“I’m sure of that, Mr. Slope; I am quite sure of that;” said the bishop, mollified: “and you really think that Mr. Harding should have the hospital?”
“Upon my word, I’m inclined to think so. I am quite prepared to take upon myself the blame of first suggesting Mr. Quiverful’s name. But since doing so, I have found that there is so strong a feeling in the diocese in favour of Mr. Harding that I think your lordship should give way. I hear also that Mr. Harding has modified the objections he first felt to your lordship’s propositions. And as to what has passed between Mrs. Proudie and Mrs. Quiverful, the circumstance may be a little inconvenient, but I really do not think that that should weigh in a matter of so much moment.”
And thus the poor bishop was left in a dreadfully undecided step as to what he should do. His mind, however, slightly inclined itself to the appointment of Mr. Harding, seeing that by such a step he should have the assistance of Mr. Slope in opposing Mrs. Proudie.
Such was the state of affairs at the palace, when Mr. Slope called at Mrs. Bold’s house and found her playing with her baby. When she ran out of the room, Mr. Slope began praising the weather to Mary Bold, then he praised the baby and kissed him, and then he praised the mother, and then he praised Miss Bold herself. Mrs. Bold, however, was not long before she came back.
“I have to apologize for calling at so very early an hour,” began Mr. Slope, “but I was really so anxious to speak to you that I hope you and Miss Bold will excuse me.”
Eleanor muttered something in which the words “certainly,” and “of course,” and “not early at all,” were just audible, and then apologized for her own appearance, declaring, with a smile, that her baby was becoming such a big boy that he was quite unmanageable.
“He’s a great big naughty boy,” said she to the child, “and we must send him away to a great big rough romping school, where they have great big rods and do terrible things to naughty boys who don’t do what their own mammas tell them;” and she then commenced another course of kissing, being actuated thereto by the terrible idea of sending her child away which her own imagination had depicted.
“And where the masters don’t have such beautiful long hair to be dishevelled,” said Mr. Slope, taking up the joke and paying a compliment at the same time.
Eleanor thought he might as well have left the compliment alone, but she said nothing and looked nothing, being occupied as she was with the baby.
“Let me take him,” said Mary. “His clothes are nearly off his back with his romping,” and so saying she left the room with the child. Miss Bold had heard Mr. Slope say he had something pressing to say to Eleanor, and thinking that she might be de trop, took this opportunity of getting herself out of the room.
“Don’t be long, Mary,” said Eleanor as Miss Bold shut the door.
“I am glad, Mrs. Bold, to have the opportunity of having ten minutes’ conversation with you alone,” began Mr. Slope. “Will you let me openly ask you a plain question?”
“Certainly,” said she.
“And I am sure you will give me a plain and open answer.”
“Either that, or none at all,” said she, laughing.
“My question is this, Mrs. Bold: is your father really anxious to go back to the hospital?”
“Why do you ask me?” said she. “Why don’t you ask himself?”
“My dear Mrs. Bold, I’ll tell you why. There are wheels within wheels, all of which I would explain to you, only I fear that there is not time. It is essentially necessary that I should have an answer to this question, otherwise I cannot know how to advance your father’s wishes; and it is quite impossible that I should ask himself. No one can esteem your father more than I do, but I doubt if this feeling is reciprocal.” It certainly was not. “I must be candid with you as the only means of avoiding ultimate consequences, which may be most injurious to Mr. Harding. I fear there is a feeling — I will not even call it a prejudice — with regard to myself in Barchester, which is not in my favour. You remember that sermon —”
“Oh, Mr. Slope, we need not go back to that,” said Eleanor.
“For one moment, Mrs. Bold. It is not that I may talk of myself but because it is so essential that you should understand how matters stand. That sermon may have been ill-judged — it was certainly misunderstood; but I will say nothing about that now; only this, that it did give rise to a feeling against myself which your father shares with others. It may be that he has proper cause, but the result is that he is not inclined to meet me on friendly terms. I put it to yourself whether you do not know this to be the case.”
Eleanor made no answer, and Mr. Slope, in the eagerness of his address, edged his chair a little nearer to the widow’s seat, unperceived by her.
“Such being so,” continued Mr. Slope, “I cannot ask him this question as I can ask it of you. In spite of my delinquencies since I came to Barchester you have allowed me to regard you as a friend.” Eleanor made a little motion with her head which was hardly confirmatory, but Mr. Slope if he noticed it did not appear to do so. “To you I can speak openly and explain the feelings of my heart. This your father would not allow. Unfortunately, the bishop has thought it right that this matter of the hospital should pass through my hands. There have been some details to get up with which he would not trouble himself, and thus it has come to pass that I was forced to have an interview with your father on the matter.”
“I am aware of that,” said Eleanor.
“Of course,” said he. “In that interview Mr. Harding left the impression on my mind that he did not wish to return to the hospital.”
“How could that be?” said Eleanor, at last stirred up to forget the cold propriety of demeanour which she had determined to maintain.
“My dear Mrs. Bold, I give you my word that such was the case,” said he, again getting a little nearer to her. “And what is more than that, before my interview with Mr. Harding, certain persons at the palace — I do not mean the bishop — had told me that such was the fact. I own, I hardly believed it; I own, I thought that your father would wish on every account, for conscience’ sake, for the sake of those old men, for old association and the memory of dear days long gone by, on every account I thought that he would wish to resume his duties. But I was told that such was not his wish, and he certainly left me with the impression that I had been told the truth.”
“Well!” said Eleanor, now sufficiently roused on the matter.
“I hear Miss Bold’s step,” said Mr. Slope; “would it be asking too great a favour to beg you to — I know you can manage anything with Miss Bold.”
Eleanor did not like the word manage, but still she went out and asked Mary to leave them alone for another quarter of an hour.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bold — I am so very grateful for this confidence. Well, I left your father with this impression. Indeed, I may say that he made me understand that he declined the appointment.”
“Not the appointment,” said Eleanor. “I am sure he did not decline the appointment. But he said that he would not agree — that is, that he did not like the scheme about the schools and the services and all that. I am quite sure he never said that he wished to refuse the place.”
“Oh, Mrs. Bold!” said Mr. Slope in a manner almost impassioned. “I would not for the world say to so good a daughter a word against so good a father. But you must, for his sake, let me show you exactly how the matter stands at present. Mr. Harding was a little flurried when I told him of the bishop’s wishes about the school. I did so perhaps with the less caution because you yourself had so perfectly agreed with me on the same subject. He was a little put out and spoke warmly. ‘Tell the bishop,’ said he, ‘that I quite disagree with him — and shall not return to the hospital as such conditions are attached to it.’ What he said was to that effect; indeed, his words were, if anything, stronger than those. I had no alternative but to repeat