Chronicles of Barsetshire: Book 1-6. Anthony Trollope
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 à 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.