The little writing-table with her desk was still standing before her, a barrier, as it were, against the enemy. She was sitting as nearly upright as she ever did, and he had brought a chair close to the sofa, so that there was only the corner of the table between him and her. It so happened that as she spoke her hand lay upon the table, and as Mr. Slope answered her he put his hand upon hers.
“No heart!” said he. “That is a heavy charge which you bring against yourself, and one of which I cannot find you guilty—”
She withdrew her hand, not quickly and angrily, as though insulted by his touch, but gently and slowly.
“You are in no condition to give a verdict on the matter,” said she, “as you have not tried me. No, don’t say that you intend doing so, for you know you have no intention of the kind; nor indeed have I, either. As for you, you will take your vows where they will result in something more substantial than the pursuit of such a ghostlike, ghastly love as mine—”
“Your love should be sufficient to satisfy the dream of a monarch,” said Mr. Slope, not quite clear as to the meaning of his words.
“Say an archbishop, Mr. Slope,” said she. Poor fellow! She was very cruel to him. He went round again upon his cork on this allusion to his profession. He tried, however, to smile and gently accused her of joking on a matter, which was, he said, to him of such vital moment.
“Why—what gulls do you men make of us,” she replied. “How you fool us to the top of our bent; and of all men you clergymen are the most fluent of your honeyed, caressing words. Now look me in the face, Mr. Slope, boldly and openly.”
Mr. Slope did look at her with a languishing loving eye, and as he did so he again put forth his hand to get hold of hers.
“I told you to look at me boldly, Mr. Slope, but confine your boldness to your eyes.”
“Oh, Madeline!” he sighed.
“Well, my name is Madeline,” said she, “but none except my own family usually call me so. Now look me in the face, Mr. Slope. Am I to understand that you say you love me?”
Mr. Slope never had said so. If he had come there with any formed plan at all, his intention was to make love to the lady without uttering any such declaration. It was, however, quite impossible that he should now deny his love. He had, therefore, nothing for it but to go down on his knees distractedly against the sofa and swear that he did love her with a love passing the love of man.
The signora received the assurance with very little palpitation or appearance of surprise. “And now answer me another question,” said she. “When are you to be married to my dear friend Eleanor Bold?”
Poor Mr. Slope went round and round in mortal agony. In such a condition as his it was really very hard for him to know what answer to give. And yet no answer would be his surest condemnation. He might as well at once plead guilty to the charge brought against him.
“And why do you accuse me of such dissimulation?” said he.
“Dissimulation! I said nothing of dissimulation. I made no charge against you, and make none. Pray don’t defend yourself to me. You swear that you are devoted to my beauty, and yet you are on the eve of matrimony with another. I feel this to be rather a compliment. It is to Mrs. Bold that you must defend yourself. That you may find difficult; unless, indeed, you can keep her in the dark. You clergymen are cleverer than other men.”
“Signora, I have told you that I loved you, and now you rail at me.”
“Rail at you. God bless the man; what would he have? Come, answer me this at your leisure—not without thinking now, but leisurely and with consideration—are you not going to be married to Mrs. Bold?”
“I am not,” said he. And as he said it he almost hated, with an exquisite hatred, the woman whom he could not help loving with an exquisite love.
“But surely you are a worshipper of hers?”
“I am not,” said Mr. Slope, to whom the word worshipper was peculiarly distasteful. The signora had conceived that it would be so.
“I wonder at that,” said she. “Do you not admire her? To my eye she is the perfection of English beauty. And then she is rich, too. I should have thought she was just the person to attract you. Come, Mr. Slope, let me give you advice on this matter. Marry the charming widow; she will be a good mother to your children and an excellent mistress of a clergyman’s household.”
“Oh, signora, how can you be so cruel?”
“Cruel,” said she, changing the voice of banter which she had been using for one which was expressively earnest in its tone; “is that cruelty?”
“How can I love another while my heart is entirely your own?”
“If that were cruelty, Mr. Slope, what might you say of me if I were to declare that I returned your passion? What would you think if I bound you even by a lover’s oath to do daily penance at this couch of mine? What can I give in return for a man’s love? Ah, dear friend, you have not realized the conditions of my fate.”
Mr. Slope was not on his knees all this time. After his declaration of love, he had risen from them as quickly as he thought consistent with the new position which he now filled, and as he stood was leaning on the back of his chair. This outburst of tenderness on the signora’s part quite overcame him and made him feel for the moment that he could sacrifice everything to be assured of the love of the beautiful creature before him, maimed, lame, and already married as she was.
“And can I not sympathize with your lot?” said he, now seating himself on her sofa and pushing away the table with his foot.
“Sympathy is so near to pity!” said she. “If you pity me, cripple as I am, I shall spurn you from me.”
“Oh, Madeline, I will only love you,” and again he caught her hand and devoured it with kisses. Now she did not draw it from him, but sat there as he kissed it, looking at him with her great eyes, just as a great spider would look at a great fly that was quite securely caught.
“Suppose Signor Neroni were to come to Barchester,” said she. “Would you make his acquaintance?”
“Signor Neroni!” said he.
“Would you introduce him to the bishop, and Mrs. Proudie, and the young ladies?” said she, again having recourse to that horrid quizzing voice which Mr. Slope so particularly hated.
“Why do you ask such a question?” said he.
“Because it is necessary that you should know that there is a Signor Neroni. I think you had forgotten it.”
“If I thought that you retained for that wretch one particle of the love of which he was never worthy, I would die before I would distract you by telling you what I feel. No! Were your husband the master of your heart, I might perhaps love you, but you should never know it.”
“My heart again! How you talk. And you consider then that if a husband be not master of his wife’s heart, he has no right to her fealty; if a wife ceases to love, she may cease to be true. Is that your doctrine on this matter, as a minister of the Church of England?”
Mr. Slope tried hard within himself to cast off the pollution with which he felt that he was defiling his soul. He strove to tear himself away from the noxious siren that had bewitched him. But he could not do it. He could not be again heart free. He had looked for rapturous joy in loving this lovely creature, and he already found that he met with little but disappointment and self-rebuke. He had come across the fruit of the Dead Sea, so sweet and delicious to the eye, so bitter and nauseous to the taste. He had put the apple to his mouth, and it had turned to ashes between his teeth. Yet he could not tear himself away. He knew, he could not but know, that she jeered at him, ridiculed his love, and insulted the weakness of his religion. But she half-permitted his adoration, and that half-permission added such fuel to his fire that all the fountain