We need not pursue the interview any further. By degrees they returned to the subject of the new promotion. Eleanor tried to prove to him, as the Grantlys had done, that his age could be no bar to his being a very excellent dean, but those arguments had now even less weight on him than before. He said little or nothing but sat, meditative. Every now and then he would kiss his daughter and say “yes,” or “no,” or “very true,” or “well, my dear, I can’t quite agree with you there,” but he could not be got to enter sharply into the question of “to be, or not to be” Dean of Barchester. Of her and her happiness, of Mr. Arabin and his virtues, he would talk as much as Eleanor desired—and to tell the truth, that was not a little—but about the deanery he would now say nothing further. He had got a new idea into his head—why should not Mr. Arabin be the new dean?
CHAPTER L
The Archdeacon Is Satisfied with the State of Affairs
The archdeacon, in his journey into Barchester, had been assured by Mr. Harding that all their prognostications about Mr. Slope and Eleanor were groundless. Mr. Harding, however, had found it very difficult to shake his son-in-law’s faith in his own acuteness. The matter had, to Dr. Grantly, been so plainly corroborated by such patent evidence, borne out by such endless circumstances, that he at first refused to take as true the positive statement which Mr. Harding made to him of Eleanor’s own disavowal of the impeachment. But at last he yielded in a qualified way. He brought himself to admit that he would at the present regard his past convictions as a mistake, but in doing this he so guarded himself that if, at any future time, Eleanor should come forth to the world as Mrs. Slope, he might still be able to say: “There, I told you so. Remember what you said and what I said; and remember also for coming years, that I was right in this matter—as in all others.”
He carried, however, his concession so far as to bring himself to undertake to call at Eleanor’s house, and he did call accordingly, while the father and daughter were yet in the middle of their conference. Mr. Harding had had so much to hear and to say that he had forgotten to advise Eleanor of the honour that awaited her, and she heard her brother-in-law’s voice in the hall while she was quite unprepared to see him.
“There’s the archdeacon,” she said, springing up.
“Yes, my dear. He told me to tell you that he would come and see you; but to tell the truth I had forgotten all about it.”
Eleanor fled away, regardless of all her father’s entreaties. She could not now, in the first hours of her joy, bring herself to bear all the archdeacon’s retractions, apologies, and congratulations. He would have so much to say, and would be so tedious in saying it; consequently, the archdeacon, when he was shown into the drawing- room, found no one there but Mr. Harding.
“You must excuse Eleanor,” said Mr. Harding.
“Is anything the matter?” asked the doctor, who at once anticipated that the whole truth about Mr. Slope had at last come out.
“Well, something is the matter. I wonder now whether you will be much surprised.”
The archdeacon saw by his father-in-law’s manner that after all he had nothing to tell him about Mr. Slope. “No,” said he, “certainly not—nothing will ever surprise me again.” Very many men now-a-days besides the archdeacon adopt or affect to adopt the
“What do you think Mr. Arabin has done?”
“Mr. Arabin! It’s nothing about that daughter of Stanhope’s, I hope?”
“No, not that woman,” said Mr. Harding, enjoying his joke in his sleeve.
“Not that woman! Is he going to do anything about any woman? Why can’t you speak out, if you have anything to say? There is nothing I hate so much as these sort of mysteries.”
“There shall be no mystery with you, Archdeacon, though of course it must go no further at present.”
“Well.”
“Except Susan. You must promise me you’ll tell no one else.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the archdeacon, who was becoming angry in his suspense. “You can’t have any secret about Mr. Arabin.”
“Only this—that he and Eleanor are engaged.”
It was quite clear to see, by the archdeacon’s face, that he did not believe a word of it. “Mr. Arabin! It’s impossible!”
“Eleanor, at any rate, has just now told me so.”
“It’s impossible,” repeated the archdeacon.
“Well, I can’t say I think it impossible. It certainly took me by surprise, but that does not make it impossible.”
“She must be mistaken.”
Mr. Harding assured him that there was no mistake; that he would find, on returning home, that Mr. Arabin had been at Plumstead with the express object of making the same declaration; that even Miss Thorne knew all about it; and that, in fact, the thing was as clearly settled as any such arrangement between a lady and a gentleman could well be.
“Good heavens!” said the archdeacon, walking up and down Eleanor’s drawing-room. “Good heavens! Good heavens!”
Now these exclamations certainly betokened faith. Mr. Harding properly gathered from it that, at last, Dr. Grantly did believe the fact. The first utterance clearly evinced a certain amount of distaste at the information he had received; the second simply indicated surprise; in the tone of the third Mr. Harding fancied that he could catch a certain gleam of satisfaction.
The archdeacon had truly expressed the workings of his mind. He could not but be disgusted to find how utterly astray he had been in all his anticipations. Had he only been lucky enough to have suggested this marriage himself when he first brought Mr. Arabin into the country, his character for judgement and wisdom would have received an
