CHAPTER XLVI

Mr. Slope's Parting Interview with the Signora

On the following day the signora was in her pride. She was dressed

in her brightest of morning dresses, and had quite a levée round

her couch. It was a beautifully bright October afternoon; all the

gentlemen of the neighbourhood were in Barchester, and those who

had the entry of Dr. Stanhope's house were in the signora's back

drawing-room. Charlotte and Mrs. Stanhope were in the front room, and

such of the lady's squires as could not for the moment get near the

centre of attraction had to waste their fragrance on the mother and

sister.

The first who came and the last to leave was Mr. Arabin. This was the

second visit he had paid to Madame Neroni since he had met her at

Ullathorne. He came, he knew not why, to talk about, he knew not what.

But, in truth, the feelings which now troubled him were new to him,

and he could not analyse them. It may seem strange that he should

thus come dangling about Madame Neroni because he was in love with

Mrs. Bold; but it was nevertheless the fact; and though he could not

understand why he did so, Madame Neroni understood it well enough.

She had been gentle and kind to him and had encouraged his staying.

Therefore he stayed on. She pressed his hand when he first greeted

her; she made him remain near her and whispered to him little

nothings. And then her eye, brilliant and bright, now mirthful,

now melancholy, and invincible in either way! What man with warm

feelings, blood unchilled, and a heart not guarded by a triple steel

of experience could have withstood those eyes! The lady, it is true,

intended to do him no mortal injury; she merely chose to inhale a

slight breath of incense before she handed the casket over to another.

Whether Mrs. Bold would willingly have spared even so much is another

question.

And then came Mr. Slope. All the world now knew that Mr. Slope was a

candidate for the deanery and that he was generally considered to be

the favourite. Mr. Slope, therefore, walked rather largely upon the

earth. He gave to himself a portly air, such as might become a dean,

spoke but little to other clergymen, and shunned the bishop as much as

possible. How the meagre little prebendary, and the burly chancellor,

and all the minor canons and vicars choral, ay, and all the

choristers, too, cowered and shook and walked about with long faces

when they read or heard of that article in "The Jupiter." Now were

coming the days when nothing would avail to keep the impure spirit

from the cathedral pulpit. That pulpit would indeed be his own.

Precentors, vicars, and choristers might hang up their harps on the

willows. Ichabod! Ichabod! The glory of their house was departing from

them.

Mr. Slope, great as he was with embryo grandeur, still came to see

the signora. Indeed, he could not keep himself away. He dreamed of

that soft hand which he had kissed so often, and of that imperial brow

which his lips had once pressed; and he then dreamed also of further

favours.

And Mr. Thorne was there also. It was the first visit he had ever

paid to the signora, and he made it not without due preparation. Mr.

Thorne was a gentleman usually precise in his dress and prone to make

the most of himself in an unpretending way. The grey hairs in his

whiskers were eliminated perhaps once a month; those on his head were

softened by a mixture which we will not call a dye--it was only a

wash. His tailor lived in St. James's Street, and his bootmaker at

the corner of that street and Piccadilly. He was particular in the

article of gloves, and the getting up of his shirts was a matter not

lightly thought of in the Ullathorne laundry. On the occasion of the

present visit he had rather overdone his usual efforts, and caused

some little uneasiness to his sister, who had not hitherto received

very cordially the proposition for a lengthened visit from the

signora at Ullathorne.

There were others also there--young men about the city who had not

much to do and who were induced by the lady's charms to neglect that

little--but all gave way to Mr. Thorne, who was somewhat of a grand

signor, as a country gentleman always is in a provincial city.

"Oh, Mr. Thorne, this is so kind of you!" said the signora. "You

promised to come, but I really did not expect it. I thought you

country gentlemen never kept your pledges."

"Oh, yes, sometimes," said Mr. Thorne, looking rather sheepish and

making his salutations a little too much in the style of the last

century.

"You deceive none but your consti--stit--stit--what do you call the

people that carry you about in chairs and pelt you with eggs and

apples when they make you a member of Parliament?"

"One another also, sometimes, signora," said Mr. Slope, with a very

deanish sort of smirk on his face. "Country gentlemen do deceive one

another sometimes, don't they, Mr. Thorne?"

Mr. Thorne gave him a look which undeaned him completely for the

moment, but he soon remembered his high hopes and, recovering himself

quickly, sustained his probable coming dignity by a laugh at Mr.

Thorne's expense.

"I never deceive a lady, at any rate," said Mr. Thorne, "especially

when the gratification of my own wishes is so strong an inducement to

keep me true, as it now is."

Mr. Thorne went on thus awhile with antediluvian grimaces and

compliments which he had picked up from Sir Charles Grandison, and

the signora at every grimace and at every bow smiled a little smile

and bowed a little bow. Mr. Thorne, however, was kept standing at

the foot of the couch, for the new dean sat in the seat of honour

near the table. Mr. Arabin the while was standing with his back to

the fire, his coat-tails under his arms, gazing at her with all his

eyes--not quite in vain, for every now and again a glance came up at

him, bright as a meteor out of heaven.

"Oh, Mr. Thorne, you promised to let me introduce my little girl to

you. Can you spare a moment--will you see her now?"

Mr. Thorne assured her that he could and would see the young lady with

the greatest pleasure in life. "Mr. Slope, might I trouble you to ring

the bell?" said she, and when Mr. Slope got up, she looked at Mr.

Thorne and pointed to the chair. Mr. Thorne, however, was much too slow

to understand her, and Mr. Slope would have recovered his seat had not

the signora, who never chose to be unsuccessful, somewhat summarily

ordered him out of it.

"Oh, Mr. Slope, I must ask you to let Mr. Thorne sit here just for a

moment or two. I am sure you will pardon me. We can take a liberty

with you this week. Next week, you know, when you move into the dean's

house, we shall all be afraid of you."

Mr. Slope, with an air of much indifference, rose from his seat and,

walking into the next room, became greatly interested in Mrs.

Stanhope's worsted work.

And then the child was brought in. She was a little girl, about eight

years of age, like her mother, only that her enormous eyes were

black, and her hair quite jet. Her complexion, too, was very dark and

bespoke her foreign blood. She was dressed in the most outlandish and

extravagant way in which clothes could be put on a child's back. She

had great bracelets on her naked little arms, a crimson fillet braided

with gold round her head, and scarlet shoes with high heels. Her dress

was all flounces and stuck out from her as though the object were to

make it lie off horizontally from her little hips. It did not nearly

cover her knees, but this was atoned for by a loose pair of drawers,

which seemed made throughout of lace; then she had on pink silk

stockings. It was thus that the last of the Neros was habitually

dressed at the hour when visitors were wont to call.

"Julia, my love," said the mother--Julia was ever a favourite name

with the ladies of that family. "Julia, my love, come here. I was

telling you about the beautiful party poor Mamma went to. This is Mr.

Thorne; will you give him a kiss, dearest?"

Julia put up her face to be kissed, as she did to all her mother's

visitors, and then Mr. Thorne found that he had got her and, what was

much more terrific to him, all her finery, into his arms. The lace

and starch crumpled against his waistcoat and trousers, the greasy

black curls hung upon his cheek, and one of the bracelet clasps

scratched his ear. He did not at all know how to hold so magnificent

a lady, nor holding her what to do with her. However, he had on other

occasions been compelled to fondle little nieces and nephews, and now

set about the task in the mode he always had used.

"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle," said he, putting the child on

one knee and working away with it as though he were turning a

knife-grinder's wheel with his foot.

"Mamma, Mamma," said Julia crossly, "I don't want to be diddle

diddled. Let me go, you naughty old man, you."

Poor Mr. Thorne put the child down quietly on the ground and drew

back his chair; Mr. Slope, who had returned to the pole star that

attracted him, laughed aloud; Mr. Arabin winced and shut his eyes;

and the signora pretended not to hear her daughter.

"Go to Aunt Charlotte, lovey," said the mamma, "and ask her if it is

not time for you to go out."

But little Miss Julia, though she had not exactly liked the nature of

Mr. Thorne's attention, was accustomed to be played with by gentlemen,

and did not relish the idea of being sent so soon to her aunt.

"Julia, go when I tell you, my dear." But Julia still went pouting

about the room. "Charlotte, do come and take her," said the signora.

"She must go out, and the days get so short now." And thus ended the

much-talked-of interview between Mr. Thorne and the last of the Neros.

Mr. Thorne recovered from the child's crossness sooner than from Mr.

Slope's laughter. He could put up with being called an old man by an

infant, but he did not like to be laughed at by the bishop's chaplain,

even though that chaplain was about to become a dean. He said nothing,

but he showed plainly enough that he was angry.

The signora was ready enough to avenge him. "Mr. Slope," said she,

"I hear that you are triumphing on all sides."

"How so?" said he, smiling. He did not dislike being talked to about

the deanery, though, of course, he strongly denied the imputation.

"You carry the day both in love and war." Mr. Slope hereupon did not

look quite so satisfied as he had done.

"Mr. Arabin," continued the signora, "don't you think Mr. Slope is a

very lucky man?"

"Not more so than he deserves, I am sure," said Mr. Arabin.

"Only think, Mr. Thorne, he is to be our new dean; of course we all

know that."

"Indeed, signora," said Mr. Slope, "we all know nothing about it.

I can assure you I myself--"

"He is to be the new dean--there is no manner of doubt of it, Mr.

Thorne."

"Hum!" said Mr. Thorne.

"Passing over the heads of old men like my father and Archdeacon

Grantly--"

"Oh--oh!" said Mr. Slope.

"The archdeacon would not accept it," said Mr. Arabin, whereupon Mr.

Slope smiled abominably and said, as plainly as a look could speak,

that the grapes were sour.

"Going over all our heads," continued the signora, "for of course I

consider myself one of the chapter."

"If I am ever dean," said Mr. Slope, "that is, were I ever to become

so, I should glory in such a canoness."

"Oh, Mr. Slope, stop; I haven't half done. There is another canoness

for you to glory in. Mr. Slope is not only to have the deanery but a

wife to put in it."

Mr. Slope again looked disconcerted.

"A wife with a large fortune, too. It never rains but it pours, does

it, Mr. Thorne?"

"No, never," said Mr. Thorne, who did not quite relish talking about

Mr. Slope and his affairs.

"When will it be, Mr. Slope?"

"When will what be?" said he.

"Oh, we know when the affair of the dean will be: a week will settle

that. The new hat, I have no doubt, has been already ordered. But when

will the marriage come off?"

"Do you mean mine or Mr. Arabin's?" said he, striving to be facetious.

"Well, just then I meant yours, though, perhaps, after all, Mr.

Arabin's may be first. But we know nothing of him. He is too close

for any of us. Now all is open and above board with you--which, by

the by, Mr. Arabin, I beg to tell you I like much the best. He who

runs can read that Mr. Slope is a favoured lover. Come, Mr. Slope,

when is the widow to be made Mrs. Dean?"

To Mr. Arabin this badinage was peculiarly painful, and yet he could

not tear himself away and leave it. He believed, still believed with

that sort of belief which the fear of a thing engenders, that Mrs.

Bold would probably become the wife of Mr. Slope. Of Mr. Slope's

little adventure in the garden he knew nothing. For aught he knew,

Mr. Slope might have had an adventure of quite a different character.

He might have thrown himself at the widow's feet, been accepted, and

then returned to town a jolly, thriving wooer. The signora's jokes

were bitter enough to Mr. Slope, but they were quite as bitter to Mr.

Arabin. He still stood leaning against the fire-place, fumbling with

his hands in his trousers pockets.

"Come, come, Mr. Slope, don't be so bashful," continued the signora.

"We all know that you proposed to the lady the other day at

Ullathorne. Tell us with what words she accepted you. Was it with a

simple 'yes,' or with the two 'no no's' which make an affirmative?

Or did silence give consent? Or did she speak out with that spirit

which so well becomes a widow and say openly, 'By my troth, sir, you

shall make me Mrs. Slope as soon as it is your pleasure to do so.'"

Mr. Slope had seldom in his life felt himself less at his ease.

There sat Mr. Thorne, laughing silently. There stood his old

antagonist, Mr. Arabin, gazing at him with all his eyes. There round

the door between the two rooms were clustered a little group of

people, including Miss Stanhope and the Revs. Messrs. Grey and Green,

all listening to his discomfiture. He knew that it depended solely

on his own wit whether or no he could throw the joke back upon the

lady. He knew that it stood him to do so if he possibly could, but

he had not a word. "'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all."

He felt on his cheek the sharp points of Eleanor's fingers, and

did not know who might have seen the blow, who might have told the

tale to this pestilent woman who took such delight in jeering him.

He stood there, therefore, red as a carbuncle and mute as a fish;

grinning sufficiently to show his teeth; an object of pity.

But the signora had no pity; she knew nothing of mercy. Her present

object was to put Mr. Slope down, and she was determined to do it

thoroughly, now that she had him in her power.

"What, Mr. Slope, no answer? Why it can't possibly be that the woman

has been fool enough to refuse you? She can't surely be looking

out after a bishop. But I see how it is, Mr. Slope. Widows are

proverbially cautious. You should have let her alone till the new hat

was on your head, till you could show her the key of the deanery."

"Signora," said he at last, trying to speak in a tone of dignified

reproach, "you really permit yourself to talk on solemn subjects in a

very improper way."

"Solemn subjects--what solemn subject? Surely a dean's hat is not such

a solemn subject."

"I have no aspirations such as those you impute to me. Perhaps you

will drop the subject."

"Oh, certainly, Mr. Slope; but one word first. Go to her again with

the prime minister's letter in your pocket. I'll wager my shawl to

your shovel she does not refuse you then."

"I must say, signora, that I think you are speaking of the lady in a

very unjustifiable manner."

"And one other piece of advice, Mr. Slope; I'll only offer you one

other;" and then she commenced singing--

"It's gude to be merry and wise, Mr. Slope;

It's gude to be honest and true;

It's gude to be off with the old love--Mr. Slope,

Before you are on with the new.

"Ha, ha, ha!"

And the signora, throwing herself back on her sofa, laughed merrily.

She little recked how those who heard her would, in their own

imaginations, fill up the little history of Mr. Slope's first love.

She little cared that some among them might attribute to her the

honour of his earlier admiration. She was tired of Mr. Slope and

wanted to get rid of him; she had ground for anger with him, and she

chose to be revenged.

How Mr. Slope got out of that room he never himself knew. He did

succeed ultimately, and probably with some assistance, in getting his

hat and escaping into the air. At last his love for the signora was

cured. Whenever he again thought of her in his dreams, it was not as

of an angel with azure wings. He connected her rather with fire and

brimstone, and though he could still believe her to be a spirit, he

banished her entirely out of heaven and found a place for her among

the infernal gods. When he weighed in the balance, as he not seldom

did, the two women to whom he had attached himself in Barchester, the

pre-eminent place in his soul's hatred was usually allotted to the

signora.