The Barsetshire Chronicles - All 6 Books in One Edition - Anthony Trollope

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should have taken her at her word. She would have drawn back, and he would have had the full advantage of the offer. But he did not. Instead of doing so, he stood wrapt in astonishment, passing his fingers through his lank red hair and thinking, as he stared upon her animated countenance, that her wondrous beauty grew more wonderful as he gazed on it. “Ha! ha! ha!” she laughed out loud. “Come, Mr. Slope, don’t talk of sacrificing the world again. People beyond one-and-twenty should never dream of such a thing. You and I, if we have the dregs of any love left in us, if we have the remnants of a passion remaining in our hearts, should husband our resources better. We are not in our première jeunesse. The world is a very nice place. Your world, at any rate, is so. You have all manner of fat rectories to get and possible bishoprics to enjoy. Come, confess; on second thoughts you would not sacrifice such things for the smiles of a lame lady?”

      It was impossible for him to answer this. In order to be in any way dignified, he felt that he must be silent.

      “Come,” said she, “don’t boody with me: don’t be angry because I speak out some home truths. Alas, the world, as I have found it, has taught me bitter truths. Come, tell me that I am forgiven. Are we not to be friends?” and she again put out her hand to him.

      He sat himself down in the chair beside her, took her proffered hand, and leant over her.

      “There,” said she with her sweetest, softest smile — a smile to withstand which a man should be cased in triple steel, “there; seal your forgiveness on it,” and she raised it towards his face. He kissed it again and again and stretched over her as though desirous of extending the charity of his pardon beyond the hand that was offered to him. She managed, however, to check his ardour. For one so easily allured as this poor chaplain, her hand was surely enough.

      “Oh, Madeline!” said he, “tell me that you love me — do you — do you love me?”

      “Hush,” said she. “There is my mother’s step. Our tête-à-tête has been of monstrous length. Now you had better go. But we shall see you soon again, shall we not?”

      Mr. Slope promised that he would call again on the following day.

      “And, Mr. Slope,” she continued, “pray answer my note. You have it in your hand, though I declare during these two hours you have not been gracious enough to read it. It is about the Sabbath-school and the children. You know how anxious I am to have them here. I have been learning the catechism myself, on purpose. You must manage it for me next week. I will teach them, at any rate, to submit themselves to their spiritual pastors and masters.”

      Mr. Slope said but little on the subject of Sabbath-schools, but he made his adieu and betook himself home with a sad heart, troubled mind, and uneasy conscience.

      CHAPTER XXVIII

       Mrs. Bold is Entertained by Dr. and Mrs. Grantly at Plumstead

      Table of Contents

      It will be remembered that Mr. Slope, when leaving his billet-doux at the house of Mrs. Bold, had been informed that it would be sent out to her at Plumstead that afternoon. The archdeacon and Mr. Harding had in fact come into town together in the brougham, and it had been arranged that they should call for Eleanor’s parcels as they left on their way home. Accordingly they did so call, and the maid, as she handed to the coachman a small basket and large bundle carefully and neatly packed, gave in at the carriage window Mr. Slope’s epistle. The archdeacon, who was sitting next to the window, took it and immediately recognized the hand-writing of his enemy.

      “Who left this?” said he.

      “Mr. Slope called with it himself, your Reverence,” said the girl, “and was very anxious that Missus should have it today.”

      So the brougham drove off, and the letter was left in the archdeacon’s hand. He looked at it as though he held a basket of adders. He could not have thought worse of the document had he read it and discovered it to be licentious and atheistical. He did, moreover, what so many wise people are accustomed to do in similar circumstances; he immediately condemned the person to whom the letter was written, as though she were necessarily a particeps criminis.

      Poor Mr. Harding, though by no means inclined to forward Mr. Slope’s intimacy with his daughter, would have given anything to have kept the letter from his son-inlaw. But that was now impossible. There it was in his hand, and he looked as thoroughly disgusted as though he were quite sure that it contained all the rhapsodies of a favoured lover.

      “It’s very hard on me,” said he after awhile, “that this should go on under my roof.”

      Now here the archdeacon was certainly most unreasonable. Having invited his sister-inlaw to his house, it was a natural consequence that she should receive her letters there. And if Mr. Slope chose to write to her, his letter would, as a matter of course, be sent after her. Moreover, the very fact of an invitation to one’s house implies confidence on the part of the inviter. He had shown that he thought Mrs. Bold to be a fit person to stay with him by his asking her to do so, and it was most cruel to her that he should complain of her violating the sanctity of his roof-tree, when the laches committed were none of her committing.

      Mr. Harding felt this and felt also that when the archdeacon talked thus about his roof, what he said was most offensive to himself as Eleanor’s father. If Eleanor did receive a letter from Mr. Slope, what was there in that to pollute the purity of Dr. Grantly’s household? He was indignant that his daughter should be so judged and so spoken of, and he made up his mind that even as Mrs. Slope she must be dearer to him than any other creature on God’s earth. He almost broke out and said as much, but for the moment he restrained himself.

      “Here,” said the archdeacon, handing the offensive missile to his father-inlaw, “I am not going to be the bearer of his love-letters. You are her father and may do as you think fit with it.”

      By doing as he thought fit with it, the archdeacon certainly meant that Mr. Harding would be justified in opening and reading the letter and taking any steps which might in consequence be necessary. To tell the truth, Dr. Grantly did feel rather a stronger curiosity than was justified by his outraged virtue to see the contents of the letter. Of course he could not open it himself, but he wished to make Mr. Harding understand that he, as Eleanor’s father, would be fully justified in doing so. The idea of such a proceeding never occurred to Mr. Harding. His authority over Eleanor ceased when she became the wife of John Bold. He had not the slightest wish to pry into her correspondence. He consequently put the letter into his pocket and only wished that he had been able to do so without the archdeacon’s knowledge. They both sat silent during half the journey home, and then Dr. Grantly said, “Perhaps Susan had better give it to her. She can explain to her sister better than either you or I can do how deep is the disgrace of such an acquaintance.”

      “I think you are very hard upon Eleanor,” replied Mr. Harding. “I will not allow that she has disgraced herself, nor do I think it likely that she will do so. She has a right to correspond with whom she pleases, and I shall not take upon myself to blame her because she gets a letter from Mr. Slope.”

      “I suppose,” said Dr. Grantly, “you don’t wish her to marry the man. I suppose you’ll admit that she would disgrace herself if she did do so.”

      “I do not wish her to marry him,” said the perplexed father. “I do not like him and do not think he would make a good husband. But if Eleanor chooses to do so, I shall certainly not think that she disgraces herself.”

      “Good heavens!” exclaimed Dr. Grantly and threw himself back into the corner of his brougham. Mr. Harding said nothing more but commenced playing a dirge with an imaginary fiddle bow upon an imaginary violoncello, for which there did not appear to be quite room enough in the carriage; he continued the tune, with sundry variations, till he arrived at the rectory door.

      The archdeacon had been meditating sad things in his mind. Hitherto he had always looked on his father-inlaw as a true partisan, though he knew him to be a man devoid of all the combative qualifications

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