Anthony Trollope - The Barsetshire Chronicles - All 6 Books in One Edition

“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 of his piety could not quench it. He began to feel savage, irritated, and revengeful. He meditated some severity of speech, some taunt that should cut her, as her taunts cut him. He reflected as he stood there for a moment, silent before her, that if he desired to quell her proud spirit, he should do so by being prouder even than herself; that if he wished to have her at his feet suppliant for his love, it behoved him to conquer her by indifference. All this passed through his mind. As far as dead knowledge went, he knew, or thought he knew, how a woman should be tamed. But when he essayed to bring his tactics to bear, he failed like a child. What chance has dead knowledge with experience in any of the transactions between man and man? What possible chance between man and woman? Mr. Slope loved furiously, insanely and truly, but he had never played the game of love. The signora did not love at all, but she was up to every move of the board. It was Philidor pitted against a schoolboy.

And so she continued to insult him, and he continued to bear it.

Sacrifice the world for love!” she said in answer to some renewed vapid declaration of his passion. “How often has the same thing been said, and how invariably with the same falsehood!”

“Falsehood,” said he. “Do you say that I am false to you? Do you say that my love is not real?”

“False? Of course it is false, false as the father of falsehood — if indeed falsehoods need a sire and are not self-begotten since the world began. You are ready to sacrifice the world for love? Come let us see what you will sacrifice. I care nothing for nuptial vows. The wretch, I think you were kind enough to call him so, whom I swore to love and obey is so base that he can only be thought of with repulsive disgust. In the council chamber of my heart I have divorced him. To me that is as good as though aged lords had gloated for months over the details of his licentious life. I care nothing for what the world can say. Will you be as frank? Will you take me to your home as your wife? Will you call me Mrs. Slope before bishop, dean, and prebendaries?” The poor tortured wretch stood silent, not knowing what to say. “What! You won’t do that. Tell me, then, what part of the world is it that you will sacrifice for my charms?”

“Were you free to marry, I would take you to my house tomorrow and wish no higher privilege.”

“I am free,” said she, almost starting up in her energy. For though there was no truth in her pretended regard for her clerical admirer, there was a mixture of real feeling in the scorn and satire with which she spoke of love and marriage generally. “I am free — free as the winds. Come, will you take me as I am? Have your wish; sacrifice the world, and prove yourself a true man.”

Mr. Slope should have taken her at her word. She would have drawn back, and he would have had the full advantage of the offer. But he did not. Instead of doing so, he stood wrapt in astonishment, passing his fingers through his lank red hair and thinking, as he stared upon her animated countenance, that her wondrous beauty grew more wonderful as he gazed on it. “Ha! ha! ha!” she laughed out loud. “Come, Mr. Slope, don’t talk of sacrificing the world again. People beyond one-and-twenty should never dream of such a thing. You and I, if we have the dregs of any love left in us, if we have the remnants of a passion remaining in our hearts, should husband our resources better. We are not in our première jeunesse. The world is a very nice place. Your world, at any rate, is so. You have all manner of fat rectories to get and possible bishoprics to enjoy. Come, confess; on second thoughts you would not sacrifice such things for the smiles of a lame lady?”

It was impossible for him to answer this. In order to be in any way dignified, he felt that he must be silent.

“Come,” said she, “don’t boody with me: don’t be angry because I speak out some home truths. Alas, the world, as I have found it, has taught me bitter truths. Come, tell me that I am forgiven. Are we not to be friends?” and she again put out her hand to him.

He sat himself down in the chair beside her, took her proffered hand, and leant over her.

“There,” said she with her sweetest, softest smile — a smile to withstand which a man should be cased in triple steel, “there; seal your forgiveness on it,” and she raised it towards his face. He kissed it again and again and stretched over her as though desirous of extending the charity of his pardon beyond the hand that was offered to him. She managed, however, to check his ardour. For one so easily allured as this poor chaplain, her hand was surely enough.

“Oh, Madeline!” said he, “tell me that you love me — do you — do you love me?”

“Hush,” said she. “There is my mother’s step. Our tête-à-tête has been of monstrous length. Now you had better go. But we shall see you soon again, shall we not?”

Mr. Slope promised that he would call again on the following day.

“And, Mr. Slope,” she continued, “pray answer my note. You have it in your hand, though I declare during these two hours you have not been gracious enough to read it. It is about the Sabbath-school and the children. You know how anxious I am to have them here. I have been learning the catechism myself, on purpose. You must manage it for me next week. I will teach them, at any rate, to submit themselves to their spiritual pastors and masters.”

Mr. Slope said but little on the subject of Sabbath-schools, but he made his adieu and betook himself home with a sad heart, troubled mind, and uneasy conscience.

Table of Contents

It will be remembered that Mr. Slope, when leaving his billet-doux at the house of Mrs. Bold, had been informed that it would be sent out to her at Plumstead that afternoon. The archdeacon and Mr. Harding had in fact come into town together in the brougham, and it had been arranged that they should call for Eleanor’s parcels as they left on their way home. Accordingly they did so call, and the maid, as she handed to the coachman a small basket and large bundle carefully and neatly packed, gave in at the carriage window Mr. Slope’s epistle. The archdeacon, who was sitting next to the window, took it and immediately recognized the hand-writing of his enemy.