to dilate with her father upon what was nauseous. She never supposed they could disagree on such a subject. It would have been painful for her to point it out, painful for her to speak strongly against a man of whom, on the whole, she was anxious to think and speak well. In encountering such a man she had encountered what was disagreeable, as she might do in walking the streets. But in such encounters she never thought it necessary to dwell on what disgusted her.
And he, foolish, weak, loving man, would not say one word, though one word would have cleared up everything. There would have been a deluge of tears, and in ten minutes everyone in the house would have understood how matters really were. The father would have been delighted. The sister would have kissed her sister and begged a thousand pardons. The archdeacon would have apologized and wondered, and raised his eyebrows, and gone to bed a happy man. And Mr. Arabin—Mr. Arabin would have dreamt of Eleanor, have awoke in the morning with ideas of love, and retired to rest the next evening with schemes of marriage. But, alas, all this was not to be.
Mr. Harding slowly folded the letter, handed it back to her, kissed her forehead, and bade God bless her. He then crept slowly away to his own room.
As soon as he had left the passage, another knock was given at Eleanor’s door, and Mrs. Grantly’s very demure own maid, entering on tiptoe, wanted to know would Mrs. Bold be so kind as to speak to the archdeacon for two minutes in the archdeacon’s study, if not disagreeable. The archdeacon’s compliments, and he wouldn’t detain her two minutes.
Eleanor thought it was very disagreeable; she was tired and fagged and sick at heart; her present feelings towards Dr. Grantly were anything but those of affection. She was, however, no coward, and therefore promised to be in the study in five minutes. So she arranged her hair, tied on her cap, and went down with a palpitating heart.
Chapter XXIX.
A Serious Interview
There are people who delight in serious interviews, especially when to them appertains the part of offering advice or administering rebuke, and perhaps the archdeacon was one of these. Yet on this occasion he did not prepare himself for the coming conversation with much anticipation of pleasure. Whatever might be his faults he was not an inhospitable man, and he almost felt that he was sinning against hospitality in upbraiding Eleanor in his own house. Then, also, he was not quite sure that he would get the best of it. His wife had told him that he decidedly would not, and he usually gave credit to what his wife said. He was, however, so convinced of what he considered to be the impropriety of Eleanor’s conduct, and so assured also of his own duty in trying to check it, that his conscience would not allow him to take his wife’s advice and go to bed quietly.
Eleanor’s face as she entered the room was not such as to reassure him. As a rule she was always mild in manner and gentle in conduct; but there was that in her eye which made it not an easy task to scold her. In truth she had been little used to scolding. No one since her childhood had tried it but the archdeacon, and he had generally failed when he did try it. He had never done so since her marriage; and now, when he saw her quiet, easy step as she entered his room, he almost wished that he had taken his wife’s advice.
He began by apologizing for the trouble he was giving her. She begged him not to mention it, assured him that walking downstairs was no trouble to her at all, and then took a seat and waited patiently for him to begin his attack.
“My dear Eleanor,” he said, “I hope you believe me when I assure you that you have no sincerer friend than I am.” To this Eleanor answered nothing, and therefore he proceeded. “If you had a brother of your own, I should not probably trouble you with what I am going to say. But as it is I cannot but think that it must be a comfort to you to know that you have near you one who is as anxious for your welfare as any brother of your own could be.”
“I never had a brother,” said she.
“I know you never had, and it is therefore that I speak to you.”
“I never had a brother,” she repeated, “but I have hardly felt the want. Papa has been to me both father and brother.”
“Your father is the fondest and most affectionate of men. But—”
“He is—the fondest and most affectionate of men, and the best of counsellors. While he lives I can never want advice.”
This rather put the archdeacon out. He could not exactly contradict what his sister-in-law said about her father, and yet he did not at all agree with her. He wanted her to understand that he tendered his assistance because her father was a soft, goodnatured gentleman not sufficiently knowing in the ways of the world; but he could not say this to her. So he had to rush into the subject-matter of his proffered counsel without any acknowledgement on her part that she could need it, or would be grateful for it.
“Susan tells me that you received a letter this evening from Mr. Slope.”
“Yes; Papa brought it in the brougham. Did he not tell you?”
“And Susan says that you objected to let her know what it was about.”
“I don’t think she asked me. But had she done so, I should not have told her. I don’t think it nice to be asked about one’s letters. If one wishes to show them, one does so without being asked.”
“True. Quite so. What you say is quite true. But is not the fact of your receiving letters from Mr. Slope, which you do not wish to show to your friends, a circumstance which must excite some—some surprise—some suspicion—”
“Suspicion!” said she, not speaking above her usual voice, speaking still in a soft, womanly tone but yet with indignation. “Suspicion! And who suspects me, and of what?” And then there was a pause, for the archdeacon was not quite ready to explain the ground of his suspicion. “No, Dr. Grantly, I did not choose to show Mr. Slope’s letter to Susan. I could not show it to anyone till Papa had seen it. If you have any wish to read it now, you can do so,” and she handed the letter to him over the table.
This was an amount of compliance which he had not at all expected, and which rather upset him in his tactics. However, he took the letter, perused it carefully, and then refolding it, kept it on the table under his hand. To him it appeared to be in almost every respect the letter of a declared lover; it seemed to corroborate his worst suspicions; and the fact of Eleanor’s showing it to him was all but tantamount to a declaration on her part that it was her pleasure to receive love-letters from Mr. Slope. He almost entirely overlooked the real subject-matter of the epistle, so intent was he on the forthcoming courtship and marriage.
“I’ll thank you to give it me back, if you please, Dr. Grantly.”
He took it in his hand and held it up, but made no immediate overture to return it. “And Mr. Harding has seen this?” said he.
“Of course he has,” said she; “it was written that he might see it. It refers solely to his business—of course I showed it to him.”
“And, Eleanor, do you think that that is a proper letter for you—for a person in your condition—to receive from Mr. Slope?”
“Quite a proper letter,” said she, speaking, perhaps, a little out of obstinacy, probably forgetting at the moment the objectionable mention of her silken curls.
“Then, Eleanor,
