CHAPTER XL

Ullathorne Sports--Act II

"That which has made them drunk has made me bold." 'Twas thus that

Mr. Slope encouraged himself, as he left the dining-room in pursuit

of Eleanor. He had not indeed seen in that room any person really

intoxicated, but there had been a good deal of wine drunk, and Mr.

Slope had not hesitated to take his share, in order to screw himself

up to the undertaking which he had in hand. He is not the first man

who has thought it expedient to call in the assistance of Bacchus on

such an occasion.

Eleanor was out through the window and on the grass before she

perceived that she was followed. Just at that moment the guests were

nearly all occupied at the tables. Here and there were to be seen a

constant couple or two, who preferred their own sweet discourse to

the jingle of glasses or the charms of rhetoric which fell from the

mouths of the Honourable George and the Bishop of Barchester; but the

grounds were as nearly vacant as Mr. Slope could wish them to be.

Eleanor saw that she was pursued, and as a deer, when escape is no

longer possible, will turn to bay and attack the hounds, so did she

turn upon Mr. Slope.

"Pray don't let me take you from the room," said she, speaking with

all the stiffness which she knew how to use. "I have come out to look

for a friend. I must beg of you, Mr. Slope, to go back."

But Mr. Slope would not be thus entreated. He had observed all day

that Mrs. Bold was not cordial to him, and this had to a certain

extent oppressed him. But he did not deduce from this any assurance

that his aspirations were in vain. He saw that she was angry with

him. Might she not be so because he had so long tampered with her

feelings--might it not arise from his having, as he knew was the

case, caused her name to be bruited about in conjunction with his own

without having given her the opportunity of confessing to the world

that henceforth their names were to be one and the same? Poor lady.

He had within him a certain Christian conscience-stricken feeling

of remorse on this head. It might be that he had wronged her by his

tardiness. He had, however, at the present moment imbibed too much

of Mr. Thorne's champagne to have any inward misgivings. He was right

in repeating the boast of Lady Macbeth: he was not drunk, but he was

bold enough for anything. It was a pity that in such a state he could

not have encountered Mrs. Proudie.

"You must permit me to attend you," said he; "I could not think of

allowing you to go alone."

"Indeed you must, Mr. Slope," said Eleanor still very stiffly, "for

it is my special wish to be alone."

The time for letting the great secret escape him had already come.

Mr. Slope saw that it must be now or never, and he was determined

that it should be now. This was not his first attempt at winning a

fair lady. He had been on his knees, looked unutterable things with

his eyes, and whispered honeyed words before this. Indeed, he was

somewhat an adept at these things, and had only to adapt to the

perhaps different taste of Mrs. Bold the well-remembered rhapsodies

which had once so much gratified Olivia Proudie.

"Do not ask me to leave you, Mrs. Bold," said he with an impassioned

look, impassioned and sanctified as well, with that sort of look

which is not uncommon with gentlemen of Mr. Slope's school and which

may perhaps be called the tender-pious. "Do not ask me to leave you

till I have spoken a few words with which my heart is full--which I

have come hither purposely to say."

Eleanor saw how it was now. She knew directly what it was she was

about to go through, and very miserable the knowledge made her. Of

course she could refuse Mr. Slope, and there would be an end of

that, one might say. But there would not be an end of it, as far as

Eleanor was concerned. The very fact of Mr. Slope's making an offer

to her would be a triumph to the archdeacon and, in a great measure,

a vindication of Mr. Arabin's conduct. The widow could not bring

herself to endure with patience the idea that she had been in the

wrong. She had defended Mr. Slope, she had declared herself quite

justified in admitting him among her acquaintance, had ridiculed the

idea of his considering himself as more than an acquaintance, and had

resented the archdeacon's caution in her behalf: now it was about

to be proved to her in a manner sufficiently disagreeable that the

archdeacon had been right, and she herself had been entirely wrong.

"I don't know what you can have to say to me, Mr. Slope, that you

could not have said when we were sitting at table just now;" and she

closed her lips, and steadied her eyeballs, and looked at him in a

manner that ought to have frozen him.

But gentlemen are not easily frozen when they are full of champagne,

and it would not at any time have been easy to freeze Mr. Slope.

"There are things, Mrs. Bold, which a man cannot well say before a

crowd; which perhaps he cannot well say at any time; which indeed he

may most fervently desire to get spoken, and which he may yet find

it almost impossible to utter. It is such things as these that I now

wish to say to you;" and then the tender-pious look was repeated,

with a little more emphasis even than before.

Eleanor had not found it practicable to stand stock still before the

dining-room window, there receive his offer in full view of Miss

Thorne's guests. She had therefore in self-defence walked on, and

thus Mr. Slope had gained his object of walking with her. He now

offered her his arm.

"Thank you, Mr. Slope, I am much obliged to you; but for the very

short time that I shall remain with you I shall prefer walking

alone."

"And must it be so short?" said he. "Must it be--"

"Yes," said Eleanor, interrupting him, "as short as possible, if you

please, sir."

"I had hoped, Mrs. Bold--I had hoped--"

"Pray hope nothing, Mr. Slope, as far as I am concerned; pray do not;

I do not know and need not know what hope you mean. Our acquaintance

is very slight, and will probably remain so. Pray, pray let that be

enough; there is at any rate no necessity for us to quarrel."

Mrs. Bold was certainly treating Mr. Slope rather cavalierly, and he

felt it so. She was rejecting him before he had offered himself, and

informing him at the same time that he was taking a great deal too

much on himself to be so familiar. She did not even make an attempt

From such a sharp and waspish word as "no"

To pluck the sting.

He was still determined to be very tender and very pious, seeing that,

in spite of all Mrs. Bold had said to him, he had not yet abandoned

hope; but he was inclined also to be somewhat angry. The widow was

bearing herself, as he thought, with too high a hand, was speaking of

herself in much too imperious a tone. She had clearly no idea that an

honour was being conferred on her. Mr. Slope would be tender as long

as he could, but he began to think if that failed it would not be

amiss if he also mounted himself for awhile on his high horse. Mr.

Slope could undoubtedly be very tender, but he could be very savage

also, and he knew his own abilities.

"That is cruel," said he, "and unchristian, too. The worst of us are

still bidden to hope. What have I done that you should pass on me so

severe a sentence?" And then he paused a moment, during which the

widow walked steadily on with measured steps, saying nothing further.

"Beautiful woman," at last he burst forth, "beautiful woman, you

cannot pretend to be ignorant that I adore you. Yes, Eleanor, yes, I

love you. I love you with the truest affection which man can bear to

woman. Next to my hopes of heaven are my hopes of possessing you."

(Mr. Slope's memory here played him false, or he would not have

omitted the deanery.) "How sweet to walk to heaven with you by my

side, with you for my guide, mutual guides. Say, Eleanor, dearest

Eleanor, shall we walk that sweet path together?"

Eleanor had no intention of ever walking together with Mr. Slope on

any other path than that special one of Miss Thorne's which they now

occupied, but as she had been unable to prevent the expression of Mr.

Slope's wishes and aspirations, she resolved to hear him out to the

end before she answered him.

"Ah, Eleanor," he continued, and it seemed to be his idea that as he

had once found courage to pronounce her Christian name, he could not

utter it often enough. "Ah, Eleanor, will it not be sweet, with the

Lord's assistance, to travel hand in hand through this mortal valley

which His mercies will make pleasant to us, till hereafter we shall

dwell together at the foot of His throne?" And then a more tenderly

pious glance than ever beamed from the lover's eyes. "Ah, Eleanor--"

"My name, Mr. Slope, is Mrs. Bold," said Eleanor, who, though

determined to hear out the tale of his love, was too much disgusted

by his blasphemy to be able to bear much more of it.

"Sweetest angel, be not so cold," said he, and as he said it the

champagne broke forth, and he contrived to pass his arm round her

waist. He did this with considerable cleverness, for up to this point

Eleanor had contrived with tolerable success to keep her distance from

him. They had got into a walk nearly enveloped by shrubs, and Mr.

Slope therefore no doubt considered that as they were now alone it was

fitting that he should give her some outward demonstration of that

affection of which he talked so much. It may perhaps be presumed that

the same stamp of measures had been found to succeed with Olivia

Proudie. Be this as it may, it was not successful with Eleanor Bold.

She sprang from him as she would have jumped from an adder, but she

did not spring far--not, indeed, beyond arm's length--and then, quick

as thought, she raised her little hand and dealt him a box on the

ear with such right goodwill that it sounded among the trees like a

miniature thunderclap.

And now it is to be feared that every well-bred reader of these pages

will lay down the book with disgust, feeling that, after all, the

heroine is unworthy of sympathy. She is a hoyden, one will say. At any

rate she is not a lady, another will exclaim. I have suspected her all

through, a third will declare; she has no idea of the dignity of a

matron, or of the peculiar propriety which her position demands. At

one moment she is romping with young Stanhope; then she is making eyes

at Mr. Arabin; anon she comes to fisticuffs with a third lover--and

all before she is yet a widow of two years' standing.

She cannot altogether be defended, and yet it may be averred that she

is not a hoyden, not given to romping nor prone to boxing. It were to

be wished devoutly that she had not struck Mr. Slope in the face. In

doing so she derogated from her dignity and committed herself. Had she

been educated in Belgravia, had she been brought up by any sterner

mentor than that fond father, had she lived longer under the rule of a

husband, she might, perhaps, have saved herself from this great fault.

As it was, the provocation was too much for her, the temptation to

instant resentment of the insult too strong. She was too keen in the

feeling of independence, a feeling dangerous for a young woman, but

one in which her position peculiarly tempted her to indulge. And then

Mr. Slope's face, tinted with a deeper dye than usual by the wine he

had drunk, simpering and puckering itself with pseudo-pity and tender

grimaces, seemed specially to call for such punishment. She had, too,

a true instinct as to the man; he was capable of rebuke in this way

and in no other. To him the blow from her little hand was as much

an insult as a blow from a man would have been to another. It went

directly to his pride. He conceived himself lowered in his dignity and

personally outraged. He could almost have struck at her again in his

rage. Even the pain was a great annoyance to him, and the feeling that

his clerical character had been wholly disregarded sorely vexed him.

There are such men: men who can endure no taint on their personal

self-respect, even from a woman; men whose bodies are to themselves

such sacred temples that a joke against them is desecration, and

a rough touch downright sacrilege. Mr. Slope was such a man, and

therefore the slap on the face that he got from Eleanor was, as

far as he was concerned, the fittest rebuke which could have been

administered to him.

But nevertheless, she should not have raised her hand against the

man. Ladies' hands, so soft, so sweet, so delicious to the touch, so

graceful to the eye, so gracious in their gentle doings, were not made

to belabour men's faces. The moment the deed was done Eleanor felt

that she had sinned against all propriety, and would have given little

worlds to recall the blow. In her first agony of sorrow she all but

begged the man's pardon. Her next impulse, however, and the one which

she obeyed, was to run away.

"I never, never will speak another word to you," she said, gasping

with emotion and the loss of breath which her exertion and violent

feelings occasioned her, and so saying she put foot to the ground and

ran quickly back along the path to the house.

But how shall I sing the divine wrath of Mr. Slope, or how invoke the

tragic muse to describe the rage which swelled the celestial bosom

of the bishop's chaplain? Such an undertaking by no means befits the

low-heeled buskin of modern fiction. The painter put a veil over

Agamemnon's face when called on to depict the father's grief at the

early doom of his devoted daughter. The god, when he resolved to

punish the rebellious winds, abstained from mouthing empty threats.

We will not attempt to tell with what mighty surgings of the inner

heart Mr. Slope swore to revenge himself on the woman who had

disgraced him, nor will we vainly strive to depict his deep agony of

soul.

There he is, however, alone in the garden walk, and we must contrive

to bring him out of it. He was not willing to come forth quite at

once. His cheek was stinging with the weight of Eleanor's fingers,

and he fancied that everyone who looked at him would be able to

see on his face the traces of what he had endured. He stood awhile,

becoming redder and redder with rage. He stood motionless, undecided,

glaring with his eyes, thinking of the pains and penalties of Hades,

and meditating how he might best devote his enemy to the infernal

gods with all the passion of his accustomed eloquence. He longed in

his heart to be preaching at her. 'Twas thus that he was ordinarily

avenged of sinning mortal men and women. Could he at once have

ascended his Sunday rostrum and fulminated at her such denunciations

as his spirit delighted in, his bosom would have been greatly eased.

But how preach to Mr. Thorne's laurels, or how preach indeed at all

in such a vanity fair as this now going on at Ullathorne? And then

he began to feel a righteous disgust at the wickedness of the doings

around him. He had been justly chastised for lending, by his presence,

a sanction to such worldly lures. The gaiety of society, the mirth of

banquets, the laughter of the young, and the eating and drinking of

the elders were, for awhile, without excuse in his sight. What had he

now brought down upon himself by sojourning thus in the tents of the

heathen? He had consorted with idolaters round the altars of Baal, and

therefore a sore punishment had come upon him. He then thought of the

Signora Neroni, and his soul within him was full of sorrow. He had an

inkling--a true inkling--that he was a wicked, sinful man, but it led

him in no right direction; he could admit no charity in his heart.

He felt debasement coming on him, and he longed to shake it off, to

rise up in his stirrup, to mount to high places and great power, that

he might get up into a mighty pulpit and preach to the world a loud

sermon against Mrs. Bold.

There he stood fixed to the gravel for about ten minutes. Fortune

favoured him so far that no prying eyes came to look upon him in his

misery. Then a shudder passed over his whole frame; he collected

himself and slowly wound his way round to the lawn, advancing along

the path and not returning in the direction which Eleanor had taken.

When he reached the tent, he found the bishop standing there in

conversation with the Master of Lazarus. His lordship had come out

to air himself after the exertion of his speech.

"This is very pleasant--very pleasant, my lord, is it not?" said

Mr. Slope with his most gracious smile, pointing to the tent; "very

pleasant. It is delightful to see so many persons enjoying themselves

so thoroughly."

Mr. Slope thought he might force the bishop to introduce him to Dr.

Gwynne. A very great example had declared and practised the wisdom of

being everything to everybody, and Mr. Slope was desirous of following

it. His maxim was never to lose a chance. The bishop, however, at the

present moment was not very anxious to increase Mr. Slope's circle

of acquaintance among his clerical brethren. He had his own reasons

for dropping any marked allusion to his domestic chaplain, and he

therefore made his shoulder rather cold for the occasion.

"Very, very," said he without turning round, or even deigning to look

at Mr. Slope. "And therefore, Dr. Gwynne, I really think that you will

find that the hebdomadal board will exercise as wide and as general an

authority as at the present moment. I, for one, Dr. Gwynne--"

"Dr. Gwynne," said Mr. Slope, raising his hat and resolving not to

be outwitted by such an insignificant little goose as the Bishop of

Barchester.

The Master of Lazarus also raised his hat and bowed very politely to

Mr. Slope. There is not a more courteous gentleman in the queen's

dominions than the Master of Lazarus.

"My lord," said Mr. Slope, "pray do me the honour of introducing me

to Dr. Gwynne. The opportunity is too much in my favour to be lost."

The bishop had no help for it. "My chaplain, Dr. Gwynne," said he,

"my present chaplain, Mr. Slope." He certainly made the introduction

as unsatisfactory to the chaplain as possible, and by the use of the

word "present" seemed to indicate that Mr. Slope might probably not

long enjoy the honour which he now held. But Mr. Slope cared nothing

for this. He understood the innuendo, and disregarded it. It might

probably come to pass that he would be in a situation to resign his

chaplaincy before the bishop was in a situation to dismiss him from

it. What need the future Dean of Barchester care for the bishop, or

for the bishop's wife? Had not Mr. Slope, just as he was entering Dr.

Stanhope's carriage, received an all-important note from Tom Towers

of "The Jupiter"? Had he not that note this moment in his pocket?

So disregarding the bishop, he began to open out a conversation with

the Master of Lazarus.

But suddenly an interruption came, not altogether unwelcome to Mr.

Slope. One of the bishop's servants came up to his master's shoulder

with a long, grave face and whispered into the bishop's ear.

"What is it, John?" said the bishop.

"The dean, my lord; he is dead."

Mr. Slope had no further desire to converse with the Master of

Lazarus, and was very soon on his road back to Barchester.

Eleanor, as we have said, having declared her intention of never

holding further communication with Mr. Slope, ran hurriedly back

towards the house. The thought, however, of what she had done grieved

her greatly, and she could not abstain from bursting into tears.

'Twas thus she played the second act in that day's melodrama.