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 thus 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
thoughtfully saved her from this, by causing the carriage to go
round by her 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
aroused 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 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 an 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 even 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 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 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
tranquillised.
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 any one 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 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 any one 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 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 an 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 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 not 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 child, 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 the 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 if you will 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 I not, 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
bed-room. It is really unkind of you to remain 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 a 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
bed-room 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 any one 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 elegance 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
letter 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
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.