Barchester Towers [143]
does all vulgarity, from ignorance. It was nauseous to her to have such a man like Mr Slope commenting on her personal attractions; and she did not think it necessary 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 to point it out, painful to 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.
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 appertain 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 much 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 the room, he almost wished he had taken his wife's advice.
He began by apologising for the trouble he was giving her. She begged him not to mention it, assured him that walking down the stairs 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
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 appertain 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 much 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 the room, he almost wished he had taken his wife's advice.
He began by apologising for the trouble he was giving her. She begged him not to mention it, assured him that walking down the stairs 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