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-inlaw’s faith in his own acuteness. The matter had, to Dr. Grantly, been so plainly corroborated1 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 impeachment2. But at last he yielded in a qualified3 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 forth4 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 concession5 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-inlaw’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 entreaties6. 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-inlaw’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 nil7 admirari doctrine8; 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 suspense9. “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 exclamations10 certainly betokened12 faith. Mr. Harding properly gathered from it that, at last, Dr. Grantly did believe the fact. The first utterance13 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 utterly14 astray he had been in all his anticipations15. 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 discomfiture16.
Then his surprise was intense. How sly this pair of young turtle-doves had been with him. How egregiously17 they had hoaxed18 him. He had preached to Eleanor against her fancied attachment19 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 dread20 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-inlaw 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; rumour21 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 surmounted22. In such case it might be expected that Mr. Slope would own himself vanquished23 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 exclamation11 made Mr. Harding fully24 aware that content was reigning25 in the archdeacon’s bosom26.
And then slowly, gradually, and craftily27 Mr. Harding propounded28 his own new scheme. Why should not Mr. Arabin be the new dean?
Slowly, gradually, and thoughtfully Dr. Grantly fell into his father-inlaw’s views. Much as he liked Mr. Arabin, sincere as was his admiration29 for that gentleman’s ecclesiastical abilities, he would not have sanctioned a measure which would rob his father-inlaw of his fairly earned promotion30, were it at all practicable to induce his father-inlaw to accept the promotion which he had earned. But the archdeacon had, on a former occasion, received proof of the obstinacy31 with which Mr. Harding could adhere to his own views in opposition32 to the advice of all his friends. He knew tolerably well that nothing would induce the meek33, 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 detour34 to Oxford35 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 memorable37 occasion in the bishop38’s study. They did not speak now, but they looked each other full in the face, and Mr. Slope’s countenance39 was as impudent40, as triumphant41, as defiant42 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 wagon43, laden44 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 graceful45 as to her bonnet46 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 chattels47. 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 hostility48 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 spoke36 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 ironical49.
“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 kindly50 on the head.
He determined51 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, joyously52, and with supreme53 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 jocosely54. “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 today 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 gratitude55 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 tomorrow 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 atone56 to Eleanor for all the injury he had done her by the munificence57 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 decided58 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, accosting59 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.
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corroborated
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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nil
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| n.无，全无，零 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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egregiously
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| adv.过份地，卓越地 | |
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hoaxed
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| v.开玩笑骗某人，戏弄某人( hoax的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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50
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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51
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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54
jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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55
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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58
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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59
accosting
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的现在分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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