The archdeacon groaned again. He was a courageous man, and knew well enough how to rebuke the younger clergymen of the diocese when necessary. But there was that about Mr Arabin which made the doctor feel that it would be very difficult to rebuke him with good effect.
'You can advise him to find a wife for himself, and he will understand well enough what that means,' said Mrs Grantly.
The archdeacon had nothing for it but groaning. There was Mr Slope;he was going to be made dean; he was going to take a wife; he was bout to achieve respectability and wealth; and excellent family mansion, and a family carriage; he would soon be among the comfortable elite of the ecclesiastical world of Barchester;whereas his own protege, the true scion of the true church, by whom he had sworn, would still be a poor vicar, and that with a very indifferent character for moral conduct! It might be all very well recommending Mr Arabin to marry, but how would Mr Arabin when married support a wife?
Things were ordering themselves thus at Plumstead drawing-room when Dr and Mrs Grantly were disturbed in their sweet discourse by the quick rattle of a carriage and a pair of horses on the gravel sweep. The sound was not that of visitors, whose private carriages are generally brought up to country-house doors with demure propriety, but belonged rather to some person or persons who were in a hurry to reach the house, and had not intention of immediately leaving it. Guests invited to stay a week, and who were conscious of arriving after the first dinner bell, would probably approach in such a manner. So might arrive an attorney with the news of a granduncle's death, or a son from college with all the fresh honours of a double first. No one would have had himself driven to the door of a country house in such a manner who had the slightest doubt of his own right to force an entry.
'Who is it?' said Mrs Grantly, looking at her husband.
'Who on earth can it be?' said the archdeacon to his wife. He then quietly got up and stood with the drawing-room door open in his hand. 'Why, it is your father!'
It was indeed Mr Harding, and Mr Harding alone. He had come by himself in a post-chaise with a couple of horses from Barchester, arriving almost after dark, and evidently full of news. His visits had usually been made in the quietest manner; he had rarely presumed to come without notice, and had always been driven up in a modest old green fly, with one horse, that hardly made itself heard as it crawled up to the hall door.
'Good gracious, Warden, is it you?' said the archdeacon, forgetting in his surprise the events of the last few years. 'But come in;nothing is the matter, I hope?'
'We are very glad you are come, papa,' said his daughter. 'I'll go and get your room ready at once.'
'I an't warden, archdeacon,' said Mr Harding. 'Mr Quiverful is warden.'
Oh, I know, I know,' said the archdeacon, petulantly. 'I forgot all about it at the moment. Is anything the matter?'
'Don't go at the moment, Susan,' said Mr Harding; 'I have something to tell you.'
'The dinner bell will ring in five minutes,' said she.
'Will it?' said Mr Harding. 'Then, perhaps I had better wait.' he was big with news which he had come to tell, but which he knew could not be told without much discussion. He had hurried away to Plumstead as fast as two horses could bring him, and now, finding himself there, he was willing to accept the reprieve which dinner would give him.
'If you have anything of moment to tell us, said the archdeacon, 'pray let us hear it at once. Has Eleanor gone off?'
'No, she has not,' said Mr Harding, with a look of great disclosure.
'Has Slope been made dean?'
'No, he has not; but--'
'But what?' said the archdeacon, who was becoming very impatient.
'They have--'
'They have what?' said the archdeacon.
'They have offered it to me,' said Mr Harding, with a modesty which almost prevented his speaking.
'Good heavens!' said the archdeacon, and sank back exhausted in an easy-chair.
'My dear, dear, father,' said Mrs Grantly, and threw her arms around his neck.
'So I thought I had better come out and consult with you at once,'
said Mr Harding.
'Consult!' shouted the archdeacon. 'But, my dear Harding, Icongratulate you with my whole heart--with my whole heart. I do indeed. I never heard anything in my life that gave me so much pleasure;' and he got hold of both his father-in-law's hands, and shook them as though he were going to shake them off, and walked round and round the room, twirling a copy of the Jupiter over his head, to show his extreme exultation.
'But--' began Mr Harding.
'But me no buts,' said the archdeacon. 'I never was so happy in my life. It was just the proper thing to do. Upon my honour, I'll never say another word against Lord--the longest day I have to live.'
'That's Dr Gwynne's doing, you may be sure,' said Mrs Grantly, who greatly liked the master of Lazarus, he being an orderly married man with a large family.
'I suppose it is,' said the archdeacon.
'Oh, papa, I am so truly delighted,' said Mrs Grantly, getting up and kissing her father.
'But, my dear,' said Mr Harding. It was all in vain that he strove to speak; nobody would listen to him.
'Well, Mr Dean,' said the archdeacon, triumphing; 'the deanery gardens will be some consolation for the hospital elms. Well, poor Quiverful! I won't begrudge him his good fortune any longer.'
No, indeed,' said Mrs Grantly. 'Poor woman, she has fourteen children. I am sure I am very glad they have got it.'
'So am I,' said Mr Harding.
'I would give twenty pounds,' said the archdeacon, 'to see how Mr Slope will look when he hears it.' The idea of Mr Slope's discomfiture formed no small part of the archdeacon's pleasure.
