plainly as an eye could speak, “Yes, you came with the Stanhopes, but you did so in order that you might be in company with Mr. Slope.”
“Our party,” said she, still addressing her father, “consisted of the doctor and Charlotte Stanhope, myself, and Mr. Slope.” As she mentioned the last name she felt her father’s arm quiver slightly beneath her touch. At the same moment Mr. Arabin turned away from them and, joining his hands behind his back, strolled slowly away by one of the paths.
“Papa,” said she, “it was impossible to help coming in the same carriage with Mr. Slope; it was quite impossible. I had promised to come with them before I dreamt of his coming, and afterwards I could not get out of it without explaining and giving rise to talk. You weren’t at home, you know. I couldn’t possibly help it.” She said all this so quickly that by the time her apology was spoken she was quite out of breath.
“I don’t know why you should have wished to help it, my dear,” said her father.
“Yes, Papa, you do. You must know, you do know all the things they said at Plumstead. I am sure you do. You know all the archdeacon said. How unjust he was; and Mr. Arabin too. He’s a horrid man, a horrid odious man, but —”
Who is an odious man, my dear? Mr. Arabin?”
“No; but Mr. Slope. You know I mean Mr. Slope. He’s the most odious man I ever met in my life, and it was most unfortunate my having to come here in the same carriage with him. But how could I help it?”
A great weight began to move itself off Mr. Harding’s mind. So, after all, the archdeacon with all his wisdom, and Mrs. Grantly with all her tact, and Mr. Arabin with all his talent, were in the wrong. His own child, his Eleanor, the daughter of whom he was so proud, was not to become the wife of a Mr. Slope. He had been about to give his sanction to the marriage, so certified had he been of the fact, and now he learnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor’s was at any rate as much disliked by her as by any one of the family. Mr. Harding, however, was by no means sufficiently a man of the world to conceal the blunder he had made. He could not pretend that he had entertained no suspicion; he could not make believe that he had never joined the archdeacon in his surmises. He was greatly surprised and gratified beyond measure, and he could not help showing that such was the case.
“My darling girl,” said he, “I am so delighted, so overjoyed. My own child; you have taken such a weight off my mind.”
“But surely, Papa, you didn’t think —”
“I didn’t know what to think, my dear. The archdeacon told me that —”
“The archdeacon!” said Eleanor, her face lighting up with passion. “A man like the archdeacon might, one would think, he better employed than in traducing his sister-inlaw and creating bitterness between a father and his daughter!”
“He didn’t mean to do that, Eleanor.”
“What did he mean then? Why did he interfere with me and fill your mind with such falsehood?”
“Never mind it now, my child; never mind it now. We shall all know you better now.”
“Oh, Papa, that you should have thought it! That you should have suspected me!”
“I don’t know what you mean by suspicion, Eleanor. There would be nothing disgraceful, you know, nothing wrong in such a marriage. Nothing that could have justified my interfering as your father.” And Mr. Harding would have proceeded in his own defence to make out that Mr. Slope after all was a very good sort of man and a very fitting second husband for a young widow, had he not been interrupted by Eleanor’s greater energy.
“It would be disgraceful,” said she; “it would be wrong; it would be abominable. Could I do such a horrid thing, I should expect no one to speak to me. Ugh —” and she shuddered as she thought of the matrimonial torch which her friends had been so ready to light on her behalf. “I don’t wonder at Dr. Grantly; I don’t wonder at Susan; but, oh, Papa, I do wonder at you. How could you, how could you believe it?” Poor Eleanor, as she thought of her father’s defalcation, could resist her tears no longer, and was forced to cover her face with her handkerchief.
The place was not very opportune for her grief. They were walking through the shrubberies, and there were many people near them. Poor Mr. Harding stammered out his excuse as best he could, and Eleanor with an effort controlled her tears and returned her handkerchief to her pocket. She did not find it difficult to forgive her father, nor could she altogether refuse to join him in the returning gaiety of spirit to which her present avowal gave rise. It was such a load off his heart to think that he should not be called on to welcome Mr. Slope as his son-inlaw. It was such a relief to him to find that his daughter’s feelings and his own were now, as they ever had been, in unison. He had been so unhappy for the last six weeks about this wretched Mr. Slope! He was so indifferent as to the loss of the hospital, so thankful for the recovery of his daughter, that, strong as was the ground for Eleanor’s anger, she could not find it in her heart to be long angry with him.
“Dear Papa,” she said, hanging closely to his arm, “never suspect me again: promise me that you never will. Whatever I do you may be sure I shall tell you first; you may be sure I shall consult you.”
And Mr. Harding did promise, and owned his sin, and promised again. And so, while he promised amendment and she uttered forgiveness, they returned together to the drawing-room windows.
And what had Eleanor meant when she declared that whatever she did she would tell her father first? What was she thinking of doing?
So ended the first act of the melodrama which Eleanor was called on to perform this day at Ullathorne.
CHAPTER XXXVII
The Signora Neroni, the Countess De Courcy, and Mrs. Proudie Meet Each Other at Ullathorne
And now there were new arrivals. Just as Eleanor reached the drawing-room the signora was being wheeled into it. She had been brought out of the carriage into the dining-room and there placed on a sofa, and was now in the act of entering the other room, by the joint aid of her brother and sister, Mr. Arabin, and two servants in livery. She was all in her glory and looked so pathetically happy, so full of affliction and grace, was so beautiful, so pitiable, and so charming that it was almost impossible not to be glad she was there.
Miss Thorne was unaffectedly glad to welcome her. In fact, the signora was a sort of lion, and though there was no drop of the Leohunter blood in Miss Thorne’s veins, she nevertheless did like to see attractive people at her house. The signora was attractive, and on her first settlement in the dining-room she had whispered two or three soft feminine words into Miss Thorne’s ear which, at the moment, had quite touched that lady’s heart.
“Oh, Miss Thorne; where is Miss Thorne?” she said as soon as her attendants had placed her in her position just before one of the windows, from whence she could see all that was going on upon the lawn. “How am I to thank you for permitting a creature like me to be here? But if you knew the pleasure you give me, I am sure you would excuse the trouble I bring with me.” And as she spoke she squeezed the spinster’s little hand between her own.
“We are delighted to see you here,” said Miss Thorne; “you give us no trouble at all, and we think it a great favour conferred by you to come and see us — don’t we, Wilfred?”
