The Complete Chronicles of Barsetshire: (The Warden + Barchester Towers + Doctor Thorne + Framley Parsonage + The Small House at Allington + The Last Chronicle of Barset). Anthony TrollopeЧитать онлайн книгу.
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-inlaw’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-inlaw’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 nil admirari doctrine; but nevertheless, to judge from their appearance, they are just as subject to sudden emotions as their grandfathers and grandmothers were before them.
“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 addition which would have classed him at any rate next to Solomon. And why had he not done so? Might he not have foreseen that Mr. Arabin would want a wife in his parsonage? He had foreseen that Eleanor would want a husband, but should he not also have perceived that Mr. Arabin was a man much more likely to attract her than Mr. Slope? The archdeacon found that he had been at fault and, of course, could not immediately get over his discomfiture.
Then his surprise was intense. How sly this pair of young turtle-doves had been with him. How egregiously they had hoaxed him. He had preached to Eleanor against her fancied attachment to Mr. Slope at the very time that she was in love with his own protégé, Mr. Arabin, and had absolutely taken that same Mr. Arabin into his confidence with reference to his dread of Mr. Slope’s alliance. It was very natural that the archdeacon should feel surprise.
But there was also great ground for satisfaction. Looking at the match by itself, it was the very thing to help the doctor out of his difficulties. In the first place, the assurance that he should never have Mr. Slope for his brother-inlaw was in itself a great comfort. Then Mr. Arabin was, of all men, the one with whom it would best suit him to be so intimately connected. But the crowning comfort was the blow which this marriage would give to Mr. Slope. He had now certainly lost his wife; rumour was beginning to whisper that he might possibly lose his position in the palace; and if Mr. Harding would only be true, the great danger of all would be surmounted. In such case it might be expected that Mr. Slope would own himself vanquished and take himself altogether away from Barchester. And so the archdeacon would again be able to breathe pure air.
“Well, well,” said he. “Good heavens! Good heavens!” and the tone of the fifth exclamation made Mr. Harding fully aware that content was reigning in the archdeacon’s bosom.
And then slowly, gradually, and craftily Mr. Harding propounded his own new scheme. Why should not Mr. Arabin be the new dean?
Slowly, gradually, and thoughtfully Dr. Grantly fell into his father-inlaw’s views. Much as he liked Mr. Arabin, sincere as was his admiration for that gentleman’s ecclesiastical abilities, he would not have sanctioned a measure which would rob his father-inlaw of his fairly earned promotion, were it at all practicable to induce his father-inlaw to accept the promotion which he had earned. But the archdeacon had, on a former occasion, received proof of the obstinacy with which Mr. Harding could adhere to his own views in opposition to the advice of all his friends. He knew tolerably well that nothing would induce the meek, mild man before him to take the high place offered to him, if he thought it wrong to do so. Knowing this, he also said to himself more than once: “Why should not Mr. Arabin be Dean of Barchester?” It was at last arranged between them that they would together start to London by the earliest train on the following morning, making a little detour to Oxford on their journey. Dr. Gwynne’s counsels, they imagined, might perhaps be of assistance to them.
These matters settled, the archdeacon hurried off, that he might return to Plumstead and prepare for his journey. The day was extremely fine, and he came into the city in an open gig. As he was driving up the High Street he encountered Mr. Slope at a crossing. Had he not pulled up rather sharply, he would have run over him. The two had never spoken to each other since they had met on a memorable occasion in the bishop’s study. They did not speak now, but they looked each other full in the face, and Mr. Slope’s countenance was as impudent, as triumphant, as defiant as ever. Had Dr. Grantly not known to the contrary, he would have imagined that his enemy had won the deanship, the wife, and all the rich honours for which he had been striving. As it was, he had lost everything that he had in the world and had just received his congé from the bishop.
In leaving the town the archdeacon drove by the well-remembered entrance of Hiram’s Hospital. There, at the gate, was a large, untidy farmer’s wagon, laden with untidy-looking furniture; and there, inspecting the arrival, was good Mrs. Quiverful — not dressed in her Sunday best, not very clean in her apparel, not graceful as to her bonnet and shawl, or, indeed, with many feminine charms as to her whole appearance. She was busy at domestic