CHAPTER XLIV

Mrs. Bold at Home

Poor Mrs. Bold, when she got home from Ullathorne on the evening of

Miss Thorne's party, was very unhappy and, moreover, very tired.

Nothing fatigues the body so much as weariness of spirit, and

Eleanor's spirit was indeed weary.

Dr. Stanhope had civilly but not very cordially asked her in to tea,

and her manner of refusal convinced the worthy doctor that he need

not repeat the invitation. He had not exactly made himself a party

to the intrigue which was to convert the late Mr. Bold's patrimony

into an income for his hopeful son, but he had been well aware what

was going on. And he was well aware also, when he perceived that

Bertie declined accompanying them home in the carriage, that the

affair had gone off.

Eleanor was very much afraid that Charlotte would have darted out

upon her, as the prebendary got out at his own door, but Bertie had

thoughtfully saved her from this by causing the carriage to go round

by her own house. This also Dr. Stanhope understood and allowed to

pass by without remark.

When she got home, she found Mary Bold in the drawing-room with the

child in her lap. She rushed forward and, throwing herself on her

knees, kissed the little fellow till she almost frightened him.

"Oh, Mary, I am so glad you did not go. It was an odious party."

Now the question of Mary's going had been one greatly mooted between

them. Mrs. Bold, when invited, had been the guest of the Grantlys,

and Miss Thorne, who had chiefly known Eleanor at the hospital

or at Plumstead Rectory, had forgotten all about Mary Bold. Her

sister-in-law had implored her to go under her wing and had offered to

write to Miss Thorne, or to call on her. But Miss Bold had declined.

In fact, Mr. Bold had not been very popular with such people as the

Thornes, and his sister would not go among them unless she were

specially asked to do so.

"Well, then," said Mary cheerfully, "I have the less to regret."

"You have nothing to regret; but oh! Mary, I have--so much--so much;"

and then she began kissing her boy, whom her caresses had roused from

his slumbers. When she raised her head, Mary saw that the tears were

running down her cheeks.

"Good heavens, Eleanor, what is the matter? What has happened to

you--Eleanor--dearest Eleanor--what is the matter?" and Mary got up

with the boy still in her arms.

"Give him to me--give him to me," said the young mother. "Give him

to me, Mary," and she almost tore the child out of her sister's arms.

The poor little fellow murmured somewhat at the disturbance but

nevertheless nestled himself close into his mother's bosom.

"Here, Mary, take the cloak from me. My own, own darling, darling,

darling jewel. You are not false to me. Everybody else is false;

everybody else is cruel. Mamma will care for nobody, nobody, nobody,

but her own, own, own little man;" and she again kissed and pressed

the baby and cried till the tears ran down over the child's face.

"Who has been cruel to you, Eleanor?" said Mary. "I hope I have

not."

Now in this matter Eleanor had great cause for mental uneasiness.

She could not certainly accuse her loving sister-in-law of cruelty;

but she had to do that which was more galling: she had to accuse

herself of imprudence against which her sister-in-law had warned

her. Miss Bold had never encouraged Eleanor's acquaintance with Mr.

Slope, and she had positively discouraged the friendship of the

Stanhopes, as far as her usual gentle mode of speaking had permitted.

Eleanor had only laughed at her, however, when she said that she

disapproved of married women who lived apart from their husbands

and suggested that Charlotte Stanhope never went to church. Now,

however, Eleanor must either hold her tongue, which was quite

impossible, or confess herself to have been utterly wrong, which

was nearly equally so. So she staved off the evil day by more tears,

and consoled herself by inducing little Johnny to rouse himself

sufficiently to return her caresses.

"He is a darling--as true as gold. What would mamma do without him?

Mamma would lie down and die if she had not her own Johnny Bold to

give her comfort." This and much more she said of the same kind, and

for a time made no other answer to Mary's inquiries.

This kind of consolation from the world's deceit is very common.

Mothers obtain it from their children, and men from their dogs. Some

men even do so from their walking-sticks, which is just as rational.

How is it that we can take joy to ourselves in that we are not

deceived by those who have not attained the art to deceive us? In a

true man, if such can be found, or a true woman, much consolation may

indeed be taken.

In the caresses of her child, however, Eleanor did receive

consolation, and may ill befall the man who would begrudge it to

her. The evil day, however, was only postponed. She had to tell her

disagreeable tale to Mary, and she had also to tell it to her father.

Must it not, indeed, be told to the whole circle of her acquaintance

before she could be made to stand all right with them? At the

present moment there was no one to whom she could turn for comfort.

She hated Mr. Slope; that was a matter of course; in that feeling she

revelled. She hated and despised the Stanhopes; but that feeling

distressed her greatly. She had, as it were, separated herself from

her old friends to throw herself into the arms of this family; and

then how had they intended to use her? She could hardly reconcile

herself to her own father, who had believed ill of her. Mary Bold

had turned Mentor. That she could have forgiven had the Mentor

turned out to be in the wrong, but Mentors in the right are not to

be pardoned. She could not but hate the archdeacon, and now she

hated him worse than ever, for she must in some sort humble herself

before him. She hated her sister, for she was part and parcel of the

archdeacon. And she would have hated Mr. Arabin if she could. He

had pretended to regard her, and yet before her face he had hung over

that Italian woman as though there had been no beauty in the world

but hers--no other woman worth a moment's attention. And Mr. Arabin

would have to learn all this about Mr. Slope! She told herself that

she hated him, and she knew that she was lying to herself as she did

so. She had no consolation but her baby, and of that she made the

most. Mary, though she could not surmise what it was that had so

violently affected her sister-in-law, saw at once that her grief was

too great to be kept under control and waited patiently till the

child should be in his cradle.

"You'll have some tea, Eleanor," she said.

"Oh, I don't care," said she, though in fact she must have been very

hungry, for she had eaten nothing at Ullathorne.

Mary quietly made the tea, and buttered the bread, laid aside the

cloak, and made things look comfortable.

"He's fast asleep," said she; "you're very tired; let me take him up

to bed."

But Eleanor would not let her sister touch him. She looked wistfully

at her baby's eyes, saw that they were lost in the deepest slumber,

and then made a sort of couch for him on the sofa. She was

determined that nothing should prevail upon her to let him out of her

sight that night.

"Come, Nelly," said Mary, "don't be cross with me. I at least have

done nothing to offend you."

"I an't cross," said Eleanor.

"Are you angry then? Surely you can't be angry with me."

"No, I an't angry--at least not with you."

"If you are not, drink the tea I have made for you. I am sure you

must want it."

Eleanor did drink it, and allowed herself to be persuaded. She ate

and drank, and as the inner woman was recruited she felt a little

more charitable towards the world at large. At last she found words

to begin her story, and before she went to bed she had made a clean

breast of it and told everything--everything, that is, as to the

lovers she had rejected; of Mr. Arabin she said not a word.

"I know I was wrong," said she, speaking of the blow she had given to

Mr. Slope; "but I didn't know what he might do, and I had to protect

myself."

"He richly deserved it," said Mary.

"Deserved it!" said Eleanor, whose mind as regarded Mr. Slope was

almost bloodthirsty. "Had I stabbed him with a dagger, he would have

deserved it. But what will they say about it at Plumstead?"

"I don't think I should tell them," said Mary. Eleanor began to

think that she would not.

There could have been no kinder comforter than Mary Bold. There

was not the slightest dash of triumph about her when she heard of

the Stanhope scheme, nor did she allude to her former opinion when

Eleanor called her late friend Charlotte a base, designing woman.

She re-echoed all the abuse that was heaped on Mr. Slope's head and

never hinted that she had said as much before. "I told you so, I

told you so!" is the croak of a true Job's comforter. But Mary, when

she found her friend lying in her sorrow and scraping herself with

potsherds, forbore to argue and to exult. Eleanor acknowledged

the merit of the forbearance, and at length allowed herself to be

tranquilised.

On the next day she did not go out of the house. Barchester she

thought would be crowded with Stanhopes and Slopes; perhaps also

with Arabins and Grantlys. Indeed, there was hardly anyone among her

friends whom she could have met without some cause of uneasiness.

In the course of the afternoon she heard that the dean was dead, and

she also heard that Mr. Quiverful had been finally appointed to the

hospital.

In the evening her father came to her, and then the story, or as much

of it as she could bring herself to tell him, had to be repeated. He

was not in truth much surprised at Mr. Slope's effrontery, but he was

obliged to act as though he had been to save his daughter's feelings.

He was, however, anything but skilful in his deceit, and she saw

through it.

"I see," said she, "that you think it only in the common course of

things that Mr. Slope should have treated me in this way." She had

said nothing to him about the embrace, nor yet of the way in which it

had been met.

"I do not think it at all strange," said he, "that anyone should

admire my Eleanor."

"It is strange to me," said she, "that any man should have so much

audacity, without ever having received the slightest encouragement."

To this Mr. Harding answered nothing. With the archdeacon it would

have been the text for a rejoinder which would not have disgraced

Bildad the Shuhite.

"But you'll tell the archdeacon?" asked Mr. Harding.

"Tell him what?" said she sharply.

"Or Susan?" continued Mr. Harding. "You'll tell Susan; you'll

let them know that they wronged you in supposing that this man's

addresses would be agreeable to you."

"They may find that out their own way," said she; "I shall not ever

willingly mention Mr. Slope's name to either of them."

"But I may."

"I have no right to hinder you from doing anything that may be

necessary to your own comfort, but pray do not do it for my sake.

Dr. Grantly never thought well of me, and never will. I don't know

now that I am even anxious that he should do so."

And then they went to the affair of the hospital. "But is it true,

Papa?"

"What, my dear?" said he. "About the dean? Yes, I fear quite true.

Indeed I know there is no doubt about it."

"Poor Miss Trefoil, I am so sorry for her. But I did not mean that,"

said Eleanor. "But about the hospital, Papa?"

"Yes, my dear. I believe it is true that Mr. Quiverful is to have

it."

"Oh, what a shame."

"No, my dear, not at all, not at all a shame: I am sure I hope it

will suit him."

"But, Papa, you know it is a shame. After all your hopes, all your

expectations to get back to your old house, to see it given away in

this way to a perfect stranger!"

"My dear, the bishop had a right to give it to whom he pleased."

"I deny that, Papa. He had no such right. It is not as though you

were a candidate for a new piece of preferment. If the bishop has a

grain of justice--"

"The bishop offered it to me on his terms, and as I did not like the

terms, I refused it. After that, I cannot complain."

"Terms! He had no right to make terms."

"I don't know about that; but it seems he had the power. But to tell

you the truth, Nelly, I am as well satisfied as it is. When the

affair became the subject of angry discussion, I thoroughly wished to

be rid of it altogether."

"But you did want to go back to the old house, Papa. You told me so

yourself."

"Yes, my dear, I did. For a short time I did wish it. And I was

foolish in doing so. I am getting old now, and my chief worldly wish

is for peace and rest. Had I gone back to the hospital, I should

have had endless contentions with the bishop, contentions with

his chaplain, and contentions with the archdeacon. I am not up to

this now; I am not able to meet such troubles; and therefore I am

not ill-pleased to find myself left to the little church of St.

Cuthbert's. I shall never starve," added he, laughing, "as long as

you are here."

"But will you come and live with me, Papa?" she said earnestly,

taking him by both his hands. "If you will do that, if you will

promise that, I will own that you are right."

"I will dine with you to-day at any rate."

"No, but live here altogether. Give up that close, odious little

room in High Street."

"My dear, it's a very nice little room, and you are really quite

uncivil."

"Oh, Papa, don't joke. It's not a nice place for you. You say you

are growing old, though I am sure you are not."

"Am not I, my dear?"

"No, Papa, not old--not to say old. But you are quite old enough

to feel the want of a decent room to sit in. You know how lonely

Mary and I are here. You know nobody ever sleeps in the big front

bedroom. It is really unkind of you to remain up there alone, when

you are so much wanted here."

"Thank you, Nelly--thank you. But, my dear--"

"If you had been living here, Papa, with us, as I really think you

ought to have done, considering how lonely we are, there would have

been none of all this dreadful affair about Mr. Slope."

Mr. Harding, however, did not allow himself to be talked over into

giving up his own and only little _pied à terre_ in the High Street.

He promised to come and dine with his daughter, and stay with her,

and visit her, and do everything but absolutely live with her. It

did not suit the peculiar feelings of the man to tell his daughter

that though she had rejected Mr. Slope, and been ready to reject Mr.

Stanhope, some other more favoured suitor would probably soon appear,

and that on the appearance of such a suitor the big front bedroom

might perhaps be more frequently in requisition than at present. But

doubtless such an idea crossed his mind, and added its weight to

the other reasons which made him decide on still keeping the close,

odious little room in High Street.

The evening passed over quietly and in comfort. Eleanor was always

happier with her father than with anyone else. He had not, perhaps,

any natural taste for baby-worship, but he was always ready to

sacrifice himself, and therefore made an excellent third in a trio

with his daughter and Mary Bold in singing the praises of the

wonderful child.

They were standing together over their music in the evening, the baby

having again been put to bed upon the sofa, when the servant brought

in a very small note in a beautiful pink envelope. It quite filled

the room with perfume as it lay upon the small salver. Mary Bold and

Mrs. Bold were both at the piano, and Mr. Harding was sitting close

to them, with the violoncello between his legs, so that the elegancy

of the epistle was visible to them all.

"Please ma'am, Dr. Stanhope's coachman says he is to wait for an

answer," said the servant.

Eleanor got very red in the face as she took the note in her hand.

She had never seen the writing before. Charlotte's epistles, to

which she was well accustomed, were of a very different style and

kind. She generally wrote on large note-paper; she twisted up her

letters into the shape and sometimes into the size of cocked hats;

she addressed them in a sprawling, manly hand, and not unusually added

a blot or a smudge, as though such were her own peculiar sign-manual.

The address of this note was written in a beautiful female hand, and

the gummed wafer bore on it an impress of a gilt coronet. Though

Eleanor had never seen such a one before, she guessed that it came

from the signora. Such epistles were very numerously sent out from

any house in which the signora might happen to be dwelling, but they

were rarely addressed to ladies. When the coachman was told by the

lady's maid to take the letter to Mrs. Bold, he openly expressed his

opinion that there was some mistake about it. Whereupon the lady's

maid boxed the coachman's ears. Had Mr. Slope seen in how meek a

spirit the coachman took the rebuke, he might have learnt a useful

lesson, both in philosophy and religion.

The note was as follows. It may be taken as a faithful promise that

no further letter whatever shall be transcribed at length in these

pages.

MY DEAR MRS. BOLD,

May I ask you, as a great favour, to call on me to-morrow.

You can say what hour will best suit you, but quite early,

if you can. I need hardly say that if I could call upon

you, I should not take this liberty with you.

I partly know what occurred the other day, and I promise

you that you shall meet with no annoyance if you will come

to me. My brother leaves us for London to-day; from thence

he goes to Italy.

It will probably occur to you that I should not thus

intrude on you, unless I had that to say to you which may

be of considerable moment. Pray therefore excuse me, even

if you do not grant my request.

And believe me,

Very sincerely yours,

M. VESEY NERONI

Thursday Evening

The three of them sat in consultation on this epistle for some ten or

fifteen minutes, and then decided that Eleanor should write a line

saying that she would see the signora the next morning at twelve

o'clock.