wrath, however, has in some degree been mitigated, and I regret to say that these ladies allowed Mr. Slope to be his own apologist. About a fortnight after the sermon had been preached, they were both of them not a little surprised by hearing Mr. Slope announced, as the page in buttons opened Mrs. Bold’s drawing-room door. Indeed, what living man could, by a mere morning visit, have surprised them more? Here was the great enemy of all that was good in Barchester coming into their own drawing-room, and they had no strong arm, no ready tongue, near at hand for their protection. The widow snatched her baby out of its cradle into her lap, and Mary Bold stood up ready to die manfully in that baby’s behalf, should, under any circumstances, such a sacrifice become necessary.
In this manner was Mr. Slope received. But when he left, he was allowed by each lady to take her hand and to make his adieux as gentlemen do who have been graciously entertained! Yes, he shook hands with them, and was curtseyed out courteously, the buttoned page opening the door as he would have done for the best canon of them all. He had touched the baby’s little hand and blessed him with a fervid blessing; he had spoken to the widow of her early sorrows, and Eleanor’s silent tears had not rebuked him; he had told Mary Bold that her devotion would be rewarded, and Mary Bold had heard the praise without disgust. And how had he done all this? How had he so quickly turned aversion into, at any rate, acquaintance? How had he overcome the enmity with which these ladies had been ready to receive him, and made his peace with them so easily?
My readers will guess from what I have written that I myself do not like Mr. Slope, but I am constrained to admit that he is a man of parts. He knows how to say a soft word in the proper place; he knows how to adapt his flattery to the ears of his hearers; he knows the wiles of the serpent, and he uses them. Could Mr. Slope have adapted his manners to men as well as to women, could he ever have learnt the ways of a gentleman, he might have risen to great things.
He commenced his acquaintance with Eleanor by praising her father. He had, he said, become aware that he had unfortunately offended the feelings of a man of whom he could not speak too highly; he would not now allude to a subject which was probably too serious for drawing-room conversation, but he would say that it had been very far from him to utter a word in disparagement of a man of whom all the world, at least the clerical world, spoke so highly as it did of Mr. Harding. And so he went on, unsaying a great deal of his sermon, expressing his highest admiration for the precentor’s musical talents, eulogizing the father and the daughter and the sister-in-law, speaking in that low silky whisper which he always had specially prepared for feminine ears, and, ultimately, gaining his object. When he left, he expressed a hope that he might again be allowed to call; and though Eleanor gave no verbal assent to this, she did not express dissent: and so Mr. Slope’s right to visit at the widow’s house was established.
The day after this visit Eleanor told her father of it and expressed an opinion that Mr. Slope was not quite so black as he had been painted. Mr. Harding opened his eyes rather wider than usual when he heard what had occurred, but he said little; he could not agree in any praise of Mr. Slope, and it was not his practice to say much evil of anyone. He did not, however, like the visit, and simple-minded as he was, he felt sure that Mr. Slope had some deeper motive than the mere pleasure of making soft speeches to two ladies.
Mr. Harding, however, had come to see his daughter with other purpose than that of speaking either good or evil of Mr. Slope. He had come to tell her that the place of warden in Hiram’s Hospital was again to be filled up, and that in all probability he would once more return to his old home and his twelve bedesmen.
“But,” said he, laughing, “I shall be greatly shorn of my ancient glory.”
“Why so, Papa?”
“This new act of Parliament that is to put us all on our feet again,” continued he, “settles my income at four hundred and fifty pounds per annum.”
“Four hundred and fifty,” said she, “instead of eight hundred! Well, that is rather shabby. But still, Papa, you’ll have the dear old house and the garden?”
“My dear,” said he, “it’s worth twice the money;” and as he spoke he showed a jaunty kind of satisfaction in his tone and manner and in the quick, pleasant way in which he paced Eleanor’s drawing-room. “It’s worth twice the money. I shall have the house and the garden and a larger income than I can possibly want.”
“At any rate, you’ll have no extravagant daughter to provide for;” and as she spoke, the young widow put her arm within his, and made him sit on the sofa beside her; “at any rate, you’ll not have that expense.”
“No, my dear, and I shall be rather lonely without her; but we won’t think of that now. As regards income, I shall have plenty for all I want. I shall have my old house, and I don’t mind owning now that I have felt sometimes the inconvenience of living in a lodging. Lodgings are very nice for young men, but at my time of life there is a want of—I hardly know what to call it, perhaps not respectability—”
“Oh, Papa! I’m sure there’s been nothing like that. Nobody has thought it; nobody in all Barchester has been more respected than you have been since you took those rooms in High Street. Nobody! Not the dean in his deanery, or the archdeacon out at Plumstead.”
“The archdeacon would not be much obliged to you if he heard you,” said he, smiling somewhat at the exclusive manner in which his daughter confined her illustration to the church dignitaries of the chapter of Barchester; “but at any rate I shall be glad to get back to the old house. Since I heard that it was all settled, I have begun to fancy that I can’t be comfortable without my two sitting-rooms.”
“Come and stay with me, Papa, till it is settled—there’s a dear Papa.”
“Thank ye, Nelly. But no, I won’t do that. It would make two movings. I shall be very glad to get back to my old men again. Alas! alas! There have six of them gone in these few last years. Six out of twelve! And the others I fear have had but a sorry life of it there. Poor Bunce, poor old Bunce!”
Bunce was one of the surviving recipients of Hiram’s charity, an old man, now over ninety, who had long been a favourite of Mr. Harding’s.
“How happy old Bunce will be,” said Mrs. Bold, clapping her soft hands softly. “How happy they all will be to have you back again. You may be sure there will soon be friendship among them again when you are there.”
“But,” said he, half-laughing, “I am to have new troubles, which will be terrible to me. There are to be twelve old women, and a matron. How shall I manage twelve women and a matron!”
“The matron will manage the women, of course.”
“And who’ll manage the matron?” said he.
“She won’t want to be managed. She’ll be a great lady herself, I suppose. But, Papa, where will the matron live? She is not to live in the warden’s house with you, is she?”
“Well, I hope not, my dear.”
“Oh, Papa, I tell you fairly, I won’t have a matron for a new stepmother.”
“You shan’t, my dear; that is, if I can help it. But they are going to build another house for the matron and the women, and I believe they haven’t even fixed yet on the site of the building.”
“And have they appointed the matron?” said Eleanor.
“They haven’t appointed the warden yet,” replied he.
“But there’s no doubt about that, I suppose,” said his daughter.
Mr. Harding explained that he thought there was no doubt; that the archdeacon had declared as much, saying that the bishop and his chaplain between them had not the power to appoint anyone else, even if they had the will to do so, and sufficient impudence to carry out such a will. The archdeacon was of opinion that, though Mr. Harding had resigned his wardenship, and had done so unconditionally, he had done so under circumstances which left the bishop no choice as to his reappointment, now that the affair of the hospital had been settled on a new basis by act of Parliament. Such was