Barchester Towers

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Then Mr. Slope's successes were henbane to Dr. Grantly, and Mrs.
Bold's improprieties were as bad. What would be all the world to
Archdeacon Grantly if Mr. Slope should become Dean of Barchester and
marry his wife's sister! He talked of it and talked of it till he was
nearly ill. Mrs. Grantly almost wished that the marriage were done and
over, so that she might hear no more about it.

And there was yet another ground of misery which cut him to the quick
nearly as closely as either of the others. That paragon of a clergyman
whom he had bestowed upon St. Ewold's, that college friend of whom he
had boasted so loudly, that ecclesiastical knight before whose lance
Mr. Slope was to fall and bite the dust, that worthy bulwark of the
church as it should be, that honoured representative of Oxford's
best spirit, was--so at least his wife had told him half a dozen
times--misconducting himself!

Nothing had been seen of Mr. Arabin at Plumstead for the last week,
but a good deal had, unfortunately, been heard of him. As soon as Mrs.
Grantly had found herself alone with the archdeacon, on the evening of
the Ullathorne party, she had expressed herself very forcibly as to
Mr. Arabin's conduct on that occasion. He had, she declared, looked
and acted and talked very unlike a decent parish clergyman. At first
the archdeacon had laughed at this, and assured her that she need not
trouble herself--that Mr. Arabin would be found to be quite safe. But
by degrees he began to find that his wife's eyes had been sharper than
his own. Other people coupled the signora's name with that of Mr.
Arabin. The meagre little prebendary who lived in the close told him
to a nicety how often Mr. Arabin had visited at Dr. Stanhope's, and
how long he had remained on the occasion of each visit. He had asked
after Mr. Arabin at the cathedral library, and an officious little
vicar choral had offered to go and see whether he could be found at
Dr. Stanhope's. Rumour, when she has contrived to sound the first
note on her trumpet, soon makes a loud peal audible enough. It was
too clear that Mr. Arabin had succumbed to the Italian woman, and
that the archdeacon's credit would suffer fearfully if something were
not done to rescue the brand from the burning. Besides, to give the
archdeacon his due, he was really attached to Mr. Arabin, and grieved
greatly at his backsliding.

They were sitting, talking over their sorrows, in the drawing-room
before dinner on the day after Mr. Slope's departure for London, and
on this occasion Mrs. Grantly spoke out her mind freely. She had
opinions of her own about parish clergymen, and now thought it right
to give vent to them.

"If you would have been led by me, Archdeacon, you would never have
put a bachelor into St. Ewold's."

"But my dear, you don't meant to say that all bachelor clergymen
misbehave themselves."

"I don't know that clergymen are so much better than other men,"
said Mrs. Grantly. "It's all very well with a curate, whom you have
under your own eye and whom you can get rid of if he persists in
improprieties."

"But Mr. Arabin was a fellow, and couldn't have had a wife."

"Then I would have found someone who could."

"But, my dear, are fellows never to get livings?"

"Yes, to be sure they are, when they get engaged. I never would put
a young man into a living unless he were married, or engaged to be
married. Now, here is Mr. Arabin. The whole responsibility lies upon
you."

"There is not at this moment a clergymen in all Oxford more respected
for morals and conduct than Arabin."

"Oh, Oxford!" said the lady, with a sneer. "What men choose to do at
Oxford nobody ever hears of. A man may do very well at Oxford who
would bring disgrace on a parish; and to tell you the truth, it seems
to me that Mr. Arabin is just such a man."

The archdeacon groaned deeply, but he had no further answer to make.

"You really must speak to him, Archdeacon. Only think what the Thornes
will say if they hear that their parish clergyman spends his whole
time philandering with this woman."

The archdeacon groaned again. He was a courageous man, and knew well
enough how to rebuke the younger clergymen of the diocese, when
necessary. But there was that about Mr. Arabin which made the doctor
feel that it would be very difficult to rebuke him with good effect.

"You can advise him to find a wife for himself, and he will understand
well enough what that means," said Mrs. Grantly.

The archdeacon had nothing for it but groaning. There was Mr. Slope:
he was going to be made dean; he was going to take a wife; he was
about to achieve respectability and wealth, an excellent family
mansion, and a family carriage; he would soon be among the comfortable
_elite_ of the ecclesiastical world of Barchester; whereas his own
_protege_, the true scion of the true church, by whom he had sworn,
would be still but a poor vicar, and that with a very indifferent
character for moral conduct! It might be all very well recommending
Mr. Arabin to marry, but how would Mr. Arabin, when married, support
a wife?

Things were ordering themselves thus in Plumstead drawing-room when
Dr. and Mrs. Grantly were disturbed in their sweet discourse by the
quick rattle of a carriage and pair of horses on the gravel sweep.
The sound was not that of visitors, whose private carriages are
generally brought up to country-house doors with demure propriety,
but betokened rather the advent of some person or persons who were
in a hurry to reach the house, and had no intention of immediately
leaving it. Guests invited to stay a week, and who were conscious of
arriving after the first dinner-bell, would probably approach in such
a manner. So might arrive an attorney with the news of a granduncle's
death, or a son from college with all the fresh honours of a double
first. No one would have had himself driven up to the door of a
country-house in such a manner who had the slightest doubt of his own
right to force an entry.

"Who is it?" said Mrs. Grantly, looking at her husband.

"Who on earth can it be?" said the archdeacon to his wife. He then
quietly got up and stood with the drawing-room door open in his hand.
"Why, it's your father!"

It was indeed Mr. Harding, and Mr. Harding alone. He had come by
himself in a post-chaise with a couple of horses from Barchester,
arriving almost after dark, and evidently full of news. His visits
had usually been made in the quietest manner; he had rarely presumed
to come without notice, and had always been driven up in a modest
old green fly, with one horse, that hardly made itself heard as it
crawled up to the hall-door.

"Good gracious, Warden, is it you?" said the archdeacon, forgetting in
his surprise the events of the last few years. "But come in; nothing
the matter, I hope."

"We are very glad you are come, Papa," said his daughter. "I'll go
and get your room ready at once."

"I an't warden, Archdeacon," said Mr. Harding; "Mr. Quiverful is
warden."

"Oh, I know, I know," said the archdeacon petulantly. "I forgot all
about it at the moment. Is anything the matter?"

"Don't go this moment, Susan," said Mr. Harding. "I have something to
tell you."

"The dinner-bell will ring in five minutes," said she.

"Will it?" said Mr. Harding. "Then perhaps I had better wait." He was
big with news which he had come to tell, but which he knew could not
be told without much discussion. He had hurried away to Plumstead as
fast as two horses could bring him, and now, finding himself there, he
was willing to accept the reprieve which dinner would give him.

"If you have anything of moment to tell us," said the archdeacon,
"pray let us hear it at once. Has Eleanor gone off?"

"No, she has not," said Mr. Harding with a look of great displeasure.

"Has Slope been made dean?"

"No, he has not, but--"

"But what?" said the archdeacon, who was becoming very impatient.

"They have--"

"They have what?" said the archdeacon.

"They have offered it to me," said Mr. Harding, with a modesty which
almost prevented his speaking.

"Good heavens!" said the archdeacon, and sunk back exhausted in an
easy chair.

"My dear, dear father," said Mrs. Grantly, and threw her arms round
her father's neck.

"So I thought I had better come out and consult with you at once,"
said Mr. Harding.

"Consult!" shouted the archdeacon. "But, my dear Harding, I
congratulate you with my whole heart--with my whole heart; I do
indeed. I never heard anything in my life that gave me so much
pleasure;" and he got hold of both his father-in-law's hands, and
shook them as though he were going to shake them off, and walked
round and round the room, twirling a copy of "The Jupiter" over his
head to show his extreme exultation.

"But--" began Mr. Harding.

"But me no buts," said the archdeacon. "I never was so happy in my
life. It was just the proper thing to do. Upon my honour I'll never
say another word against Lord ---- the longest day I have to live."

"That's Dr. Gwynne's doing, you may be sure," said Mrs. Grantly, who
greatly liked the Master of Lazarus, he being an orderly married man
with a large family.

"I suppose it is," said the archdeacon.

"Oh, Papa, I am so truly delighted!" said Mrs. Grantly, getting up
and kissing her father.

"But, my dear," said Mr. Harding. It was all in vain that he strove to
speak; nobody would listen to him.

"Well, Mr. Dean," said the archdeacon, triumphing, "the deanery
gardens will be some consolation for the hospital elms. Well, poor
Quiverful! I won't begrudge him his good fortune any longer."

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Grantly. "Poor woman, she has fourteen
children. I am sure I am very glad they have got it."

"So am I," said Mr. Harding.

"I would give twenty pounds," said the archdeacon, "to see how
Mr. Slope will look when he hears it." The idea of Mr. Slope's
discomfiture formed no small part of the archdeacon's pleasure.

At last Mr. Harding was allowed to go upstairs and wash his hands,
having, in fact, said very little of all that he had come out to
Plumstead on purpose to say. Nor could anything more be said till
the servants were gone after dinner. The joy of Dr. Grantly was
so uncontrollable that he could not refrain from calling his
father-in-law Mr. Dean before the men, and therefore it was soon
matter of discussion in the lower regions how Mr. Harding, instead of
his daughter's future husband, was to be the new dean, and various
were the opinions on the matter. The cook and butler, who were
advanced in years, thought that it was just as it should be; but the
footman and lady's maid, who were younger, thought it was a great
shame that Mr. Slope should lose his chance.

"He's a mean chap all the same," said the footman, "and it an't along
of him that I says so. But I always did admire the missus's sister;
and she'd well become the situation."

While these were the ideas downstairs, a very great difference of
opinion existed above. As soon as the cloth was drawn and the wine on
the table, Mr. Harding made for himself an opportunity of speaking.
It was, however, with much inward troubling that he said:

"It's very kind of Lord ----, very kind, and I feel it deeply, most
deeply. I am, I must confess, gratified by the offer--"

"I should think so," said the archdeacon.

"But all the same I am afraid that I can't accept it."

The decanter almost fell from the archdeacon's hand upon the table,
and the start he made was so great as to make his wife jump up from
her chair. Not accept the deanship! If it really ended in this, there
would be no longer any doubt that his father-in-law was demented. The
question now was whether a clergyman with low rank and preferment
amounting to less than L200 a year should accept high rank, L1,200 a
year, and one of the most desirable positions which his profession had
to afford!

"What!" said the archdeacon, gasping for breath and staring at his
guest as though the violence of his emotion had almost thrown him
into a fit. "What!"

"I do not find myself fit for new duties," urged Mr. Harding.

"New duties! What duties?" said the archdeacon with unintended
sarcasm.

"Oh, Papa," said Mrs. Grantly, "nothing can be easier than what a
dean has to do. Surely you are more active than Dr. Trefoil."

"He won't have half as much to do as he has at present," said Dr.
Grantly.

"Did you see what 'The Jupiter' said the other day about young men?"

"Yes, and I saw that 'The Jupiter' said all that it could to induce
the appointment of Mr. Slope. Perhaps you would wish to see Mr. Slope
made dean."

Mr. Harding made no reply to this rebuke, though he felt it strongly.
He had not come over to Plumstead to have further contention with his
son-in-law about Mr. Slope, so he allowed it to pass by.

"I know I cannot make you understand my feeling," he said, "for we
have been cast in different moulds. I may wish that I had your spirit
and energy and power of combatting; but I have not. Every day that is
added to my life increases my wish for peace and rest."

"And where on earth can a man have peace and rest if not in a
deanery!" said the archdeacon.

"People will say that I am too old for it."

"Good heavens! People! What people? What need you care for any
people?"

"But I think myself I am too old for any new place."

"Dear Papa," said Mrs. Grantly, "men ten years older than you are
appointed to new situations day after day."

"My dear," said he, "it is impossible that I should make you
understand my feelings, nor do I pretend to any great virtue in the
matter. The truth is, I want the force of character which might
enable me to stand against the spirit of the times. The call on all
sides now is for young men, and I have not the nerve to put myself
in opposition to the demand. Were 'The Jupiter,' when it hears
of my appointment, to write article after article setting forth my
incompetency, I am sure it would cost me my reason. I ought to be
able to bear with such things, you will say. Well, my dear, I own
that I ought. But I feel my weakness, and I know that I can't. And
to tell you the truth, I know no more than a child what the dean has
to do."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed the archdeacon.

"Don't be angry with me, Archdeacon: don't let us quarrel about it,
Susan. If you knew how keenly I feel the necessity of having to
disoblige you in this matter, you would not be angry with me."

This was a dreadful blow to Dr. Grantly. Nothing could possibly have
suited him better than having Mr. Harding in the deanery. Though he
had never looked down on Mr. Harding on account of his recent poverty,
he did fully recognize the satisfaction of having those belonging to
him in comfortable positions. It would be much more suitable that Mr.
Harding should be Dean of Barchester than vicar of St. Cuthbert's and
precentor to boot. And then the great discomfiture of that arch-enemy
of all that was respectable in Barchester, of that new Low Church
clerical parvenu that had fallen amongst them, that alone would be
worth more, almost, than the situation itself. It was frightful to
think that such unhoped-for good fortune should be marred by the
absurd crotchets and unwholesome hallucinations by which Mr. Harding
allowed himself to be led astray. To have the cup so near his lips
and then to lose the drinking of it was more than Dr. Grantly could
endure.

And yet it appeared as though he would have to endure it. In vain he
threatened and in vain he coaxed. Mr. Harding did not indeed speak
with perfect decision of refusing the proffered glory, but he would
not speak with anything like decision of accepting it. When pressed
again and again, he would again and again allege that he was wholly
unfitted to new duties. It was in vain that the archdeacon tried to
insinuate, though he could not plainly declare, that there were no
new duties to perform. It was in vain he hinted that in all cases
of difficulty he, he the archdeacon, was willing and able to guide
a weak-minded dean. Mr. Harding seemed to have a foolish idea, not
only that there were new duties to do, but that no one should accept
the place who was not himself prepared to do them.

The conference ended in an understanding that Mr. Harding should
at once acknowledge the letter he had received from the minister's
private secretary, and should beg that he might be allowed two days to
make up his mind; and that during those two days the matter should be
considered.

On the following morning the archdeacon was to drive Mr. Harding back
to Barchester.




CHAPTER XLVIII

Miss Thorne Shows Her Talent at Match-Making


On Mr. Harding's return to Barchester from Plumstead, which was
effected by him in due course in company with the archdeacon, more
tidings of a surprising nature met him. He was, during the journey,
subjected to such a weight of unanswerable argument, all of which
went to prove that it was his bounden duty not to interfere with the
paternal Government that was so anxious to make him a dean, that when
he arrived at the chemist's door in High Street, he hardly knew which
way to turn himself in the matter. But, perplexed as he was, he was
doomed to further perplexity. He found a note there from his daughter
begging him most urgently to come to her immediately. But we must
again go back a little in our story.

Miss Thorne had not been slow to hear the rumours respecting Mr.
Arabin which had so much disturbed the happiness of Mrs. Grantly.
And she, also, was unhappy to think that her parish clergyman should
be accused of worshipping a strange goddess. She, also, was of
opinion that rectors and vicars should all be married, and with that
good-natured energy which was characteristic of her, she put her wits
to work to find a fitting match for Mr. Arabin. Mrs. Grantly, in this
difficulty, could think of no better remedy than a lecture from the
archdeacon. Miss Thorne thought that a young lady, marriageable and
with a dowry, might be of more efficacy. In looking through the
catalogue of her unmarried friends who might possibly be in want of
a husband, and might also be fit for such promotion as a country
parsonage affords, she could think of no one more eligible than Mrs.
Bold; consequently, losing no time, she went into Barchester on the
day of Mr. Slope's discomfiture, the same day that her brother had
had his interesting interview with the last of the Neros, and invited
Mrs. Bold to bring her nurse and baby to Ullathorne and make them a
protracted visit.

Miss Thorne suggested a month or two, intending to use her influence
afterwards in prolonging it so as to last out the winter, in order
that Mr. Arabin might have an opportunity of becoming fairly intimate
with his intended bride. "We'll have Mr. Arabin, too," said Miss
Thorne to herself; "and before the spring they'll know each other;
and in twelve or eighteen months' time, if all goes well, Mrs. Bold
will be domiciled at St. Ewold's;" and then the kind-hearted lady
gave herself some not undeserved praise for her match-making genius.

Eleanor was taken a little by surprise, but the matter ended in her
promising to go to Ullathorne for at any rate a week or two; on the
day previous to that on which her father drove out to Plumstead, she
had had herself driven out to Ullathorne.

Miss Thorne would not perplex her with her embryo lord on that same
evening, thinking that she would allow her a few hours to make herself
at home; but on the following morning Mr. Arabin arrived. "And now,"
said Miss Thorne to herself, "I must contrive to throw them in each
other's way." That same day, after dinner, Eleanor, with an assumed
air of dignity which she could not maintain, with tears which she
could not suppress, with a flutter which she could not conquer, and a
joy which she could not hide, told Miss Thorne that she was engaged
to marry Mr. Arabin and that it behoved her to get back home to
Barchester as quick as she could.

To say simply that Miss Thorne was rejoiced at the success of the
scheme would give a very faint idea of her feelings on the occasion.
My readers may probably have dreamt before now that they have had
before them some terribly long walk to accomplish, some journey of
twenty or thirty miles, an amount of labour frightful to anticipate,
and that immediately on starting they have ingeniously found some
accommodating short cut which has brought them without fatigue to
their work's end in five minutes. Miss Thorne's waking feelings were
somewhat of the same nature. My readers may perhaps have had to do
with children, and may on some occasion have promised to their young
charges some great gratification intended to come off, perhaps at
the end of the winter, or at the beginning of summer. The impatient
juveniles, however, will not wait, and clamorously demand their treat
before they go to bed. Miss Thorne had a sort of feeling that her
children were equally unreasonable. She was like an inexperienced
gunner, who has ill-calculated the length of the train that he has
laid. The gun-powder exploded much too soon, and poor Miss Thorne
felt that she was blown up by the strength of her own petard.

Miss Thorne had had lovers of her own, but they had been gentlemen
of old-fashioned and deliberate habits. Miss Thorne's heart also had
not always been hard, though she was still a virgin spinster; but it
had never yielded in this way at the first assault. She had intended
to bring together a middle-aged, studious clergyman and a discreet
matron who might possibly be induced to marry again, and in doing so
she had thrown fire among tinder. Well, it was all as it should be,
but she did feel perhaps a little put out by the precipitancy of her
own success, and perhaps a little vexed at the readiness of Mrs. Bold
to be wooed.

She said, however, nothing about it to anyone, and ascribed it all to
the altered manners of the new age. Their mothers and grandmothers
were perhaps a little more deliberate, but it was admitted on all
sides that things were conducted very differently now than in former
times. For aught Miss Thorne knew of the matter, a couple of hours
might be quite sufficient under the new regime to complete that for
which she in her ignorance had allotted twelve months.

But we must not pass over the wooing so cavalierly. It has been
told, with perhaps tedious accuracy, how Eleanor disposed of two
of her lovers at Ullathorne; and it must also be told with equal
accuracy, and if possible with less tedium, how she encountered Mr.
Arabin.

It cannot be denied that when Eleanor accepted Miss Thorne's
invitation she remembered that Ullathorne was in the parish of St.
Ewold's. Since her interview with the signora she had done little
else than think about Mr. Arabin and the appeal that had been made to
her. She could not bring herself to believe, or try to bring herself
to believe, that what she had been told was untrue. Think of it how
she would, she could not but accept it as a fact that Mr. Arabin was
fond of her; and then when she went further and asked herself the
question, she could not but accept it as a fact also that she was
fond of him. If it were destined for her to be the partner of his
hopes and sorrows, to whom could she look for friendship so properly
as to Miss Thorne? This invitation was like an ordained step towards
the fulfilment of her destiny, and when she also heard that Mr. Arabin
was expected to be at Ullathorne on the following day, it seemed as
though all the world were conspiring in her favour. Well, did she
not deserve it? In that affair of Mr. Slope had not all the world
conspired against her?

She could not, however, make herself easy and at home. When, in the
evening after dinner, Miss Thorne expatiated on the excellence of Mr.
Arabin's qualities, and hinted that any little rumour which might be
ill-naturedly spread abroad concerning him really meant nothing, Mrs.
Bold found herself unable to answer. When Miss Thorne went a little
further and declared that she did not know a prettier vicarage-house
in the county than St. Ewold's, Mrs. Bold, remembering the projected
bow-window and the projected priestess, still held her tongue, though
her ears tingled with the conviction that all the world knew that she
was in love with Mr. Arabin. Well, what would that matter if they
could only meet and tell each other what each now longed to tell?

And they did meet. Mr. Arabin came early in the day and found the two
ladies together at work in the drawing-room. Miss Thorne, who, had
she known all the truth, would have vanished into air at once, had
no conception that her immediate absence would be a blessing, and
remained chatting with them till luncheon-time. Mr. Arabin could talk
about nothing but the Signora Neroni's beauty, would discuss no people
but the Stanhopes. This was very distressing to Eleanor and not very
satisfactory to Miss Thorne. But yet there was evidence of innocence
in his open avowal of admiration.

And then they had lunch, and then Mr. Arabin went out on parish duty,
and Eleanor and Miss Thorne were left to take a walk together.

"Do you think the Signora Neroni is so lovely as people say?" Eleanor
asked as they were coming home.