Barchester Towers

A >> Anthony Trollope >> Barchester Towers


Eleanor's eyes flashed fire as she answered her sister, jumping
up from her seat as she did so. "You may tell the archdeacon that
wherever I am I shall receive what letters I please and from whom I
please. And as for the word 'disgraceful,' if Dr. Grantly has used
it of me, he has been unmanly and inhospitable," and she walked off
to the door. "When Papa comes from the dining-room I will thank you
to ask him to step up to my bedroom. I will show him Mr. Slope's
letter, but I will show it to no one else." And so saying, she
retreated to her baby.

She had no conception of the crime with which she was charged. The
idea that she could be thought by her friends to regard Mr. Slope as
a lover had never flashed upon her. She conceived that they were all
prejudiced and illiberal in their persecution of him, and therefore
she would not join in the persecution, even though she greatly
disliked the man.

Eleanor was very angry as she seated herself in a low chair by her
open window at the foot of her child's bed. "To dare to say I have
disgraced myself," she repeated to herself more than once. "How Papa
can put up with that man's arrogance! I will certainly not sit down
to dinner in his house again unless he begs my pardon for that word."
And then a thought struck her that Mr. Arabin might perchance hear
of her "disgraceful" correspondence with Mr. Slope, and she turned
crimson with pure vexation. Oh, if she had known the truth! If she
could have conceived that Mr. Arabin had been informed as a fact that
she was going to marry Mr. Slope!

She had not been long in her room before her father joined her. As
he left the drawing-room Mrs. Grantly took her husband into the
recess of the window and told him how signally she had failed.

"I will speak to her myself before I go to bed," said the archdeacon.

"Pray do no such thing," said she; "you can do no good and will only
make an unseemly quarrel in the house. You have no idea how
headstrong she can be."

The archdeacon declared that as to that he was quite indifferent. He
knew his duty and would do it. Mr. Harding was weak in the extreme
in such matters. He would not have it hereafter on his conscience
that he had not done all that in him lay to prevent so disgraceful an
alliance. It was in vain that Mrs. Grantly assured him that speaking
to Eleanor angrily would only hasten such a crisis and render
it certain, if at present there were any doubt. He was angry,
self-willed, and sore. The fact that a lady of his household had
received a letter from Mr. Slope had wounded his pride in the sorest
place, and nothing could control him.

Mr. Harding looked worn and woe-begone as he entered his daughter's
room. These sorrows worried him sadly. He felt that if they were
continued, he must go to the wall in the manner so kindly prophesied
to him by the chaplain. He knocked gently at his daughter's door,
waited till he was distinctly bade to enter, and then appeared as
though he and not she were the suspected criminal.

Eleanor's arm was soon within his, and she had soon kissed his
forehead and caressed him, not with joyous but with eager love.
"Oh, Papa," she said, "I do so want to speak to you. They have been
talking about me downstairs to-night--don't you know they have, Papa?"

Mr. Harding confessed with a sort of murmur that the archdeacon had
been speaking of her.

"I shall hate Dr. Grantly soon--"

"Oh, my dear!"

"Well, I shall. I cannot help it. He is so uncharitable, so unkind,
so suspicious of everyone that does not worship himself: and then he
is so monstrously arrogant to other people who have a right to their
opinions as well as he has to his own."

"He is an earnest, eager man, my dear, but he never means to be
unkind."

"He is unkind, Papa, most unkind. There, I got that letter from Mr.
Slope before dinner. It was you yourself who gave it to me. There,
pray read it. It is all for you. It should have been addressed to
you. You know how they have been talking about it downstairs. You
know how they behaved to me at dinner. And since dinner Susan has
been preaching to me, till I could not remain in the room with her.
Read it, Papa, and then say whether that is a letter that need make
Dr. Grantly so outrageous."

Mr. Harding took his arm from his daughter's waist and slowly read
the letter. She expected to see his countenance lit with joy as he
learnt that his path back to the hospital was made so smooth; but she
was doomed to disappointment, as had once been the case before on a
somewhat similar occasion. His first feeling was one of unmitigated
disgust that Mr. Slope should have chosen to interfere in his behalf.
He had been anxious to get back to the hospital, but he would have
infinitely sooner resigned all pretensions to the place than have
owed it in any manner to Mr. Slope's influence in his favour. Then
he thoroughly disliked the tone of Mr. Slope's letter; it was
unctuous, false, and unwholesome, like the man. He saw, which
Eleanor had failed to see, that much more had been intended than was
expressed. The appeal to Eleanor's pious labours as separate from
his own grated sadly against his feelings as a father. And then,
when he came to the "darling boy" and the "silken tresses," he slowly
closed and folded the letter in despair. It was impossible that
Mr. Slope should so write unless he had been encouraged. It was
impossible Eleanor should have received such a letter, and have
received it without annoyance, unless she were willing to encourage
him. So at least Mr. Harding argued to himself.

How hard it is to judge accurately of the feelings of others. Mr.
Harding, as he came to the close of the letter, in his heart
condemned his daughter for indelicacy, and it made him miserable to
do so. She was not responsible for what Mr. Slope might write. True.
But then she expressed no disgust at it. She had rather expressed
approval of the letter as a whole. She had given it to him to read, as
a vindication for herself and also for him. The father's spirits sank
within him as he felt that he could not acquit her.

And yet it was the true feminine delicacy of Eleanor's mind which
brought on her this condemnation. Listen to me, ladies, and I
beseech you to acquit her. She thought of this man, this lover of
whom she was so unconscious, exactly as her father did, exactly as
the Grantlys did. At least she esteemed him personally as they did.
But she believed him to be in the main an honest man, and one truly
inclined to assist her father. She felt herself bound, after what
had passed, to show this letter to Mr. Harding. She thought it
necessary that he should know what Mr. Slope had to say. But she
did not think it necessary to apologize for, or condemn, or even
allude to the vulgarity of the man's tone, which arose, as does all
vulgarity, from ignorance. It was nauseous to her to have a man like
Mr. Slope commenting on her personal attractions, and she did not
think it necessary to dilate with her father upon what was nauseous.
She never supposed they could disagree on such a subject. It would
have been painful for her to point it out, painful for her to speak
strongly against a man of whom, on the whole, she was anxious to
think and speak well. In encountering such a man she had encountered
what was disagreeable, as she might do in walking the streets. But
in such encounters she never thought it necessary to dwell on what
disgusted her.

And he, foolish, weak, loving man, would not say one word, though
one word would have cleared up everything. There would have been
a deluge of tears, and in ten minutes everyone in the house would
have understood how matters really were. The father would have been
delighted. The sister would have kissed her sister and begged a
thousand pardons. The archdeacon would have apologized and wondered,
and raised his eyebrows, and gone to bed a happy man. And Mr.
Arabin--Mr. Arabin would have dreamt of Eleanor, have awoke in the
morning with ideas of love, and retired to rest the next evening with
schemes of marriage. But, alas, all this was not to be.

Mr. Harding slowly folded the letter, handed it back to her, kissed
her forehead, and bade God bless her. He then crept slowly away to
his own room.

As soon as he had left the passage, another knock was given at
Eleanor's door, and Mrs. Grantly's very demure own maid, entering
on tiptoe, wanted to know would Mrs. Bold be so kind as to speak to
the archdeacon for two minutes in the archdeacon's study, if not
disagreeable. The archdeacon's compliments, and he wouldn't detain
her two minutes.

Eleanor thought it was very disagreeable; she was tired and fagged
and sick at heart; her present feelings towards Dr. Grantly were
anything but those of affection. She was, however, no coward, and
therefore promised to be in the study in five minutes. So she
arranged her hair, tied on her cap, and went down with a palpitating
heart.




CHAPTER XXIX

A Serious Interview


There are people who delight in serious interviews, especially when
to them appertains the part of offering advice or administering
rebuke, and perhaps the archdeacon was one of these. Yet on this
occasion he did not prepare himself for the coming conversation with
much anticipation of pleasure. Whatever might be his faults he was
not an inhospitable man, and he almost felt that he was sinning
against hospitality in upbraiding Eleanor in his own house. Then,
also, he was not quite sure that he would get the best of it. His
wife had told him that he decidedly would not, and he usually gave
credit to what his wife said. He was, however, so convinced of
what he considered to be the impropriety of Eleanor's conduct, and
so assured also of his own duty in trying to check it, that his
conscience would not allow him to take his wife's advice and go to
bed quietly.

Eleanor's face as she entered the room was not such as to reassure
him. As a rule she was always mild in manner and gentle in conduct;
but there was that in her eye which made it not an easy task to scold
her. In truth she had been little used to scolding. No one since
her childhood had tried it but the archdeacon, and he had generally
failed when he did try it. He had never done so since her marriage;
and now, when he saw her quiet, easy step as she entered his room, he
almost wished that he had taken his wife's advice.

He began by apologizing for the trouble he was giving her. She begged
him not to mention it, assured him that walking downstairs was no
trouble to her at all, and then took a seat and waited patiently for
him to begin his attack.

"My dear Eleanor," he said, "I hope you believe me when I assure you
that you have no sincerer friend than I am." To this Eleanor answered
nothing, and therefore he proceeded. "If you had a brother of your
own, I should not probably trouble you with what I am going to say.
But as it is I cannot but think that it must be a comfort to you to
know that you have near you one who is as anxious for your welfare as
any brother of your own could be."

"I never had a brother," said she.

"I know you never had, and it is therefore that I speak to you."

"I never had a brother," she repeated, "but I have hardly felt the
want. Papa has been to me both father and brother."

"Your father is the fondest and most affectionate of men. But--"

"He is--the fondest and most affectionate of men, and the best of
counsellors. While he lives I can never want advice."

This rather put the archdeacon out. He could not exactly contradict
what his sister-in-law said about her father, and yet he did not at
all agree with her. He wanted her to understand that he tendered his
assistance because her father was a soft, good-natured gentleman
not sufficiently knowing in the ways of the world; but he could not
say this to her. So he had to rush into the subject-matter of his
proffered counsel without any acknowledgement on her part that she
could need it, or would be grateful for it.

"Susan tells me that you received a letter this evening from Mr.
Slope."

"Yes; Papa brought it in the brougham. Did he not tell you?"

"And Susan says that you objected to let her know what it was about."

"I don't think she asked me. But had she done so, I should not have
told her. I don't think it nice to be asked about one's letters. If
one wishes to show them, one does so without being asked."

"True. Quite so. What you say is quite true. But is not the fact
of your receiving letters from Mr. Slope, which you do not wish to
show to your friends, a circumstance which must excite some--some
surprise--some suspicion--"

"Suspicion!" said she, not speaking above her usual voice, speaking
still in a soft, womanly tone but yet with indignation. "Suspicion!
And who suspects me, and of what?" And then there was a pause, for
the archdeacon was not quite ready to explain the ground of his
suspicion. "No, Dr. Grantly, I did not choose to show Mr. Slope's
letter to Susan. I could not show it to anyone till Papa had seen
it. If you have any wish to read it now, you can do so," and she
handed the letter to him over the table.

This was an amount of compliance which he had not at all expected, and
which rather upset him in his tactics. However, he took the letter,
perused it carefully, and then refolding it, kept it on the table
under his hand. To him it appeared to be in almost every respect
the letter of a declared lover; it seemed to corroborate his worst
suspicions; and the fact of Eleanor's showing it to him was all but
tantamount to a declaration on her part that it was her pleasure to
receive love-letters from Mr. Slope. He almost entirely overlooked
the real subject-matter of the epistle, so intent was he on the
forthcoming courtship and marriage.

"I'll thank you to give it me back, if you please, Dr. Grantly."

He took it in his hand and held it up, but made no immediate overture
to return it. "And Mr. Harding has seen this?" said he.

"Of course he has," said she; "it was written that he might see it.
It refers solely to his business--of course I showed it to him."

"And, Eleanor, do you think that that is a proper letter for you--for
a person in your condition--to receive from Mr. Slope?"

"Quite a proper letter," said she, speaking, perhaps, a little out of
obstinacy, probably forgetting at the moment the objectionable
mention of her silken curls.

"Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you that I wholly differ from
you."

"So I suppose," said she, instigated now by sheer opposition and
determination not to succumb. "You think Mr. Slope is a messenger
direct from Satan. I think he is an industrious, well-meaning
clergyman. It's a pity that we differ as we do. But, as we do
differ, we had probably better not talk about it."

Here Eleanor undoubtedly put herself in the wrong. She might probably
have refused to talk to Dr. Grantly on the matter in dispute without
any impropriety, but, having consented to listen to him, she had no
business to tell him that he regarded Mr. Slope as an emissary from
the evil one; nor was she justified in praising Mr. Slope, seeing
that in her heart of hearts she did not think well of him. She was,
however, wounded in spirit, and angry, and bitter. She had been
subjected to contumely and cross-questioning and ill-usage through
the whole evening. No one, not even Mr. Arabin, not even her father,
had been kind to her. All this she attributed to the prejudice and
conceit of the archdeacon, and therefore she resolved to set no
bounds to her antagonism to him. She would neither give nor take
quarter. He had greatly presumed in daring to question her about her
correspondence, and she was determined to show that she thought so.

"Eleanor, you are forgetting yourself," said he, looking very sternly
at her. "Otherwise you would never tell me that I conceive any man
to be a messenger from Satan."

"But you do," said she. "Nothing is too bad for him. Give me that
letter, if you please;" and she stretched out her hand and took it
from him. "He has been doing his best to serve Papa, doing more than
any of Papa's friends could do; and yet, because he is the chaplain
of a bishop whom you don't like, you speak of him as though he had no
right to the usage of a gentleman."

"He has done nothing for your father."

"I believe that he has done a great deal; and, as far as I am
concerned, I am grateful to him. Nothing that you can say can prevent
my being so. I judge people by their acts, and his, as far as I can
see them, are good." She then paused for a moment. "If you have
nothing further to say, I shall be obliged by being permitted to say
good night--I am very tired."

Dr. Grantly had, as he thought, done his best to be gracious to his
sister-in-law. He had endeavoured not to be harsh to her, and had
striven to pluck the sting from his rebuke. But he did not intend
that she should leave him without hearing him.

"I have something to say, Eleanor, and I fear I must trouble you to
hear it. You profess that it is quite proper that you should receive
from Mr. Slope such letters as that you have in your hand. Susan and
I think very differently. You are, of course, your own mistress, and
much as we both must grieve should anything separate you from us, we
have no power to prevent you from taking steps which may lead to such
a separation. If you are so wilful as to reject the counsel of your
friends, you must be allowed to cater for yourself. But, Eleanor, I
may at any rate ask you this. Is it worth your while to break away
from all those you have loved--from all who love you--for the sake of
Mr. Slope?"

"I don't know what you mean, Dr. Grantly; I don't know what you're
talking about. I don't want to break away from anybody."

"But you will do so if you connect yourself with Mr. Slope. Eleanor,
I must speak out to you. You must choose between your sister and
myself and our friends, and Mr. Slope and his friends. I say nothing
of your father, as you may probably understand his feelings better
than I do."

"What do you mean, Dr. Grantly? What am I to understand? I never
heard such wicked prejudice in my life."

"It is no prejudice, Eleanor. I have known the world longer than you
have done. Mr. Slope is altogether beneath you. You ought to know
and feel that he is so. Pray--pray think of this before it is too
late."

"Too late!"

"Or if you will not believe me, ask Susan; you cannot think she is
prejudiced against you. Or even consult your father--he is not
prejudiced against you. Ask Mr. Arabin--"

"You haven't spoken to Mr. Arabin about this!" said she, jumping up
and standing before him.

"Eleanor, all the world in and about Barchester will be speaking of
it soon."

"But have you spoken to Mr. Arabin about me and Mr. Slope?"

"Certainly I have, and he quite agrees with me."

"Agrees with what?" said she. "I think you are trying to drive me
mad."

"He agrees with me and Susan that it is quite impossible you should
be received at Plumstead as Mrs. Slope."

Not being favourites with the tragic muse, we do not dare to attempt
any description of Eleanor's face when she first heard the name of
Mrs. Slope pronounced as that which would or should or might at some
time appertain to herself. The look, such as it was, Dr. Grantly
did not soon forget. For a moment or two she could find no words to
express her deep anger and deep disgust; indeed, at this conjuncture,
words did not come to her very freely.

"How dare you be so impertinent?" at last she said, and then she
hurried out of the room without giving the archdeacon the opportunity
of uttering another word. It was with difficulty she contained
herself till she reached her own room; and then, locking the door,
she threw herself on her bed and sobbed as though her heart would
break.

But even yet she had no conception of the truth. She had no idea
that her father and her sister had for days past conceived in sober
earnest the idea that she was going to marry this man. She did not
even then believe that the archdeacon thought that she would do so.
By some manoeuvre of her brain she attributed the origin of the
accusation to Mr. Arabin, and as she did so her anger against him was
excessive, and the vexation of her spirit almost unendurable. She
could not bring herself to think that the charge was made seriously.
It appeared to her most probable that the archdeacon and Mr. Arabin
had talked over her objectionable acquaintance with Mr. Slope; that
Mr. Arabin in his jeering, sarcastic way had suggested the odious
match as being the severest way of treating with contumely her
acquaintance with his enemy; and that the archdeacon, taking the idea
from him, thought proper to punish her by the allusion. The whole
night she lay awake thinking of what had been said, and this appeared
to be the most probable solution.

But the reflexion that Mr. Arabin should have in any way mentioned
her name in connexion with that of Mr. Slope was overpowering; and
the spiteful ill-nature of the archdeacon in repeating the charge to
her made her wish to leave his house almost before the day had broken.
One thing was certain: nothing should make her stay there beyond the
following morning, and nothing should make her sit down to breakfast
in company with Dr. Grantly. When she thought of the man whose name
had been linked with her own, she cried from sheer disgust. It was
only because she would be thus disgusted, thus pained and shocked and
cut to the quick, that the archdeacon had spoken the horrid word.
He wanted to make her quarrel with Mr. Slope, and therefore he had
outraged her by his abominable vulgarity. She determined that at any
rate he should know that she appreciated it.

Nor was the archdeacon a bit better satisfied with the result of his
serious interview than was Eleanor. He gathered from it, as indeed
he could hardly fail to do, that she was very angry with him, but he
thought that she was thus angry, not because she was suspected of
an intention to marry Mr. Slope, but because such an intention was
imputed to her as a crime. Dr. Grantly regarded this supposed union
with disgust, but it never occurred to him that Eleanor was outraged
because she looked at it exactly in the same light.

He returned to his wife, vexed and somewhat disconsolate, but
nevertheless confirmed in his wrath against his sister-in-law. "Her
whole behaviour," said he, "has been most objectionable. She handed
me his love-letter to read as though she were proud of it. And she
is proud of it. She is proud of having this slavering, greedy man at
her feet. She will throw herself and John Bold's money into his lap;
she will ruin her boy, disgrace her father and you, and be a wretched
miserable woman."

His spouse, who was sitting at her toilet-table, continued her
avocations, making no answer to all this. She had known that the
archdeacon would gain nothing by interfering, but she was too
charitable to provoke him by saying so while he was in such deep
sorrow.

"This comes of a man making such a will as that of Bold's," he
continued. "Eleanor is no more fitted to be trusted with such an
amount of money in her own hands than is a charity-school girl."
Still Mrs. Grantly made no reply. "But I have done my duty; I can do
nothing further. I have told her plainly that she cannot be allowed to
form a link of connexion between me and that man. From henceforward
it will not be in my power to make her welcome at Plumstead. I cannot
have Mr. Slope's love-letters coming here. Susan, I think you had
better let her understand that, as her mind on this subject seems
to be irrevocably fixed, it will be better for all parties that she
should return to Barchester."

Now Mrs. Grantly was angry with Eleanor--nearly as angry as her
husband--but she had no idea of turning her sister out of the house.
She therefore at length spoke out and explained to the archdeacon in
her own mild, seducing way that he was fuming and fussing and fretting
himself very unnecessarily. She declared that things, if left alone,
would arrange themselves much better than he could arrange them, and
at last succeeded in inducing him to go to bed in a somewhat less
inhospitable state of mind.

On the following morning Eleanor's maid was commissioned to send
word into the dining-room that her mistress was not well enough to
attend prayers and that she would breakfast in her own room. Here
she was visited by her father, and declared to him her intention of
returning immediately to Barchester. He was hardly surprised by the
announcement. All the household seemed to be aware that something had
gone wrong. Everyone walked about with subdued feet, and people's
shoes seemed to creak more than usual. There was a look of conscious
intelligence on the faces of the women, and the men attempted, but
in vain, to converse as though nothing were the matter. All this had
weighed heavily on the heart of Mr. Harding, and when Eleanor told him
that her immediate return to Barchester was a necessity, he merely
sighed piteously and said that he would be ready to accompany her.