from no other unmarried gentleman. She always took his part when his conduct was canvassed, although she was aware how personally objectionable he was to her friends. Then, again, Mr. Harding felt that if she should choose to become Mrs. Slope, he had nothing that he could justly urge against her doing so. She had full right to please herself, and he, as a father, could not say that she would disgrace herself by marrying a clergyman who stood so well before the world as Mr. Slope did. As for quarrelling with his daughter on account of such a marriage, and separating himself from her as the archdeacon had threatened to do, that, with Mr. Harding, would be out of the question. If she should determine to marry this man, he must get over his aversion as best he could. His Eleanor, his own old companion in their old happy home, must still be the friend of his bosom, the child of his heart. Let who would cast her off, he would not. If it were fated that he should have to sit in his old age at the same table with that man whom of all men he disliked the most, he would meet his fate as best he might. Anything to him would be preferable to the loss of his daughter.
Such being his feelings, he hardly knew how to take part with Eleanor against the archdeacon, or with the archdeacon against Eleanor. It will be said that he should never have suspected her.—Alas! he never should have done so. But Mr. Harding was by no means a perfect character. In his indecision, his weakness, his proneness to be led by others, his want of self-confidence, he was very far from being perfect. And then it must be remembered that such a marriage as that which the archdeacon contemplated with disgust, which we who know Mr. Slope so well would regard with equal disgust, did not appear so monstrous to Mr. Harding because in his charity he did not hate the chaplain as the archdeacon did, and as we do.
He was, however, very unhappy when his daughter left the room, and he had recourse to an old trick of his that was customary to him in his times of sadness. He began playing some slow tune upon an imaginary violoncello, drawing one hand slowly backwards and forwards as though he held a bow in it, and modulating the unreal chords with the other.
“She’ll marry that man as sure as two and two make four,” said the practical archdeacon.
“I hope not, I hope not,” said the father. “But if she does, what can I say to her? I have no right to object to him.”
“No right!” exclaimed Dr. Grantly.
“No right as her father. He is in my own profession and, for aught we know, a good man.”
To this the archdeacon would by no means assent. It was not well, however, to argue the case against Eleanor in her own drawing-room, and so they both walked forth and discussed the matter in all its bearings under the elm-trees of the close. Mr. Harding also explained to his son-in-law what had been the purport, at any rate the alleged purport, of Mr. Slope’s last visit to the widow. He, however, stated that he could not bring himself to believe that Mr. Slope had any real anxiety such as that he had pretended. “I cannot forget his demeanour to myself,” said Mr. Harding, “and it is not possible that his ideas should have changed so soon.”
“I see it all,” said the archdeacon. “The sly tartuffe! He thinks to buy the daughter by providing for the father. He means to show how powerful he is, how good he is, and how much he is willing to do for her beaux yeux; yes, I see it all now. But we’ll be too many for him yet, Mr. Harding;” he said, turning to his companion with some gravity and pressing his hand upon the other’s arm. “It would, perhaps, be better for you to lose the hospital than get it on such terms.”
“Lose it!” said Mr. Harding; “why I’ve lost it already. I don’t want it. I’ve made up my mind to do without it. I’ll withdraw altogether. I’ll just go and write a line to the bishop and tell him that I withdraw my claim altogether.”
Nothing would have pleased him better than to be allowed to escape from the trouble and difficulty in such a manner. But he was now going too fast for the archdeacon.
“No—no—no! We’ll do no such thing,” said Dr. Grantly. “We’ll still have the hospital. I hardly doubt but that we’ll have it. But not by Mr. Slope’s assistance. If that be necessary, we’ll lose it; but we’ll have it, spite of his teeth, if we can. Arabin will be at Plumstead tomorrow; you must come over and talk to him.”
The two now turned into the cathedral library, which was used by the clergymen of the close as a sort of ecclesiastical club-room, for writing sermons and sometimes letters; also for reading theological works and sometimes magazines and newspapers. The theological works were not disturbed, perhaps, quite as often as from the appearance of the building the outside public might have been led to expect. Here the two allies settled on their course of action. The archdeacon wrote a letter to the bishop, strongly worded, but still respectful, in which he put forward his father-in-law’s claim to the appointment and expressed his own regret that he had not been able to see his lordship when he called. Of Mr. Slope he made no mention whatsoever. It was then settled that Mr. Harding should go out to Plumstead on the following day, and after considerable discussion on the matter the archdeacon proposed to ask Eleanor there also, so as to withdraw her, if possible, from Mr. Slope’s attentions. “A week or two,” said he, “may teach her what he is, and while she is there she will be out of harm’s way. Mr. Slope won’t come there after her.”
Eleanor was not a little surprised when her brother-in-law came back and very civilly pressed her to go out to Plumstead with her father. She instantly perceived that her father had been fighting her battles for her behind her back. She felt thankful to him, and for his sake she would not show her resentment to the archdeacon by refusing his invitation. But she could not, she said, go on the morrow; she had an invitation to drink tea at the Stanhopes, which she had promised to accept. She would, she added, go with her father on the next day, if he would wait; or she would follow him.
“The Stanhopes!” said Dr. Grantly. “I did not know you were so intimate with them.”
“I did not know it myself,” said she, “till Miss Stanhope called yesterday. However, I like her very much, and I have promised to go and play chess with some of them.”
“Have they a party there?” said the archdeacon, still fearful of Mr. Slope.
“Oh, no,” said Eleanor; “Miss Stanhope said there was to be nobody at all. But she had heard that Mary had left me for a few weeks, and she had learnt from someone that I play chess, and so she came over on purpose to ask me to go in.”
“Well, that’s very friendly,” said the ex-warden. “They certainly do look more like foreigners than English people, but I dare say they are none the worse for that.”
The archdeacon was inclined to look upon the Stanhopes with favourable eyes, and had nothing to object on the matter. It was therefore arranged that Mr. Harding should postpone his visit to Plumstead for one day and then take with him Eleanor, the baby, and the nurse.
Mr. Slope is certainly becoming of some importance in Barchester.
Chapter XIX.
Barchester by Moonlight
There was much cause for grief and occasional perturbation of spirits in the Stanhope family, but yet they rarely seemed to be grieved or to be disturbed. It was the peculiar gift of each of them that each was able to bear his or her own burden without complaint, and perhaps without sympathy. They habitually looked on the sunny side of the wall, if there was a gleam on either side for them to look at; if there was none, they endured the shade with an indifference which, if not stoical, answered the end at which the Stoics aimed. Old Stanhope could not but feel that he had ill-performed his duties as a father and a clergyman, and could hardly look forward to his own death without grief at the position in which he would leave his family. His income for many years had been as high as £3,000 a year, and yet they had among them no other provision than their mother’s fortune of £10,000. He had not only spent his income, but was in debt. Yet with all this he seldom showed much outward sign of trouble.
It was the same with the mother.