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 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-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 _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 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.