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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-inlaw 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-inlaw’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-inlaw 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

      Table of Contents

      There was much cause for grief and occasional perturbation of spirits in the Stanhope family, but yet they rarely seemed to he grieved or to he 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. If she added little to the pleasures of her children, she detracted still less: she neither grumbled at her lot, nor spoke much of her past or future sufferings; as long as she had a maid to adjust her dress, and had those dresses well made, nature with her was satisfied. It was the same with the children. Charlotte never rebuked her father with the prospect of their future poverty, nor did it seem to grieve her that she was becoming an old maid so quickly; her temper was rarely ruffled, and, if we might judge by her appearance, she was always happy. The signora was not so sweet-tempered, but she possessed much enduring courage; she seldom complained — never, indeed, to her family. Though she had a cause for affliction which would have utterly broken down the heart of most women as beautiful as she and as devoid of all religious support, yet she bore her suffering in silence, or alluded to it only to elicit the sympathy and stimulate the admiration of the men with whom she flirted. As to Bertie, one would have imagined from the sound of his voice and the gleam of his eye that he had not a sorrow nor a care in the world. Nor had he. He was incapable of anticipating tomorrow’s griefs. The prospect of future want no more disturbed his appetite than does that of the butcher’s knife disturb the appetite of the sheep.

      Such was the usual tenor of their way, but there were rare exceptions. Occasionally the father would allow an angry glance to fall from his eye, and the lion would send forth a low dangerous roar as though he meditated some deed of blood. Occasionally also Madame Neroni would become bitter against mankind, more than usually antagonistic to the world’s decencies, and would seem as though she was about to break from her moorings and allow herself to be carried forth by the tide of her feelings to utter ruin and shipwreck. She, however, like the rest of them, had no real feelings, could feel no true passion. In that was her security. Before she resolved on any contemplated escapade she would make a small calculation, and generally summed up that the Stanhope villa or even Barchester close was better than the world at large.

      They were most irregular in their hours. The father was generally the earliest in the breakfast-parlour, and Charlotte would

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