THE CHRONICLES OF BARSETSHIRE & THE PALLISER NOVELS. Anthony Trollope

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 tranquilised.

      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 anyone 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 in 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 anyone 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 that 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 am 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 to 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 no 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 dear, 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 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 will you 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 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