In the caresses of her child, however, Eleanor did receive consolation, and may ill befall the man who would begrudge it to her. The evil day, however, was only postponed. She had to tell her disagreeable tale to Mary, and she had also to tell it to her father. Must it not, indeed, be told to the whole circle of her acquaintance before she could be made to stand all right with them? At the present moment there was no one to whom she could turn for comfort. She hated Mr. Slope; that was a matter of course; in that feeling she revelled. She hated and despised the Stanhopes; but that feeling distressed her greatly. She had, as it were, separated herself from her old friends to throw herself into the arms of this family; and then how had they intended to use her? She could hardly reconcile herself to her own father, who had believed ill of her. Mary Bold had turned Mentor. That she could have forgiven had the Mentor turned out to be in the wrong, but Mentors in the right are not to be pardoned. She could not but hate the archdeacon, and now she hated him worse than ever, for she must in some sort humble herself before him. She hated her sister, for she was part and parcel of the archdeacon. And she would have hated Mr. Arabin if she could. He had pretended to regard her, and yet before her face he had hung over that Italian woman as though there had been no beauty in the world but hers — no other woman worth a moment’s attention. And Mr. Arabin would have to learn all this about Mr. Slope! She told herself that she hated him, and she knew that she was lying to herself as she did so. She had no consolation but her baby, and of that she made the most. Mary, though she could not surmise what it was that had so violently affected her sister-inlaw, saw at once that her grief was too great to be kept under control and waited patiently till the child should be in his cradle.
“You’ll have some tea, Eleanor,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t care,” said she, though in fact she must have been very hungry, for she had eaten nothing at Ullathorne.
Mary quietly made the tea, and buttered the bread, laid aside the cloak, and made things look comfortable.
“He’s fast asleep,” said she; “you’re very tired; let me take him up to bed.”
But Eleanor would not let her sister touch him. She looked wistfully at her baby’s eyes, saw that they were lost in the deepest slumber, and then made a sort of couch for him on the sofa. She was determined that nothing should prevail upon her to let him out of her sight that night.
“Come, Nelly,” said Mary, “don’t be cross with me. I at least have done nothing to offend you.”
“I an’t cross,” said Eleanor.
“Are you angry then? Surely you can’t be angry with me.”
“No, I an’t angry — at least not with you.”
“If you are not, drink the tea I have made for you. I am sure you must want it.”
Eleanor did drink it, and allowed herself to be persuaded. She ate and drank, and as the inner woman was recruited she felt a little more charitable towards the world at large. At last she found words to begin her story, and before 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 tranquillised.
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