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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ