Barchester Towers

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"Mr. Arabin!" he exclaimed; "impossible!"

"Oh, Papa, for heaven's sake don't say anything against him! If you
love me, don't say anything against him. Oh, Papa, it's done and
mustn't be undone--oh, Papa!"

Fickle Eleanor! Where was the promise that she would make no choice
for herself without her father's approval? She had chosen, and now
demanded his acquiescence. "Oh, Papa, isn't he good? Isn't he noble?
Isn't he religious, high-minded, everything that a good man possibly
can be?" She clung to her father, beseeching him for his consent.

"My Nelly, my child, my own daughter! He is; he is noble and good and
high-minded; he is all that a woman can love and a man admire. He
shall be my son, my own son. He shall be as close to my heart as you
are. My Nelly, my child, my happy, happy child!"

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 _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 protege, 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-in-law 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-in-law'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-in-law of his
fairly earned promotion, were it at all practicable to induce his
father-in-law 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 _conge_ 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 work in her new house, and
had just ventured out, expecting to see no one on the arrival of the
family chattels. The archdeacon was down upon her before she knew
where she was.

Her acquaintance with Dr. Grantly or his family was very slight
indeed. The archdeacon, as a matter of course, knew every clergyman
in the archdeaconry--it may almost be said in the diocese--and had
some acquaintance, more or less intimate, with their wives and
families. With Mr. Quiverful he had been concerned on various matters
of business, but of Mrs. Q. he had seen very little. Now, however, he
was in too gracious a mood to pass her by unnoticed. The Quiverfuls,
one and all, had looked for the bitterest hostility from Dr. Grantly;
they knew his anxiety that Mr. Harding should return to his old home
at the hospital, and they did not know that a new home had been
offered to him at the deanery. Mrs. Quiverful was therefore not a
little surprised, and not a little rejoiced also, at the tone in which
she was addressed.

"How do you do, Mrs. Quiverful, how do you do?" said he, stretching
his left hand out of the gig as he spoke to her. "I am very glad
to see you employed in so pleasant and useful a manner; very glad
indeed."

Mrs. Quiverful thanked him, and shook hands with him, and looked into
his face suspiciously. She was not sure whether the congratulations
and kindness were or were not ironical.

"Pray tell Mr. Quiverful from me," he continued, "that I am rejoiced
at his appointment. It's a comfortable place, Mrs. Quiverful,
and a comfortable house, and I am very glad to see you in it.
Good-bye--good-bye." And he drove on, leaving the lady well pleased
and astonished at his good nature. On the whole things were going well
with the archdeacon, and he could afford to be charitable to Mrs.
Quiverful. He looked forth from his gig smilingly on all the world,
and forgave everyone in Barchester their sins, excepting only Mrs.
Proudie and Mr. Slope. Had he seen the bishop, he would have felt
inclined to pat even him kindly on the head.

He determined to go home by St. Ewold's. This would take him some
three miles out of his way, but he felt that he could not leave
Plumstead comfortably without saying one word of good-fellowship to
Mr. Arabin. When he reached the parsonage, the vicar was still out,
but from what he had heard, he did not doubt but that he would meet
him on the road between their two houses. He was right in this, for
about half-way home, at a narrow turn, he came upon Mr. Arabin, who
was on horseback.

"Well, well, well, well," said the archdeacon loudly, joyously, and
with supreme good humour; "well, well, well, well; so, after all, we
have no further cause to fear Mr. Slope."

"I hear from Mrs. Grantly that they have offered the deanery to Mr.
Harding," said the other.

"Mr. Slope has lost more than the deanery I find," and then the
archdeacon laughed jocosely. "Come, come, Arabin, you have kept your
secret well enough. I know all about it now."

"I have had no secret, Archdeacon," said the other with a quiet smile.
"None at all--not for a day. It was only yesterday that I knew my
own good fortune, and to-day I went over to Plumstead to ask your
approval. From what Mrs. Grantly has said to me, I am led to hope that
I shall have it."

"With all my heart, with all my heart," said the archdeacon
cordially, holding his friend fast by the hand. "It's just as I would
have it. She is an excellent young woman; she will not come to you
empty-handed; and I think she will make you a good wife. If she does
her duty by you as her sister does by me, you'll be a happy man;
that's all I can say." And as he finished speaking a tear might have
been observed in each of the doctor's eyes.

Mr. Arabin warmly returned the archdeacon's grasp, but he said little.
His heart was too full for speaking, and he could not express the
gratitude which he felt. Dr. Grantly understood him as well as though
he had spoken for an hour.

"And mind, Arabin," said he, "no one but myself shall tie the knot.
We'll get Eleanor out to Plumstead, and it shall come off there. I'll
make Susan stir herself, and we'll do it in style. I must be off to
London to-morrow on special business. Harding goes with me. But I'll
be back before your bride has got her wedding-dress ready." And so
they parted.

On his journey home the archdeacon occupied his mind with preparations
for the marriage festivities. He made a great resolve that he would
atone to Eleanor for all the injury he had done her by the munificence
of his future treatment. He would show her what was the difference
in his eyes between a Slope and an Arabin. On one other thing also
he decided with a firm mind: if the affair of the dean should not be
settled in Mr. Arabin's favour, nothing should prevent him putting a
new front and bow-window to the dining-room at St. Ewold's parsonage.

"So we're sold after all, Sue," said he to his wife, accosting her
with a kiss as soon as he entered his house. He did not call his wife
Sue above twice or thrice in a year, and these occasions were great
high days.

"Eleanor has had more sense than we gave her credit for," said Mrs.
Grantly.

And there was great content in Plumstead Rectory that evening. Mrs.
Grantly promised her husband that she would now open her heart and
take Mr. Arabin into it. Hitherto she had declined to do so.




CHAPTER LI

Mr. Slope Bids Farewell to the Palace and Its Inhabitants


We must now take leave of Mr. Slope, and of the bishop also, and of
Mrs. Proudie. These leave-takings in novels are as disagreeable as
they are in real life; not so sad, indeed, for they want the reality
of sadness; but quite as perplexing, and generally less satisfactory.
What novelist, what Fielding, what Scott, what George Sand, or Sue, or
Dumas, can impart an interest to the last chapter of his fictitious
history? Promises of two children and superhuman happiness are of no
avail, nor assurance of extreme respectability carried to an age far
exceeding that usually allotted to mortals. The sorrows of our heroes
and heroines, they are your delight, oh public!--their sorrows, or
their sins, or their absurdities; not their virtues, good sense,
and consequent rewards. When we begin to tint our final pages with
_couleur de rose_, as in accordance with fixed rule we must do, we
altogether extinguish our own powers of pleasing. When we become dull,
we offend your intellect; and we must become dull or we should offend
your taste. A late writer, wishing to sustain his interest to the last
page, hung his hero at the end of the third volume. The consequence
was that no one would read his novel. And who can apportion out
and dovetail his incidents, dialogues, characters, and descriptive
morsels so as to fit them all exactly into 930 pages, without either
compressing them unnaturally, or extending them artificially at the
end of his labour? Do I not myself know that I am at this moment in
want of a dozen pages, and that I am sick with cudgelling my brains
to find them? And then, when everything is done, the kindest-hearted
critic of them all invariably twits us with the incompetency and
lameness of our conclusion. We have either become idle and neglected
it, or tedious and overlaboured it. It is insipid or unnatural,
overstrained or imbecile. It means nothing, or attempts too much. The
last scene of all, as all last scenes we fear must be,


Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.


I can only say that if some critic who thoroughly knows his work, and
has laboured on it till experience has made him perfect, will write
the last fifty pages of a novel in the way they should be written, I,
for one, will in future do my best to copy the example. Guided by my
own lights only, I confess that I despair of success.

For the last week or ten days Mr. Slope had seen nothing of Mrs.
Proudie, and very little of the bishop. He still lived in the palace,
and still went through his usual routine work; but the confidential
doings of the diocese had passed into other hands. He had seen this
clearly and marked it well, but it had not much disturbed him. He
had indulged in other hopes till the bishop's affairs had become dull
to him, and he was moreover aware that, as regarded the diocese, Mrs.
Proudie had checkmated him. It has been explained, in the beginning
of these pages, how three or four were contending together as to
who, in fact, should be Bishop of Barchester. Each of these had now
admitted to himself (or boasted to herself) that Mrs. Proudie was
victorious in the struggle. They had gone through a competitive
examination of considerable severity, and she had come forth the
winner, _facile princeps_. Mr. Slope had for a moment run her hard,
but it was only for a moment. It had become, as it were, acknowledged
that Hiram's Hospital should be the testing-point between them, and
now Mr. Quiverful was already in the hospital, the proof of Mrs.
Proudie's skill and courage.

All this did not break down Mr. Slope's spirit, because he had other
hopes. But, alas, at last there came to him a note from his friend
Sir Nicholas, informing him that the deanship was disposed of. Let
us give Mr. Slope his due. He did not lie prostrate under this blow,
or give himself up to vain lamentations; he did not henceforward
despair of life and call upon gods above and gods below to carry him
off. He sat himself down in his chair, counted out what monies he had
in hand for present purposes and what others were coming in to him,
bethought himself as to the best sphere for his future exertions, and
at once wrote off a letter to a rich sugar-refiner's wife in Baker
Street, who, as he well knew, was much given to the entertainment and
encouragement of serious young evangelical clergymen. He was again, he
said, "upon the world, having found the air of a cathedral town, and
the very nature of cathedral services, uncongenial to his spirit;" and
then he sat awhile, making firm resolves as to his manner of parting
from the bishop, and also as to his future conduct.


At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue (black),
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.


Having received a formal command to wait upon the bishop, he rose and
proceeded to obey it. He rang the bell and desired the servant to
inform his master that, if it suited his lordship, he, Mr. Slope, was
ready to wait upon him. The servant, who well understood that Mr.
Slope was no longer in the ascendant, brought back a message saying
that "his lordship desired that Mr. Slope would attend him immediately
in his study." Mr. Slope waited about ten minutes more to prove his
independence, and then he went into the bishop's room. There, as he
had expected, he found Mrs. Proudie, together with her husband.

"Hum, ha--Mr. Slope, pray take a chair," said the gentleman bishop.

"Pray be seated, Mr. Slope," said the lady bishop.

"Thank ye, thank ye," said Mr. Slope, and walking round to the fire,
he threw himself into one of the armchairs that graced the hearth-rug.

"Mr. Slope," said the bishop, "it has become necessary that I should
speak to you definitively on a matter that has for some time been
pressing itself on my attention."

"May I ask whether the subject is in any way connected with myself?"
said Mr. Slope.

"It is so--certainly--yes, it certainly is connected with yourself,
Mr. Slope."

"Then, my lord, if I may be allowed to express a wish, I would prefer
that no discussion on the subject should take place between us in the
presence of a third person."

"Don't alarm yourself, Mr. Slope," said Mrs. Proudie, "no discussion
is at all necessary. The bishop merely intends to express his own
wishes."

"I merely intend, Mr. Slope, to express my own wishes--no discussion
will be at all necessary," said the bishop, reiterating his wife's
words.

"That is more, my lord, than we any of us can be sure of," said Mr.
Slope; "I cannot, however, force Mrs. Proudie to leave the room; nor
can I refuse to remain here if it be your lordship's wish that I
should do so."

"It is his lordship's wish, certainly," said Mrs. Proudie.

"Mr. Slope," began the bishop in a solemn, serious voice, "it
grieves me to have to find fault. It grieves me much to have to find
fault with a clergyman--but especially so with a clergyman in your
position."

"Why, what have I done amiss, my lord?" demanded Mr. Slope boldly.

"What have you done amiss, Mr. Slope?" said Mrs. Proudie, standing
erect before the culprit and raising that terrible forefinger. "Do
you dare to ask the bishop what you have done amiss? Does not your
conscience--"

"Mrs. Proudie, pray let it be understood, once for all, that I will
have no words with you."

"Ah, sir, but you will have words," said she; "you must have words.
Why have you had so many words with that Signora Neroni? Why have you
disgraced yourself, you a clergyman, too, by constantly consorting
with such a woman as that--with a married woman--with one altogether
unfit for a clergyman's society?"

"At any rate I was introduced to her in your drawing-room," retorted
Mr. Slope.

"And shamefully you behaved there," said Mrs. Proudie; "most
shamefully. I was wrong to allow you to remain in the house a day
after what I then saw. I should have insisted on your instant
dismissal."

"I have yet to learn, Mrs. Proudie, that you have the power to insist
either on my going from hence or on my staying here."

"What!" said the lady. "I am not to have the privilege of saying who
shall and who shall not frequent my own drawing-room! I am not to
save my servants and dependants from having their morals corrupted by
improper conduct! I am not to save my own daughters from impurity!
I will let you see, Mr. Slope, whether I have the power or whether
I have not. You will have the goodness to understand that you no
longer fill any situation about the bishop, and as your room will be
immediately wanted in the palace for another chaplain, I must ask you
to provide yourself with apartments as soon as may be convenient to
you."