LITMIR.BIZ

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betrayed his sister-inlaw as to whisper into Mr. Arabin’s ear in the study, as they met there before dinner, a hint of what he feared. He did so with the gravest and saddest of fears, and Mr. Arabin became grave and apparently sad enough as he heard it. He opened his eyes, and his mouth and said in a sort of whisper “Mr. Slope!” in the same way as he might have said “The Cholera!” had his friend told him that that horrid disease was in his nursery. “I fear so, I fear so,” said the archdeacon, and then together they left the room.

      We will not accurately analyse Mr. Arabin’s feelings on receipt of such astounding tidings. It will suffice to say that he was surprised, vexed, sorrowful, and ill at ease. He had not perhaps thought very much about Eleanor, but he had appreciated her influence and had felt that close intimacy with her in a country-house was pleasant to him and also beneficial. He had spoken highly of her intelligence to the archdeacon and had walked about the shrubberies with her carrying her boy on his back. When Mr. Arabin had called Johnny his darling, Eleanor was not angry.

      Thus the three men sat over their wine, all thinking of the same subject but unable to speak of it to each other. So we will leave them and follow the ladies into the drawing-room.

      Mrs. Grantly had received a commission from her husband and had undertaken it with some unwillingness. He had desired her to speak gravely to Eleanor and to tell her that, if she persisted in her adherence to Mr. Slope, she could no longer look for the countenance of her present friends. Mrs. Grantly probably knew her sister better than the doctor did and assured him that it would be in vain to talk to her. The only course likely to be of any service in her opinion was to keep Eleanor away from Barchester. Perhaps she might have added, for she had a very keen eye in such things, that there might also be ground for hope in keeping Eleanor near Mr. Arabin. Of this, however, she said nothing. But the archdeacon would not be talked over; he spoke much of his conscience and declared that, if Mrs. Grantly would not do it, he would. So instigated, the lady undertook the task, stating, however, her full conviction that her interference would be worse than useless. And so it proved.

      As soon as they were in the drawing-room Mrs. Grantly found some excuse for sending her girls away, and then began her task. She knew well that she could exercise but very slight authority over her sister. Their various modes of life, and the distance between their residences, had prevented any very close confidence. They had hardly lived together since Eleanor was a child. Eleanor had, moreover, especially in latter years, resented in a quiet sort of way the dictatorial authority which the archdeacon seemed to exercise over her father, and on this account had been unwilling to allow the archdeacon’s wife to exercise authority over herself.

      “You got a note just before dinner, I believe,” began the eldest sister.

      Eleanor acknowledged that she had done so and felt that she turned red as she acknowledged it. She would have given anything to have kept her colour, but the more she tried to do so the more signally she failed.

      “Was it not from Mr. Slope?”

      Eleanor said that the letter was from Mr. Slope.

      “Is he a regular correspondent of yours, Eleanor?”

      “Not exactly,” said she, already beginning to feel angry at the cross-examination. She determined, and why it would be difficult to say, that nothing should induce her to tell her sister Susan what was the subject of the letter. Mrs. Grantly, she knew, was instigated by the archdeacon, and she would not plead to any arraignment made against her by him.

      “But, Eleanor dear, why do you get letters from Mr. Slope at all, knowing, as you do, he is a person so distasteful to Papa, and to the archdeacon, and indeed to all your friends?”

      “In the first place, Susan, I don’t get letters from him; and in the next place, as Mr. Slope wrote the one letter which I have got, and as I only received it, which I could not very well help doing, as Papa handed it to me, I think you had better ask Mr. Slope instead of me.”

      “What was his letter about, Eleanor?”

      “I cannot tell you,” said she, “because it was confidential. It was on business respecting a third person.”

      “It was in no way personal to yourself then?”

      “I won’t exactly say that, Susan,” said she, getting more and more angry at her sister’s questions.

      “Well, I must say it’s rather singular,” said Mrs. Grantly, affecting to laugh, “that a young lady in your position should receive a letter from an unmarried gentleman of which she will not tell the contents and which she is ashamed to show to her sister.”

      “I am not ashamed,” said Eleanor, blazing up. “I am not ashamed of anything in the matter; only I do not choose to be cross-examined as to my letters by anyone.”

      “Well, dear,” said the other, “I cannot but tell you that I do not think Mr. Slope a proper correspondent for you.”

      “If he be ever so improper, how can I help his having written to me? But you are all prejudiced against him to such an extent that that which would be kind and generous in another man is odious and impudent in him. I hate a religion that teaches one to be so one-sided in one’s charity.”

      “I am sorry, Eleanor, that you hate the religion you find here, but surely you should remember that in such matters the archdeacon must know more of the world than you do. I don’t ask you to respect or comply with me, although I am, unfortunately, so many years your senior, but surely, in such a matter as this, you might consent to be guided by the archdeacon. He is most anxious to be your friend, if you will let him.”

      “In such a matter as what?’ said Eleanor very testily. “Upon my word I don’t know what this is all about.”

      “We all want you to drop Mr. Slope.”

      “You all want me to be as illiberal as yourselves. That I shall never be. I see no harm in Mr. Slope’s acquaintance, and I shall not insult the man by telling him that I do. He has thought it necessary to write to me, and I do not want the archdeacon’s advice about the letter. If I did, I would ask it.”

      “Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you,” and now she spoke with a tremendous gravity, “that the archdeacon thinks that such a correspondence is disgraceful and that he cannot allow it to go on in his house.”

      Eleanor’s eyes flashed fire as she answered her sister, jumping up from her seat as she did so. “You may tell the archdeacon that wherever I am I shall receive what letters I please and from whom I please. And as for the word ‘disgraceful,’ if Dr. Grantly has used it of me, he has been unmanly and inhospitable,” and she walked off to the door. “When Papa comes from the dining-room I will thank you to ask him to step up to my bedroom. I will show him Mr. Slope’s letter, but I will show it to no one else.” And so saying, she retreated to her baby.

      She had no conception of the crime with which she was charged. The idea that she could be thought by her friends to regard Mr. Slope as a lover had never flashed upon her. She conceived that they were all prejudiced and illiberal in their persecution of him, and therefore she would not join in the persecution, even though she greatly disliked the man.

      Eleanor was very angry as she seated herself in a low chair by her open window at the foot of her child’s bed. “To dare to say I have disgraced myself,” she repeated to herself more than once. “How Papa can put up with that man’s arrogance! I will certainly not sit down to dinner in his house again unless he begs my pardon for that word.” And then a thought struck her that Mr. Arabin might perchance hear of her “disgraceful” correspondence with Mr. Slope, and she turned crimson with pure vexation. Oh, if she had known the truth! If she could have conceived that Mr. Arabin had been informed as a fact that she was going to marry Mr. Slope!

      She had not been long in her room before her father joined her. As he left the drawing-room Mrs. Grantly took her husband into the recess of the window and told him how signally she had failed.

      “I will speak to her myself before I go to bed,” said the archdeacon.

      “Pray do no such thing,”

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