Barchester Towers

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"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 here 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 close to the sofa.

"And now, Mrs. Bold, I am going to tell you something which you may
perhaps 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 too 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, adores 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 fit
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 he 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," continued 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 fluttered. 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 anyone, 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 that 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 head 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; she made him remain near 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 heart not guarded by a triple steel
of experience could have withstood those eyes! The lady, it is true,
intended to do him 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 in "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 he had kissed so often, and of that 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, yes, sometimes," said Mr. Thorne, looking rather sheepish and
making his 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 very
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 undeaned 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 that 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, what was
much more terrific 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 so magnificent
a lady, nor holding her what to do with 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 had used.

"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle," said he, putting the child on
one knee and working away with it as though he were turning a
knife-grinder's wheel with his foot.

"Mamma, Mamma," said Julia crossly, "I don't want to be diddle
diddled. Let me go, you naughty old man, you."

Poor Mr. Thorne put the child down quietly on the ground and drew
back his chair; Mr. Slope, who had returned to the pole star that
attracted him, laughed aloud; Mr. Arabin winced and shut his eyes;
and the signora pretended not to hear her daughter.

"Go to Aunt Charlotte, lovey," said the mamma, "and ask her if it is
not time for you to go out."

But little Miss Julia, though she had not exactly liked the nature of
Mr. Thorne's attention, was accustomed to be played with by gentlemen,
and did not relish the idea of being sent so soon to her aunt.

"Julia, go when I tell you, my dear." But Julia still went pouting
about the room. "Charlotte, do come and take her," said the signora.
"She must go out, and the days get so short now." And thus ended the
much-talked-of interview between Mr. Thorne and the last of the Neros.

Mr. Thorne recovered from the child's crossness sooner than from Mr.
Slope's laughter. He could put up with being called an old man by an
infant, but he did not like to be laughed at by the bishop's chaplain,
even though that chaplain was about to become a dean. He said nothing,
but he showed plainly enough that he was angry.

The signora was ready enough to avenge him. "Mr. Slope," said she,
"I hear that you are triumphing on all sides."

"How so?" said he, smiling. He did not dislike being talked to about
the deanery, though, of course, he strongly denied the imputation.

"You carry the day both in love and war." Mr. Slope hereupon did not
look quite so satisfied as he had done.

"Mr. Arabin," continued the signora, "don't you think Mr. Slope is a
very lucky man?"

"Not more so than he deserves, I am sure," said Mr. Arabin.

"Only think, Mr. Thorne, he is to be our new dean; of course we all
know that."

"Indeed, signora," said Mr. Slope, "we all know nothing about it.
I can assure you I myself--"

"He is to be the new dean--there is no manner of doubt of it, Mr.
Thorne."

"Hum!" said Mr. Thorne.

"Passing over the heads of old men like my father and Archdeacon
Grantly--"

"Oh--oh!" said Mr. Slope.

"The archdeacon would not accept it," said Mr. Arabin, whereupon Mr.
Slope smiled abominably and said, as plainly as a look could speak,
that the grapes were sour.

"Going over all our heads," continued the signora, "for of course I
consider myself one of the chapter."

"If I am ever dean," said Mr. Slope, "that is, were I ever to become
so, I should glory in such a canoness."

"Oh, Mr. Slope, stop; I haven't half done. There is another canoness
for you to glory in. Mr. Slope is not only to have the deanery but a
wife to put in it."

Mr. Slope again looked disconcerted.

"A wife with a large fortune, too. It never rains but it pours, does
it, Mr. Thorne?"

"No, never," said Mr. Thorne, who did not quite relish talking about
Mr. Slope and his affairs.

"When will it be, Mr. Slope?"

"When will what be?" said he.

"Oh, we know when the affair of the dean will be: a week will settle
that. The new hat, I have no doubt, has been already ordered. But when
will the marriage come off?"

"Do you mean mine or Mr. Arabin's?" said he, striving to be facetious.

"Well, just then I meant yours, though, perhaps, after all, Mr.
Arabin's may be first. But we know nothing of him. He is too close
for any of us. Now all is open and above board with you--which, by
the by, Mr. Arabin, I beg to tell you I like much the best. He who
runs can read that Mr. Slope is a favoured lover. Come, Mr. Slope,
when is the widow to be made Mrs. Dean?"

To Mr. Arabin this badinage was peculiarly painful, and yet he could
not tear himself away and leave it. He believed, still believed with
that sort of belief which the fear of a thing engenders, that Mrs.
Bold would probably become the wife of Mr. Slope. Of Mr. Slope's
little adventure in the garden he knew nothing. For aught he knew,
Mr. Slope might have had an adventure of quite a different character.
He might have thrown himself at the widow's feet, been accepted, and
then returned to town a jolly, thriving wooer. The signora's jokes
were bitter enough to Mr. Slope, but they were quite as bitter to Mr.
Arabin. He still stood leaning against the fire-place, fumbling with
his hands in his trousers pockets.

"Come, come, Mr. Slope, don't be so bashful," continued the signora.
"We all know that you proposed to the lady the other day at
Ullathorne. Tell us with what words she accepted you. Was it with a
simple 'yes,' or with the two 'no no's' which make an affirmative?
Or did silence give consent? Or did she speak out with that spirit
which so well becomes a widow and say openly, 'By my troth, sir, you
shall make me Mrs. Slope as soon as it is your pleasure to do so.'"

Mr. Slope had seldom in his life felt himself less at his ease.
There sat Mr. Thorne, laughing silently. There stood his old
antagonist, Mr. Arabin, gazing at him with all his eyes. There round
the door between the two rooms were clustered a little group of
people, including Miss Stanhope and the Revs. Messrs. Grey and Green,
all listening to his discomfiture. He knew that it depended solely
on his own wit whether or no he could throw the joke back upon the
lady. He knew that it stood him to do so if he possibly could, but
he had not a word. "'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all."
He felt on his cheek the sharp points of Eleanor's fingers, and
did not know who might have seen the blow, who might have told the
tale to this pestilent woman who took such delight in jeering him.
He stood there, therefore, red as a carbuncle and mute as a fish;
grinning sufficiently to show his teeth; an object of pity.

But the signora had no pity; she knew nothing of mercy. Her present
object was to put Mr. Slope down, and she was determined to do it
thoroughly, now that she had him in her power.

"What, Mr. Slope, no answer? Why it can't possibly be that the woman
has been fool enough to refuse you? She can't surely be looking
out after a bishop. But I see how it is, Mr. Slope. Widows are
proverbially cautious. You should have let her alone till the new hat
was on your head, till you could show her the key of the deanery."

"Signora," said he at last, trying to speak in a tone of dignified
reproach, "you really permit yourself to talk on solemn subjects in a
very improper way."

"Solemn subjects--what solemn subject? Surely a dean's hat is not such
a solemn subject."

"I have no aspirations such as those you impute to me. Perhaps you
will drop the subject."

"Oh, certainly, Mr. Slope; but one word first. Go to her again with
the prime minister's letter in your pocket. I'll wager my shawl to
your shovel she does not refuse you then."

"I must say, signora, that I think you are speaking of the lady in a
very unjustifiable manner."

"And one other piece of advice, Mr. Slope; I'll only offer you one
other;" and then she commenced singing--


"It's gude to be merry and wise, Mr. Slope;
It's gude to be honest and true;
It's gude to be off with the old love--Mr. Slope,
Before you are on with the new.


"Ha, ha, ha!"

And the signora, throwing herself back on her sofa, laughed merrily.
She little recked how those who heard her would, in their own
imaginations, fill up the little history of Mr. Slope's first love.
She little cared that some among them might attribute to her the
honour of his earlier admiration. She was tired of Mr. Slope and
wanted to get rid of him; she had ground for anger with him, and she
chose to be revenged.

How Mr. Slope got out of that room he never himself knew. He did
succeed ultimately, and probably with some assistance, in getting his
hat and escaping into the air. At last his love for the signora was
cured. Whenever he again thought of her in his dreams, it was not as
of an angel with azure wings. He connected her rather with fire and
brimstone, and though he could still believe her to be a spirit, he
banished her entirely out of heaven and found a place for her among
the infernal gods. When he weighed in the balance, as he not seldom
did, the two women to whom he had attached himself in Barchester, the
pre-eminent place in his soul's hatred was usually allotted to the
signora.




CHAPTER XLVII

The Dean Elect


During the entire next week Barchester was ignorant who was to be its
new dean. On Sunday morning Mr. Slope was decidedly the favourite,
but he did not show himself in the cathedral, and then he sank a point
or two in the betting. On Monday he got a scolding from the bishop in
the hearing of the servants, and down he went till nobody would have
him at any price; but on Tuesday he received a letter, in an official
cover, marked private, by which he fully recovered his place in the
public favour. On Wednesday he was said to be ill, and that did not
look well; but on Thursday morning he went down to the railway station
with a very jaunty air; and when it was ascertained that he had taken
a first-class ticket for London, there was no longer any room for
doubt on the matter.

While matters were in this state of ferment at Barchester, there was
not much mental comfort at Plumstead. Our friend the archdeacon had
many grounds for inward grief. He was much displeased at the result
of Dr. Gwynne's diplomatic mission to the palace, and did not even
scruple to say to his wife that had he gone himself, he would have
managed the affair much better. His wife did not agree with him, but
that did not mend the matter.

Mr. Quiverful's appointment to the hospital was, however, a _fait
accompli_, and Mr. Harding's acquiescence in that appointment was not
less so. Nothing would induce Mr. Harding to make a public appeal
against the bishop, and the Master of Lazarus quite approved of his
not doing so.

"I don't know what has come to the master," said the archdeacon over
and over again. "He used to be ready enough to stand up for his
order."

"My dear Archdeacon," Mrs. Grantly would say in reply, "what is the
use of always fighting? I really think the master is right." The
master, however, had taken steps of his own of which neither the
archdeacon nor his wife knew anything.