Barchester Towers, Anthony Trollope [top business books of all time .txt] 📗

he could not keep himself away. He dreamed of that soft hand which he had kissed so often, and of that imperial brow which his lips had once pressed; and he then dreamed also of further favours.

And Mr. Thorne was there also. It was the first visit he had ever paid to the signora, and he made it not without due preparation. Mr. Thorne was a gentleman usually precise in his dress and prone to make the most of himself in an unpretending way. The grey hairs in his whiskers were eliminated perhaps once a month; those on his head were softened by a mixture which we will not call a dye⁠—it was only a wash. His tailor lived in St. James’s Street, and his bootmaker at the corner of that street and Piccadilly. He was particular in the article of gloves, and the getting up of his shirts was a matter not lightly thought of in the Ullathorne laundry. On the occasion of the present visit he had rather overdone his usual efforts, and caused some little uneasiness to his sister, who had not hitherto received very cordially the proposition for a lengthened visit from the signora at Ullathorne.

There were others also there⁠—young men about the city who had not much to do and who were induced by the lady’s charms to neglect that little⁠—but all gave way to Mr. Thorne, who was somewhat of a grand signor, as a country gentleman always is in a provincial city.

“Oh, Mr. Thorne, this is so kind of you!” said the signora. “You promised to come, but I really did not expect it. I thought you country gentlemen never kept your pledges.”

“Oh, yes, sometimes,” said Mr. Thorne, looking rather sheepish and making his salutations a little too much in the style of the last century.

“You deceive none but your consti⁠—stit⁠—stit⁠—what do you call the people that carry you about in chairs and pelt you with eggs and apples when they make you a member of Parliament?”

“One another also, sometimes, signora,” said Mr. Slope, with a very deanish sort of smirk on his face. “Country gentlemen do deceive one another sometimes, don’t they, Mr. Thorne?”

Mr. Thorne gave him a look which undeaned him completely for the moment, but he soon remembered his high hopes and, recovering himself quickly, sustained his probable coming dignity by a laugh at Mr. Thorne’s expense.

“I never deceive a lady, at any rate,” said Mr. Thorne, “especially when the gratification of my own wishes is so strong an inducement to keep me true, as it now is.”

Mr. Thorne went on thus awhile with antediluvian grimaces and compliments which he had picked up from Sir Charles Grandison, and the signora at every grimace and at every bow smiled a little smile and bowed a little bow. Mr. Thorne, however, was kept standing at the foot of the couch, for the new dean sat in the seat of honour near the table. Mr. Arabin the while was standing with his back to the fire, his coattails under his arms, gazing at her with all his eyes⁠—not quite in vain, for every now and again a glance came up at him, bright as a meteor out of heaven.

“Oh, Mr. Thorne, you promised to let me introduce my little girl to you. Can you spare a moment⁠—will you see her now?”

Mr. Thorne assured her that he could and would see the young lady with the greatest pleasure in life. “Mr. Slope, might I trouble you to ring the bell?” said she, and when Mr. Slope got up, she looked at Mr. Thorne and pointed to the chair. Mr. Thorne, however, was much too slow to understand her, and Mr. Slope would have recovered his seat had not the signora, who never chose to be unsuccessful, somewhat summarily ordered him out of it.

“Oh, Mr. Slope, I must ask you to let Mr. Thorne sit here just for a moment or two. I am sure you will pardon me. We can take a liberty with you this week. Next week, you know, when you move into the dean’s house, we shall all be afraid of you.”

Mr. Slope, with an air of much indifference, rose from his seat and, walking into the next room, became greatly interested in Mrs. Stanhope’s worsted work.

And then the child was brought in. She was a little girl, about eight years of age, like her mother, only that her enormous eyes were black, and her hair quite jet. Her complexion, too, was very dark and bespoke her foreign blood. She was dressed in the most outlandish and extravagant way in which clothes could be put on a child’s back. She had great bracelets on her naked little arms, a crimson fillet braided with gold round her head, and scarlet shoes with high heels. Her dress was all flounces and stuck out from her as though the object were to make it lie off horizontally from her little hips. It did not nearly cover her knees, but this was atoned for by a loose pair of drawers, which seemed made throughout of lace; then she had on pink silk stockings. It was thus that the last of the Neros was habitually dressed at the hour when visitors were wont to call.

“Julia, my love,” said the mother⁠—Julia was ever a favourite name with the ladies of that family. “Julia, my love, come here. I was telling you about the beautiful party poor Mamma went to. This is Mr. Thorne; will you give him a kiss, dearest?”

Julia put up her face to be kissed, as she did to all her mother’s visitors, and then Mr. Thorne found that he had got her and, what was much more terrific to him, all her finery, into his arms. The lace and starch crumpled against his waistcoat and trousers, the greasy black curls hung upon his cheek, and one of the bracelet clasps scratched his ear. He did not at all know how to hold so magnificent a lady, nor holding her what to do with her. However, he had on other occasions been compelled to fondle little nieces and nephews, and now set