Barchester Towers

A >> Anthony Trollope >> Barchester Towers


"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
tranquilised.

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 anyone 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 in 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 anyone 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 that 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 am 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 to 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 no 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 dear, 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 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 will you 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 not I, 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
bedroom. It is really unkind of you to remain up 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 bedroom
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 anyone 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 elegancy
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
letters 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

Thursday Evening


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 has 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 chance."

"Where is he now?"

"Heaven knows! Smoking in 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 yet
remember to have seen there. He was sitting in his own armchair, 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 house?"

"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 upstairs 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--"

"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 can
you 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 this 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 ears detected her brother's catlike 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 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 upstairs, 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 to 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 what 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 he had completed admirable figures of Miss Thorne, Mrs.
Proudie, and Lady De Courcy, and begun a family piece to comprise the
whole set of the 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 can suggest, sir," replied 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?" and
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'oeuvre_
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 Papa so
angry."

"He is perfectly indifferent to all decency, to all propriety," said
the doctor; 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 caricatures, 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 this to-morrow, I will give him L10, and he shall
be paid L5 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 upstairs 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 at 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 of him to another lady with most singular disinterestedness."

The next day, true to his promise, Bertie packed up and went off by
the 4.30 P.M. train, with L20 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
communion with those in the front room. As she went up the stairs,
she saw none of the family and was so far saved much of the annoyance
which she had dreaded.