcon of a squeeze.
'And remember,' said the signora, 'he is not like other men. You must not expect him to come to you with vows and oaths and pretty presents, to kneel at your feet, and kiss your shoe-strings. If you want that, there are plenty to do it; but he won't be one of them.' Eleanor's bosom nearly burst with a sigh; but Madeline, not heeding her, went on. 'With him, yea will stand for yea, and nay for nay. Though his heart should break for it, the woman who shall reject him once, will have rejected him once and for all. Remember that. And now, Mrs Bold, I will not keep you, for you are flattered. I partly guess what use you will make of what I have said to you. If ever you are a happy wife in that man's house, we shall be far away; but I shall expect you to write me one line to say that you have forgiven the sins of the family.'
Eleanor half whispered that she would, and then without uttering another word, crept out of the room, and down the stairs, opened the front door for herself without hearing or seeing any one, and found herself in the close.
It would be difficult to analyse Eleanor's feelings as she walked home. She was nearly stupefied by the things that had been said to her. She felt sore that her heart should have been so searched and riddled by a comparative stranger, by a woman whom she had never liked and never could like. She was mortified that the man whom she owned to herself that she loved should have concealed his love from her and shown it to another. There was much to vex her proud spirit. But there was, nevertheless, an under-stratum of joy in all this which buoyed her up wondrously. She tried if she could disbelieve what Madame Neroni had said to her; but she found that she could not. It was true; it must be true. She could not, would not, did not doubt it.
On one point she fully resolved to follow the advice given her. If it should ever please Mr Arabin to put such a question to her as suggested, her 'yea' should be 'yea'. Would not all her miseries be at an end, if she could talk of them to him openly, with her hand resting on his shoulder?
CHAPTER XLVI
MR SLOPE'S PARTING INTERVIEW WITH THE SIGNORA
On the following day the signora was in her pride. She was dressed in her brightest of morning dresses, and had quite a levee round her couch. It was a beautifully bright October afternoon; all the gentlemen of the neighbourhood were in Barchester, and those who had the entry of Dr Stanhope's house were in the signora's back drawing-room. Charlotte and Mrs Stanhope were in the front room, and such of the lady's squires as could not for the moment get near the centre of attraction had to waste their fragrance on the mother and sister.
The first who came and the last to leave was Mr Arabin. This was the second visit he had paid to Madame Neroni since he had met her at Ullathorne. He came he knew not why, to talk about he knew not what. But, in truth, the feelings which now troubled him were new to him, and he could not analyse them. It may seem strange that he should thus come dangling about Madame Neroni because he was in love with Mrs Bold; but it was nevertheless the fact; and though he could not understand why he did so, Madame Neroni understood it well enough.
She had been gentle and kind to him, and had encouraged his staying. Therefore he stayed on. She pressed his hand when he first greeted her; and whispered to him little nothings. And then her eye, brilliant and bright, now mirthful, now melancholy, and invincible in either way! What man with warm feelings, blood unchilled, and a heat not guarded by a triple steel of experience could have withstood those eyes! The lady, it is true, intended to do no mortal injury; she merely chose to inhale a slight breath of incense before she handed the casket over to another. Whether Mrs Bold would willingly have spared even so much is another question.
And then came Mr Slope. All the world now knew that Mr Slope was a candidate for the deanery, and that he was generally considered to be the favourite. Mr Slope, therefore, walked rather largely upon the earth. He gave to himself a portly air, such as might become a dean, spoke but little to other clergymen, and shunned the bishop as much as possible. How the meagre little prebendary, and the burly chancellor, and all the minor canons and vicars choral, ay, and all the choristers too, cowered and shook and walked about with long faces when they read or heard of that article of the Jupiter. Now were coming the days when nothing would avail to keep the impure spirit from the cathedral pulpit. That pulpit would indeed be his own. Precentors, vicars, and choristers might hang up their harps on the willows. Ichabod! Ichabod! The glory of their house was departing from them.
Mr Slope, great as he was with embryo grandeur, still came to see the signora. Indeed, he could not keep himself away. He dreamed of that soft hand which had kissed so often, and of the imperial brow which his lips had once pressed, and he then dreamed also of further favours.
And Mr Thorne was there also. It was the first visit he had ever paid to the signora, and he made it not without due preparation. Mr Thorne was a gentleman usually precise in his dress, and prone to make the most of himself in an unpretending way. The grey hairs in his whiskers were eliminated perhaps once a month; those on his head were softened by a mixture which we will not call a dye; it was only a wash. His tailor lived in St James's Street, and his bootmaker at the corner of that street and Piccadilly. He was particular in the article of gloves, and the getting up of his shirts was a matter not lightly thought of in the Ullathorne laundry. On the occasion of the present visit he had rather overdone his usual efforts, and caused some little uneasiness to his sister, who had not hitherto received very cordially the proposition for a lengthened visit from the signora at Ullathorne.
There were others also there—young men about the city who had not much to do, and who were induced by the lady's charms to neglect that little; but all gave way to Mr Thorne, who was somewhat of a grand signor, as a country gentleman always is in a provincial city.
'Oh, Mr Thorne, this is so kind of you!' said the signora. 'You promised to come; but I really did not expect it. I thought you country gentlemen never kept your pledges.'
'Oh, yea, sometimes,' said Mr Thorne, looking rather sheepish, and making salutations a little too much in the style of the last century.
'You deceive none but your consti-stit-stit; what do you call the people that carry you about in chairs and pelt you with eggs and apples when they make you a member of parliament?'
'One another also, sometimes, signora,' said Mr Slope, with a deanish sort of smirk on his face. 'Country gentlemen do deceive one another sometimes, don't they, Mr Thorne?'
Mr Thorne gave him a look which undressed him completely for the moment; but he soon remembered his high hopes, and recovering himself quickly, sustained his probable coming dignity by a laugh at Mr Thorne's expense.
'I never deceive a lady, at any rate,' said Mr Thorne; 'especially when the gratification of my own wishes is so strong an inducement to keep me true, as it now is.'
Mr Thorne went on thus awhile, with antediluvian grimaces and compliments which he had picked up from Sir Charles Grandison, and the signora at every grimace and at every bow smiled a little smile and bowed a little bow. Mr Thorne, however, was kept standing at the foot of the couch, for the new dean sat in the seat of honour near the table. Mr Arabin the while was standing with his back to the fire, his coat tails under his arms, gazing at her with all his eyes—not quite in vain, for every now and again a glance came up at him, bright as a meteor out of heaven.
'Oh, Mr Thorne, you promised to let me introduce my little girl to you. Can you spare a moment?—will you see her now?'
Mr Thorne assured her that he could, and would see the young lady with the greatest pleasure in life. 'Mr Slope, might I trouble you to ring the bell?' said she; and when Mr Slope got up she looked at Mr Thorne and pointed to the chair. Mr Thorne, however, was much too slow to understand her, and Mr Slope would have recovered his seat had not the signora, who never chose to be unsuccessful, somewhat summarily ordered him out of it.
'Oh, Mr Slope, I must ask you to let Mr Thorne sit here just for a moment or two. I am sure you will pardon me. We can take a liberty with you this week. Next week, you know, when you move into the dean's house, we shall all be afraid of you.'
Mr Slope, with an air of much indifference, rose from his seat, and, walking into the next room, became greatly interested in Mrs Stanhope's worsted work.
And then the child was brought in. She was a little girl, about eight years of age, like her mother, only that her enormous eyes were black, and her hair quite jet. Her complexion too was very dark, and bespoke her foreign blood. She was dressed in the most outlandish and extravagant way in which clothes could be put on a child's back. She had great bracelets on her naked little arms, a crimson fillet braided with gold round her head, and scarlet shoes with high heels. Her dress was all flounces, and stuck out from her as though the object were to make it lie off horizontally from her little hips. It did not nearly cover her knees; but this was atoned for by a loose pair of drawers which seemed made throughout of lace; then she had on pink silk stockings. It was thus that the last of the Neros was habitually dressed at the hour when visitors were wont to call.
'Julia, my love,' said the mother,—Julia was ever a favourite name with the ladies of the family, 'Julia, my love, come here. I was telling you about the beautiful party poor mamma went to. This is Mr Thorne; will you give him a kiss, dearest?'
Julia put up her face to be kissed, as she did to all her mother's visitors; and then Mr Thorne found that he had got her, and, which was much more terrible to him, all her finery, into his arms. The lace and starch crumpled against his waistcoat and trousers, the greasy black curls hung upon his cheek, and one of the bracelet clasps scratched his ear. He did not at all know how to hold her. However, he had on other occasions been compelled to fondle little nieces and nephews, and now set about the task in the mode he always used.