THE CHRONICLES OF BARSETSHIRE (Complete Collection). Anthony Trollope
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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 élite of the ecclesiastical world of Barchester; whereas his own protégé, 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-inlaw’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-inlaw Mr. Dean before the men, and therefore it was soon matter of discussion in