CHAPTER XXVII

A Love Scene

Mr. Slope, as we have said, left the palace with a feeling of

considerable triumph. Not that he thought that his difficulties were

all over--he did not so deceive himself--but he felt that he had

played his first move well, as well as the pieces on the board would

allow, and that he had nothing with which to reproach himself. He

first of all posted the letter to the archbishop and, having made

that sure, proceeded to push the advantage which he had gained. Had

Mrs. Bold been at home, he would have called on her, but he knew that

she was at Plumstead, so he wrote the following note. It was the

beginning of what, he trusted, might be a long and tender series of

epistles.

MY DEAR MRS. BOLD,

You will understand perfectly that I cannot at present

correspond with your father. I heartily wish that I could,

and hope the day may be not long distant when mists shall

have been cleared away, and we may know each other. But

I cannot preclude myself from the pleasure of sending

you these few lines to say that Mr. Q. has to-day, in

my presence, resigned any title that he ever had to the

wardenship of the hospital, and that the bishop has

assured me that it is his intention to offer it to your

esteemed father.

Will you, with my respectful compliments, ask him, who I

believe is now a fellow-visitor with you, to call on the

bishop either on Wednesday or Thursday, between ten and

one. _This is by the bishop's desire_. If you will so far

oblige me as to let me have a line naming either day, and

the hour which will suit Mr. Harding, I will take care

that the servants shall have orders to show him in without

delay. Perhaps I should say no more--but still I wish you

could make your father understand that no subject will be

mooted between his lordship and him which will refer at

all to the method in which he may choose to perform his

duty. I for one am persuaded that no clergyman could

perform it more satisfactorily than he did, or than he

will do again.

On a former occasion I was indiscreet and much too

impatient, considering your father's age and my own. I

hope he will not now refuse my apology. I still hope also

that with your aid and sweet pious labours we may live to

attach such a Sabbath-school to the old endowment as may,

by God's grace and furtherance, be a blessing to the poor

of this city.

You will see at once that this letter is confidential. The

subject, of course, makes it so. But, equally, of course,

it is for your parent's eye as well as for your own,

should you think proper to show it to him.

I hope my darling little friend Johnny is as strong as

ever--dear little fellow. Does he still continue his rude

assaults on those beautiful long silken tresses?

I can assure you your friends miss you from Barchester

sorely, but it would be cruel to begrudge you your sojourn

among flowers and fields during this truly sultry weather.

Pray believe me, my dear Mrs. Bold,

Yours most sincerely,

OBADIAH SLOPE

Barchester, Friday.

Now this letter, taken as a whole, and with the consideration that

Mr. Slope wished to assume a great degree of intimacy with Eleanor,

would not have been bad but for the allusion to the tresses.

Gentlemen do not write to ladies about their tresses unless they are

on very intimate terms indeed. But Mr. Slope could not be expected

to be aware of this. He longed to put a little affection into his

epistle, and yet he thought it injudicious, as the letter would, he

knew, be shown to Mr. Harding. He would have insisted that the letter

should be strictly private and seen by no eyes but Eleanor's own,

had he not felt that such an injunction would have been disobeyed.

He therefore restrained his passion, did not sign himself "yours

affectionately," and contented himself instead with the compliment

to the tresses.

Having finished his letter, he took it to Mrs. Bold's house and,

learning there, from the servant, that things were to be sent out

to Plumstead that afternoon, left it, with many injunctions, in her

hands.

We will now follow Mr. Slope so as to complete the day with him and

then return to his letter and its momentous fate in the next chapter.

There is an old song which gives us some very good advice about

courting:--

It's gude to be off with the auld luve

Before ye be on wi' the new.

Of the wisdom of this maxim Mr. Slope was ignorant, and accordingly,

having written his letter to Mrs. Bold, he proceeded to call upon the

Signora Neroni. Indeed, it was hard to say which was the old love

and which the new, Mr. Slope having been smitten with both so nearly

at the same time. Perhaps he thought it not amiss to have two strings

to his bow. But two strings to Cupid's bow are always dangerous to

him on whose behalf they are to be used. A man should remember that

between two stools he may fall to the ground.

But in sooth Mr. Slope was pursuing Mrs. Bold in obedience to his

better instincts, and the signora in obedience to his worser. Had

he won the widow and worn her, no one could have blamed him. You, O

reader, and I, and Eleanor's other friends would have received the

story of such a winning with much disgust and disappointment, but

we should have been angry with Eleanor, not with Mr. Slope. Bishop,

male and female, dean and chapter and diocesan clergy in full congress

could have found nothing to disapprove of in such an alliance.

Convocation itself, that mysterious and mighty synod, could in no wise

have fallen foul of it. The possession of £1000 a year and a beautiful

wife would not at all have hurt the voice of the pulpit charmer, or

lessened the grace and piety of the exemplary clergyman.

But not of such a nature were likely to be his dealings with the

Signora Neroni. In the first place he knew that her husband was

living, and therefore he could not woo her honestly. Then again she

had nothing to recommend her to his honest wooing, had such been

possible. She was not only portionless, but also from misfortune

unfitted to be chosen as the wife of any man who wanted a useful

mate. Mr. Slope was aware that she was a helpless, hopeless cripple.

But Mr. Slope could not help himself. He knew that he was wrong in

devoting his time to the back drawing-room in Dr. Stanhope's house.

He knew that what took place there would, if divulged, utterly ruin

him with Mrs. Bold. He knew that scandal would soon come upon his

heels and spread abroad among the black coats of Barchester some

tidings, exaggerated tidings, of the sighs which he poured into

the lady's ears. He knew that he was acting against the recognized

principles of his life, against those laws of conduct by which he

hoped to achieve much higher success. But, as we have said, he could

not help himself. Passion, for the first time in his life, passion

was too strong for him.

As for the signora, no such plea can be put forward for her, for in

truth she cared no more for Mr. Slope than she did for twenty others

who had been at her feet before him. She willingly, nay greedily,

accepted his homage. He was the finest fly that Barchester had

hitherto afforded to her web, and the signora was a powerful spider

that made wondrous webs, and could in no way live without catching

flies. Her taste in this respect was abominable, for she had no use

for the victims when caught. She could not eat them matrimonially,

as young lady flies do whose webs are most frequently of their

mothers' weaving. Nor could she devour them by any escapade of a

less legitimate description. Her unfortunate affliction precluded

her from all hope of levanting with a lover. It would be impossible

to run away with a lady who required three servants to move her from

a sofa.

The signora was subdued by no passion. Her time for love was gone.

She had lived out her heart, such heart as she had ever had, in her

early years, at an age when Mr. Slope was thinking of the second book

of Euclid and his unpaid bill at the buttery hatch. In age the lady

was younger than the gentleman, but in feelings, in knowledge of the

affairs of love, in intrigue, he was immeasurably her junior. It

was necessary to her to have some man at her feet. It was the one

customary excitement of her life. She delighted in the exercise of

power which this gave her; it was now nearly the only food for her

ambition; she would boast to her sister that she could make a fool

of any man, and the sister, as little imbued with feminine delicacy

as herself, good-naturedly thought it but fair that such amusement

should be afforded to a poor invalid who was debarred from the

ordinary pleasures of life.

Mr. Slope was madly in love but hardly knew it. The Signora spitted

him, as a boy does a cockchafer on a cork, that she might enjoy the

energetic agony of his gyrations. And she knew very well what she

was doing.

Mr. Slope having added to his person all such adornments as are

possible to a clergyman making a morning visit--such as a clean

necktie, clean handkerchief, new gloves, and a _soupçon_ of not

unnecessary scent--called about three o'clock at the doctor's door.

At about this hour the signora was almost always alone in the back

drawing-room. The mother had not come down. The doctor was out or

in his own room. Bertie was out, and Charlotte at any rate left the

room if anyone called whose object was specially with her sister.

Such was her idea of being charitable and sisterly.

Mr. Slope, as was his custom, asked for Mr. Stanhope, and was told, as

was the servant's custom, that the signora was in the drawing-room.

Upstairs he accordingly went. He found her, as he always did, lying on

her sofa with a French volume before her and a beautiful little inlaid

writing-case open on her table. At the moment of his entrance she was

in the act of writing.

"Ah, my friend," said she, putting out her left hand to him across

her desk, "I did not expect you to-day and was this very instant

writing to you--"

Mr. Slope, taking the soft, fair, delicate hand in his--and very soft

and fair and delicate it was--bowed over it his huge red head and

kissed it. It was a sight to see, a deed to record if the author

could fitly do it, a picture to put on canvas. Mr. Slope was big,

awkward, cumbrous, and, having his heart in his pursuit, was ill at

ease. The lady was fair, as we have said, and delicate; everything

about her was fine and refined; her hand in his looked like a rose

lying among carrots, and when he kissed it, he looked as a cow might

do on finding such a flower among her food. She was graceful as a

couchant goddess and, moreover, as self-possessed as Venus must have

been when courting Adonis.

Oh, that such grace and such beauty should have condescended to waste

itself on such a pursuit!

"I was in the act of writing to you," said she, "but now my scrawl

may go into the basket;" and she raised the sheet of gilded note-paper

from off her desk as though to tear it.

"Indeed it shall not," said he, laying the embargo of half a stone

weight of human flesh and blood upon the devoted paper. "Nothing

that you write for my eyes, signora, shall be so desecrated," and he

took up the letter, put that also among the carrots and fed on it,

and then proceeded to read it.

"Gracious me! Mr. Slope," said she, "I hope you don't mean to say

you keep all the trash I write to you. Half my time I don't know

what I write, and when I do, I know it is only fit for the back of

the fire. I hope you have not that ugly trick of keeping letters."

"At any rate, I don't throw them into a waste-paper basket. If

destruction is their doomed lot, they perish worthily, and are burnt

on a pyre, as Dido was of old."

"With a steel pen stuck through them, of course," said she, "to make

the simile more complete. Of all the ladies of my acquaintance I

think Lady Dido was the most absurd. Why did she not do as Cleopatra

did? Why did she not take out her ships and insist on going with

him? She could not bear to lose the land she had got by a swindle,

and then she could not bear the loss of her lover. So she fell

between two stools. Mr. Slope, whatever you do, never mingle love

and business."

Mr. Slope blushed up to his eyes and over his mottled forehead to

the very roots of his hair. He felt sure that the signora knew all

about his intentions with reference to Mrs Bold. His conscience told

him that he was detected. His doom was to be spoken; he was to be

punished for his duplicity, and rejected by the beautiful creature

before him. Poor man. He little dreamt that had all his intentions

with reference to Mrs. Bold been known to the signora, it would only

have added zest to that lady's amusement. It was all very well to

have Mr. Slope at her feet, to show her power by making an utter fool

of a clergyman, to gratify her own infidelity by thus proving the

little strength which religion had in controlling the passions even

of a religious man; but it would be an increased gratification if she

could be made to understand that she was at the same time alluring

her victim away from another, whose love if secured would be in every

way beneficent and salutary.

The Signora had indeed discovered, with the keen instinct of such a

woman, that Mr. Slope was bent on matrimony with Mrs. Bold, but in

alluding to Dido she had not thought of it. She instantly perceived,

however, from her lover's blushes, what was on his mind and was not

slow in taking advantage of it.

She looked him full in the face, not angrily, nor yet with a smile,

but with an intense and overpowering gaze; then, holding up her

forefinger and slightly shaking her head, she said:--

"Whatever you do, my friend, do not mingle love and business. Either

stick to your treasure and your city of wealth, or else follow your

love like a true man. But never attempt both. If you do, you'll

have to die with a broken heart as did poor Dido. Which is it to be

with you, Mr. Slope, love or money?"

Mr. Slope was not so ready with a pathetic answer as he usually was

with touching episodes in his extempore sermons. He felt that he

ought to say something pretty, something also that should remove the

impression on the mind of his lady-love. But he was rather put about

how to do it.

"Love," said he, "true overpowering love, must be the strongest

passion a man can feel; it must control every other wish, and put

aside every other pursuit. But with me love will never act in that

way unless it be returned;" and he threw upon the signora a look of

tenderness which was intended to make up for all the deficiencies of

his speech.

"Take my advice," said she. "Never mind love. After all, what is it?

The dream of a few weeks. That is all its joy. The disappointment of

a life is its Nemesis. Who was ever successful in true love? Success

in love argues that the love is false. True love is always despondent

or tragical. Juliet loved, Haidee loved, Dido loved, and what came of

it? Troilus loved and ceased to be a man."

"Troilus loved and was fooled," said the more manly chaplain. "A man

may love and yet not be a Troilus. All women are not Cressidas."

"No, all women are not Cressidas. The falsehood is not always on the

woman's side. Imogen was true, but how was she rewarded? Her lord

believed her to be the paramour of the first he who came near her in

his absence. Desdemona was true and was smothered. Ophelia was true

and went mad. There is no happiness in love, except at the end of

an English novel. But in wealth, money, houses, lands, goods, and

chattels, in the good things of this world, yes, in them there is

something tangible, something that can be retained and enjoyed."

"Oh, no," said Mr. Slope, feeling himself bound to enter some protest

against so very unorthodox a doctrine, "this world's wealth will make

no one happy."

"And what will make you happy--you--you?" said she, raising herself

up and speaking to him with energy across the table. "From what

source do you look for happiness? Do not say that you look for none.

I shall not believe you. It is a search in which every human being

spends an existence."

"And the search is always in vain," said Mr. Slope. "We look for

happiness on earth, while we ought to be content to hope for it in

heaven."

"Pshaw! You preach a doctrine which you know you don't believe.

It is the way with you all. If you know that there is no earthly

happiness, why do you long to be a bishop or a dean? Why do you

want lands and income?"

"I have the natural ambition of a man," said he.

"Of course you have, and the natural passions; and therefore I say

that you don't believe the doctrine you preach. St. Paul was an

enthusiast. He believed so that his ambition and passions did not

war against his creed. So does the Eastern fanatic who passes half

his life erect upon a pillar. As for me, I will believe in no belief

that does not make itself manifest by outward signs. I will think

no preaching sincere that is not recommended by the practice of the

preacher."

Mr. Slope was startled and horrified, but he felt that he could not

answer. How could he stand up and preach the lessons of his Master,

being there, as he was, on the devil's business? He was a true

believer, otherwise this would have been nothing to him. He had

audacity for most things, but he had not audacity to make a plaything

of the Lord's word. All this the signora understood, and felt much

interest as she saw her cockchafer whirl round upon her pin.

"Your wit delights in such arguments," said he, "but your heart and

your reason do not go along with them."

"My heart!" said she; "you quite mistake the principles of my

composition if you imagine that there is such a thing about me."

After all, there was very little that was false in anything that

the signora said. If Mr. Slope allowed himself to be deceived,

it was his own fault. Nothing could have been more open than her

declarations about herself.

The little writing-table with her desk was still standing before her,

a barrier, as it were, against the enemy. She was sitting as nearly

upright as she ever did, and he had brought a chair close to the

sofa, so that there was only the corner of the table between him and

her. It so happened that as she spoke her hand lay upon the table,

and as Mr. Slope answered her he put his hand upon hers.

"No heart!" said he. "That is a heavy charge which you bring against

yourself, and one of which I cannot find you guilty--"

She withdrew her hand, not quickly and angrily, as though insulted by

his touch, but gently and slowly.

"You are in no condition to give a verdict on the matter," said she,

"as you have not tried me. No, don't say that you intend doing so,

for you know you have no intention of the kind; nor indeed have I,

either. As for you, you will take your vows where they will result

in something more substantial than the pursuit of such a ghostlike,

ghastly love as mine--"

"Your love should be sufficient to satisfy the dream of a monarch,"

said Mr. Slope, not quite clear as to the meaning of his words.

"Say an archbishop, Mr. Slope," said she. Poor fellow! She was very

cruel to him. He went round again upon his cork on this allusion to

his profession. He tried, however, to smile and gently accused her

of joking on a matter, which was, he said, to him of such vital

moment.

"Why--what gulls do you men make of us," she replied. "How you fool

us to the top of our bent; and of all men you clergymen are the most

fluent of your honeyed, caressing words. Now look me in the face,

Mr. Slope, boldly and openly."

Mr. Slope did look at her with a languishing loving eye, and as he

did so he again put forth his hand to get hold of hers.

"I told you to look at me boldly, Mr. Slope, but confine your

boldness to your eyes."

"Oh, Madeline!" he sighed.

"Well, my name is Madeline," said she, "but none except my own family

usually call me so. Now look me in the face, Mr. Slope. Am I to

understand that you say you love me?"

Mr. Slope never had said so. If he had come there with any formed

plan at all, his intention was to make love to the lady without

uttering any such declaration. It was, however, quite impossible

that he should now deny his love. He had, therefore, nothing for it

but to go down on his knees distractedly against the sofa and swear

that he did love her with a love passing the love of man.

The signora received the assurance with very little palpitation or

appearance of surprise. "And now answer me another question," said

she. "When are you to be married to my dear friend Eleanor Bold?"

Poor Mr. Slope went round and round in mortal agony. In such a

condition as his it was really very hard for him to know what answer

to give. And yet no answer would be his surest condemnation. He

might as well at once plead guilty to the charge brought against him.

"And why do you accuse me of such dissimulation?" said he.

"Dissimulation! I said nothing of dissimulation. I made no charge

against you, and make none. Pray don't defend yourself to me. You

swear that you are devoted to my beauty, and yet you are on the eve

of matrimony with another. I feel this to be rather a compliment.

It is to Mrs. Bold that you must defend yourself. That you may

find difficult; unless, indeed, you can keep her in the dark. You

clergymen are cleverer than other men."

"Signora, I have told you that I loved you, and now you rail at me."

"Rail at you. God bless the man; what would he have? Come, answer

me this at your leisure--not without thinking now, but leisurely and

with consideration--are you not going to be married to Mrs. Bold?"

"I am not," said he. And as he said it he almost hated, with an

exquisite hatred, the woman whom he could not help loving with an

exquisite love.

"But surely you are a worshipper of hers?"

"I am not," said Mr. Slope, to whom the word worshipper was

peculiarly distasteful. The signora had conceived that it would be

so.

"I wonder at that," said she. "Do you not admire her? To my eye she

is the perfection of English beauty. And then she is rich, too. I

should have thought she was just the person to attract you. Come,

Mr. Slope, let me give you advice on this matter. Marry the charming

widow; she will be a good mother to your children and an excellent

mistress of a clergyman's household."

"Oh, signora, how can you be so cruel?"

"Cruel," said she, changing the voice of banter which she had been

using for one which was expressively earnest in its tone; "is that

cruelty?"

"How can I love another while my heart is entirely your own?"

"If that were cruelty, Mr. Slope, what might you say of me if I were

to declare that I returned your passion? What would you think if I

bound you even by a lover's oath to do daily penance at this couch

of mine? What can I give in return for a man's love? Ah, dear friend,

you have not realized the conditions of my fate."

Mr. Slope was not on his knees all this time. After his declaration

of love, he had risen from them as quickly as he thought consistent

with the new position which he now filled, and as he stood was

leaning on the back of his chair. This outburst of tenderness on the

signora's part quite overcame him and made him feel for the moment

that he could sacrifice everything to be assured of the love of the

beautiful creature before him, maimed, lame, and already married as

she was.

"And can I not sympathize with your lot?" said he, now seating

himself on her sofa and pushing away the table with his foot.

"Sympathy is so near to pity!" said she. "If you pity me, cripple as

I am, I shall spurn you from me."

"Oh, Madeline, I will only love you," and again he caught her hand

and devoured it with kisses. Now she did not draw it from him, but

sat there as he kissed it, looking at him with her great eyes, just

as a great spider would look at a great fly that was quite securely

caught.

"Suppose Signor Neroni were to come to Barchester," said she. "Would

you make his acquaintance?"

"Signor Neroni!" said he.

"Would you introduce him to the bishop, and Mrs. Proudie, and the

young ladies?" said she, again having recourse to that horrid

quizzing voice which Mr. Slope so particularly hated.

"Why do you ask such a question?" said he.

"Because it is necessary that you should know that there is a Signor

Neroni. I think you had forgotten it."

"If I thought that you retained for that wretch one particle of

the love of which he was never worthy, I would die before I would

distract you by telling you what I feel. No! Were your husband the

master of your heart, I might perhaps love you, but you should never

know it."

"My heart again! How you talk. And you consider then that if a

husband be not master of his wife's heart, he has no right to her

fealty; if a wife ceases to love, she may cease to be true. Is

that your doctrine on this matter, as a minister of the Church of

England?"

Mr. Slope tried hard within himself to cast off the pollution with

which he felt that he was defiling his soul. He strove to tear

himself away from the noxious siren that had bewitched him. But he

could not do it. He could not be again heart free. He had looked

for rapturous joy in loving this lovely creature, and he already

found that he met with little but disappointment and self-rebuke. He

had come across the fruit of the Dead Sea, so sweet and delicious to

the eye, so bitter and nauseous to the taste. He had put the apple

to his mouth, and it had turned to ashes between his teeth. Yet he

could not tear himself away. He knew, he could not but know, that

she jeered at him, ridiculed his love, and insulted the weakness

of his religion. But she half-permitted his adoration, and that

half-permission added such fuel to his fire that all the fountain of

his piety could not quench it. He began to feel savage, irritated,

and revengeful. He meditated some severity of speech, some taunt

that should cut her, as her taunts cut him. He reflected as he stood

there for a moment, silent before her, that if he desired to quell

her proud spirit, he should do so by being prouder even than herself;

that if he wished to have her at his feet suppliant for his love, it

behoved him to conquer her by indifference. All this passed through

his mind. As far as dead knowledge went, he knew, or thought he

knew, how a woman should be tamed. But when he essayed to bring

his tactics to bear, he failed like a child. What chance has dead

knowledge with experience in any of the transactions between man and

man? What possible chance between man and woman? Mr. Slope loved

furiously, insanely and truly, but he had never played the game of

love. The signora did not love at all, but she was up to every move

of the board. It was Philidor pitted against a schoolboy.

And so she continued to insult him, and he continued to bear it.

"Sacrifice the world for love!" she said in answer to some renewed

vapid declaration of his passion. "How often has the same thing been

said, and how invariably with the same falsehood!"

"Falsehood," said he. "Do you say that I am false to you? Do you

say that my love is not real?"

"False? Of course it is false, false as the father of falsehood--if

indeed falsehoods need a sire and are not self-begotten since the

world began. You are ready to sacrifice the world for love? Come

let us see what you will sacrifice. I care nothing for nuptial vows.

The wretch, I think you were kind enough to call him so, whom I

swore to love and obey is so base that he can only be thought of

with repulsive disgust. In the council chamber of my heart I have

divorced him. To me that is as good as though aged lords had gloated

for months over the details of his licentious life. I care nothing

for what the world can say. Will you be as frank? Will you take

me to your home as your wife? Will you call me Mrs. Slope before

bishop, dean, and prebendaries?" The poor tortured wretch stood

silent, not knowing what to say. "What! You won't do that. Tell

me, then, what part of the world is it that you will sacrifice for

my charms?"

"Were you free to marry, I would take you to my house to-morrow and

wish no higher privilege."

"I am free," said she, almost starting up in her energy. For though

there was no truth in her pretended regard for her clerical admirer,

there was a mixture of real feeling in the scorn and satire with

which she spoke of love and marriage generally. "I am free--free

as the winds. Come, will you take me as I am? Have your wish;

sacrifice the world, and prove yourself a true man."

Mr. Slope 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.