Mr. Slope had seldom in his life felt himself less at his ease. There sat Mr. Thorne, laughing silently. There stood his old antagonist, Mr. Arabin, gazing at him with all his eyes. There round the door between the two rooms were clustered a little group of people, including Miss Stanhope and the Revs. Messrs. Grey and Green, all listening to his discomfiture. He knew that it depended solely on his own wit whether or no he could throw the joke back upon the lady. He knew that it stood him to do so if he possibly could, but he had not a word. “‘Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all.” He felt on his cheek the sharp points of Eleanor’s fingers, and did not know who might have seen the blow, who might have told the tale to this pestilent woman who took such delight in jeering him. He stood there, therefore, red as a carbuncle and mute as a fish; grinning sufficiently to show his teeth; an object of pity.
But the signora had no pity; she knew nothing of mercy. Her present object was to put Mr. Slope down, and she was determined to do it thoroughly, now that she had him in her power.
“What, Mr. Slope, no answer? Why it can’t possibly be that the woman has been fool enough to refuse you? She can’t surely be looking out after a bishop. But I see how it is, Mr. Slope. Widows are proverbially cautious. You should have let her alone till the new hat was on your head, till you could show her the key of the deanery.”
“Signora,” said he at last, trying to speak in a tone of dignified reproach, “you really permit yourself to talk on solemn subjects in a very improper way.”
“Solemn subjects—what solemn subject? Surely a dean’s hat is not such a solemn subject.”
“I have no aspirations such as those you impute to me. Perhaps you will drop the subject.”
“Oh, certainly, Mr. Slope; but one word first. Go to her again with the prime minister’s letter in your pocket. I’ll wager my shawl to your shovel she does not refuse you then.”
“I must say, signora, that I think you are speaking of the lady in a very unjustifiable manner.”
“And one other piece of advice, Mr. Slope; I’ll only offer you one other;” and then she commenced singing—
“It’s gude to be merry and wise, Mr. Slope;
It’s gude to be honest and true;
It’s gude to be off with the old love—Mr. Slope,
Before you are on with the new.
“Ha, ha, ha!”
And the signora, throwing herself back on her sofa, laughed merrily. She little recked how those who heard her would, in their own imaginations, fill up the little history of Mr. Slope’s first love. She little cared that some among them might attribute to her the honour of his earlier admiration. She was tired of Mr. Slope and wanted to get rid of him; she had ground for anger with him, and she chose to be revenged.
How Mr. Slope got out of that room he never himself knew. He did succeed ultimately, and probably with some assistance, in getting his hat and escaping into the air. At last his love for the signora was cured. Whenever he again thought of her in his dreams, it was not as of an angel with azure wings. He connected her rather with fire and brimstone, and though he could still believe her to be a spirit, he banished her entirely out of heaven and found a place for her among the infernal gods. When he weighed in the balance, as he not seldom did, the two women to whom he had attached himself in Barchester, the preeminent place in his soul’s hatred was usually allotted to the signora.
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