LITMIR.BIZ

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to rage between the two gentlemen. But Mr. Arabin comforted her by an assurance that he should meet Mr. Slope with the greatest pleasure imaginable and made her promise that she would introduce them to each other.

      But this triumph of Mr. Slope’s was not so agreeable to Eleanor, who since her return to Barchester had done her best to avoid him. She would not give way to the Plumstead folk when they so ungenerously accused her of being in love with this odious man, but, nevertheless, knowing that she was so accused, she was fully alive to the expediency of keeping out of his way and dropping him by degrees. She had seen very little of him since her return. Her servant had been instructed to say to all visitors that she was out. She could not bring herself to specify Mr. Slope particularly, and in order to avoid him she had thus debarred herself from all her friends. She had excepted Charlotte Stanhope and, by degrees, a few others also. Once she had met him at the Stanhopes’, but as a rule, Mr. Slope’s visits there were made in the morning and hers in the evening. On that one occasion Charlotte had managed to preserve her from any annoyance. This was very good-natured on the part of Charlotte, as Eleanor thought, and also very sharp-witted, as Eleanor had told her friend nothing of her reasons for wishing to avoid that gentleman. The fact, however, was that Charlotte had learnt from her sister that Mr. Slope would probably put himself forward as a suitor for the widow’s hand, and she was consequently sufficiently alive to the expediency of guarding Bertie’s future wife from any danger in that quarter.

      Nevertheless the Stanhopes were pledged to take Mr. Slope with them to Ullathorne. An arrangement was therefore necessarily made, which was very disagreeable to Eleanor. Dr. Stanhope, with herself, Charlotte, and Mr. Slope, were to go together, and Bertie was to follow with his sister Madeline. It was clearly visible by Eleanor’s face that this assortment was very disagreeable to her, and Charlotte, who was much encouraged thereby in her own little plan, made a thousand apologies.

      “I see you don’t like it, my dear,” said she, “but we could not manage otherwise. Bertie would give his eyes to go with you, but Madeline cannot possibly go without him. Nor could we possibly put Mr. Slope and Madeline in the same carriage without anyone else. They’d both be ruined forever, you know, and not admitted inside Ullathorne gates, I should imagine, after such an impropriety.”

      “Of course that wouldn’t do,” said Eleanor, “but couldn’t I go in the carriage with the signora and your brother?”

      “Impossible!” said Charlotte. “When she is there, there is only room for two.” The Signora, in truth, did not care to do her travelling in the presence of strangers.

      “Well, then,” said Eleanor, “you are all so kind, Charlotte, and so good to me that I am sure you won’t be offended, but I think I’ll not go at all.”

      “Not go at all!— what nonsense!— indeed you shall.” It had been absolutely determined in family counsel that Bertie should propose on that very occasion.

      “Or I can take a fly,” said Eleanor. “You know I am not embarrassed by so many difficulties as you young ladies; I can go alone.”

      “Nonsense, my dear! Don’t think of such a thing; after all, it is only for an hour or so; and, to tell the truth, I don’t know what it is you dislike so. I thought you and Mr. Slope were great friends. What is it you dislike?”

      “Oh, nothing particular,” said Eleanor; “only I thought it would be a family party.”

      “Of course it would be much nicer, much more snug, if Bertie could go with us. It is he that is badly treated. I can assure you he is much more afraid of Mr. Slope than you are. But you see Madeline cannot go out without him — and she, poor creature, goes out so seldom! I am sure you don’t begrudge her this, though her vagary does knock about our own party a little.”

      Of course Eleanor made a thousand protestations and uttered a thousand hopes that Madeline would enjoy herself. And of course she had to give way and undertake to go in the carriage with Mr. Slope. In fact, she was driven either to do this or to explain why she would not do so. Now she could not bring herself to explain to Charlotte Stanhope all that had passed at Plumstead.

      But it was to her a sore necessity. She thought of a thousand little schemes for avoiding it; she would plead illness and not go at all; she would persuade Mary Bold to go, although not asked, and then make a necessity of having a carriage of her own to take her sister-inlaw; anything, in fact, she could do, rather than be seen by Mr. Arabin getting out of the same carriage with Mr. Slope. However, when the momentous morning came, she had no scheme matured, and then Mr. Slope handed her into Dr. Stanhope’s carriage and, following her steps, sat opposite to her.

      The bishop returned on the eve of the Ullathorne party, and was received at home with radiant smiles by the partner of all his cares. On his arrival he crept up to his dressing-room with somewhat of a palpitating heart; he had overstayed his alloted time by three days, and was not without much fear of penalties. Nothing, however, could be more affectionately cordial than the greeting he received; the girls came out and kissed him in a manner that was quite soothing to his spirit; and Mrs. Proudie, “albeit, unused to the melting mood,” squeezed him in her arms and almost in words called him her dear, darling, good, pet, little bishop. All this was a very pleasant surprise.

      Mrs. Proudie had somewhat changed her tactics; not that she had seen any cause to disapprove of her former line of conduct, but she had now brought matters to such a point that she calculated that she might safely do so. She had got the better of Mr. Slope, and she now thought well to show her husband that when allowed to get the better of everybody, when obeyed by him and permitted to rule over others, she would take care that he should have his reward. Mr. Slope had not a chance against her; not only could she stun the poor bishop by her midnight anger, but she could assuage and soothe him, if she so willed, by daily indulgences. She could furnish his room for him, turn him out as smart a bishop as any on the bench, give him good dinners, warm fires, and an easy life — all this she would do if he would but be quietly obedient. But, if not,—! To speak sooth, however, his sufferings on that dreadful night had been so poignant as to leave him little spirit for further rebellion.

      As soon as he had dressed himself, she returned to his room. “I hope you enjoyed yourself at ——,” said she, seating herself on one side of the fire while he remained in his armchair on the other, stroking the calves of his legs. It was the first time he had had a fire in his room since the summer, and it pleased him, for the good bishop loved to be warm and cosy. Yes, he said, he had enjoyed himself very much. Nothing could be more polite than the archbishop, and Mrs. Archbishop had been equally charming.

      Mrs. Proudie was delighted to hear it; nothing, she declared, pleased her so much as to think

      Her bairn respect it like the lave.

      She did not put it precisely in these words, but what she said came to the same thing; and then, having petted and fondled her little man sufficiently, she proceeded to business.

      “The poor dean is still alive,” said she.

      “So I hear, so I hear,” said the bishop. “I’ll go to the deanery directly after breakfast tomorrow.”

      “We are going to this party at Ullathorne tomorrow morning, my dear; we must be there early, you know — by twelve o’clock I suppose.”

      “Oh — ah!” said the bishop; “then I’ll certainly call the next day.”

      “Was much said about it at ——?” asked Mrs. Proudie.

      “About what?” said the bishop.

      “Filling up the dean’s place,” said Mrs. Proudie. As she spoke, a spark of the wonted fire returned to her eye, and the bishop felt himself to be a little less comfortable than before.

      “Filling up the dean’s place; that is, if the dean dies? Very little, my dear. It was mentioned, just mentioned.”

      “And what did you say about it, Bishop?”

      “Why, I said that I thought that if, that is, should — should the dean die, that is, I said I thought —” As he went on stammering and floundering, he saw that

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