The Complete Chronicles of Barsetshire: (The Warden + Barchester Towers + Doctor Thorne + Framley Parsonage + The Small House at Allington + The Last Chronicle of Barset). Anthony Trollope

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      “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 tomorrow. 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 today, 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.

      CHAPTER XLV

       The Stanhopes at Home

      Table of Contents

      We must now return to the Stanhopes and see how they behaved themselves on their return from Ullathorne.

      Charlotte, who came back in the first homeward journey with her sister, waited in palpitating expectation till the carriage drove up to the door a second time. She did not run down, or stand at the window, or show in any outward manner that she looked for anything wonderful to occur, but when she heard the carriage wheels, she stood up with erect ears, listening for Eleanor’s footfall on the pavement, or the cheery sound of Bertie’s voice welcoming her in. Had she heard either, she would have felt that all was right, but neither sound was there for her to hear. She heard only her father’s slow step as he ponderously let himself down from the carriage and slowly walked along the hall, till he got into his own private room on the ground floor. “Send Miss Stanhope to me,” he said to the servant.

      “There’s something wrong now,” said Madeline, who was lying on her sofa in the back drawing-room.

      “It’s all up with Bertie,” replied Charlotte. “I know, I know,” she said to the servant as he brought up the message. “Tell my father I will be with him immediately.”

      “Bertie’s wooing has gone astray,” said Madeline. “I knew it would.”

      “It has been his own fault then. She was ready enough, I am quite sure,” said Charlotte with that sort of ill-nature which is not uncommon when one woman speaks of another.

      “What will you say to him now?” By “him,” the signora meant their father.

      “That will be as I find him. He was ready to pay two hundred pounds for Bertie to stave off the worst of his creditors, if this marriage had gone on. Bertie must now have the money instead and go and take his chance.”

      “Where is he now?”

      “Heaven knows! Smoking in the bottom of Mr. Thorne’s ha-ha, or philandering with some of those Miss Chadwicks. Nothing will ever make an impression on him. But he’ll be furious if I don’t go down.”

      “No, nothing ever will. But don’t be long, Charlotte, for I want my tea.”

      And so Charlotte went down to her father. There was a very black cloud on the old man’s brow — blacker than his daughter could ever yet remember to have seen there. He was sitting in his own armchair, not comfortably over the fire, but in the middle of the room, waiting till she should come and listen to him.

      “What has become of your brother?” he said as soon as the door was shut.

      “I should rather ask you,” said Charlotte. “I left you both at Ullathorne when I came away. What have you done with Mrs. Bold?”

      “Mrs. СКАЧАТЬ