The Complete Chronicles of Barsetshire: (The Warden + Barchester Towers + Doctor Thorne + Framley Parsonage + The Small House at Allington + The Last Chronicle of Barset). Anthony Trollope
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