THE CHRONICLES OF BARSETSHIRE & THE PALLISER NOVELS. Anthony Trollope
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“Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle,” said he, putting the child on one knee and working away with it as though he were turning a knifegrinder’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 fireplace, 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,