Barchester Towers by Anthony Trollope (e reading malayalam books TXT) 📕

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, it is my duty to tell you that I wholly differ from you.”

“So I suppose,” said she, instigated now by sheer opposition and determination not to succumb. “You think Mr. Slope is a messenger direct from Satan. I think he is an industrious, well-meaning clergyman. It’s a pity that we differ as we do. But, as we do differ, we had probably better not talk about it.”

Here Eleanor undoubtedly put herself in the wrong. She might probably have refused to talk to Dr. Grantly on the matter in dispute without any impropriety, but, having consented to listen to him, she had no business to tell him that he regarded Mr. Slope as an emissary from the evil one; nor was she justified in praising Mr. Slope, seeing that in her heart of hearts she did not think well of him. She was, however, wounded in spirit, and angry, and bitter. She had been subjected to contumely and cross-questioning and ill-usage through the whole evening. No one, not even Mr. Arabin, not even her father, had been kind to her. All this she attributed to the prejudice and conceit of the archdeacon, and therefore she resolved to set no bounds to her antagonism to him. She would neither give nor take quarter. He had greatly presumed in daring to question her about her correspondence, and she was determined to show that she thought so.

“Eleanor, you are forgetting yourself,” said he, looking very sternly at her. “Otherwise you would never tell me that I conceive any man to be a messenger from Satan.”

“But you do,” said she. “Nothing is too bad for him. Give me that letter, if you please;” and she stretched out her hand and took it from him. “He has been doing his best to serve Papa, doing more than any of Papa’s friends could do; and yet, because he is the chaplain of a bishop whom you don’t like, you speak of him as though he had no right to the usage of a gentleman.”

“He has done nothing for your father.”

“I believe that he has done a great deal; and, as far as I am concerned, I am grateful to him. Nothing that you can say can prevent my being so. I judge people by their acts, and his, as far as I can see them, are good.” She then paused for a moment. “If you have nothing further to say, I shall be obliged by being permitted to say good night⁠—I am very tired.”

Dr. Grantly had, as he thought, done his best to be gracious to his sister-in-law. He had endeavoured not to be harsh to her, and had striven to pluck the sting from his rebuke. But he did not intend that she should leave him without hearing him.

“I have something to say, Eleanor, and I fear I must trouble you to hear it. You profess that it is quite proper that you should receive from Mr. Slope such letters as that you have in your hand. Susan and I think very differently. You are, of course, your own mistress, and much as we both must grieve should anything separate you from us, we have no power to prevent you from taking steps which may lead to such a separation. If you are so wilful as to reject the counsel of your friends, you must be allowed to cater for yourself. But, Eleanor, I may at any rate ask you this. Is it worth your while to break away from all those you have loved⁠—from all who love you⁠—for the sake of Mr. Slope?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Grantly; I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t want to break away from anybody.”

“But you will do so if you connect yourself with Mr. Slope. Eleanor, I must speak out to you. You must choose between your sister and myself and our friends, and Mr. Slope and his friends. I say nothing of your father, as you may probably understand his feelings better than I do.”

“What do you mean, Dr. Grantly? What am I to understand? I never heard such wicked prejudice in my life.”

“It is no prejudice, Eleanor. I have known the world longer than you have done. Mr. Slope is altogether beneath you. You ought to know and feel that he is so. Pray⁠—pray think of this before it is too late.”

“Too late!”

“Or if you will not believe me, ask Susan; you cannot think she is prejudiced against you. Or even consult your father⁠—he is not prejudiced against you. Ask Mr. Arabin⁠—”

“You haven’t spoken to Mr. Arabin about this!” said she, jumping up and standing before him.

“Eleanor, all the world in and about Barchester will be speaking of it soon.”

“But have you spoken to Mr. Arabin about me and Mr. Slope?”

“Certainly I have, and he quite agrees with me.”

“Agrees with what?” said she. “I think you are trying to drive me mad.”

“He agrees with me and Susan that it is quite impossible you should be received at Plumstead as Mrs. Slope.”

Not being favourites with the tragic muse, we do not dare to attempt any description of Eleanor’s face when she first heard the name of Mrs. Slope pronounced as that which would or should or might at some time appertain to herself. The look, such as it was, Dr. Grantly did not soon forget. For a moment or two she could find no words to express her deep anger and deep disgust; indeed, at this conjuncture, words did not come to her very freely.

“How dare you be so impertinent?” at last she said, and then she hurried out of the room without giving the archdeacon the opportunity of uttering another word. It was with difficulty she contained herself till she reached her own room; and then, locking the door, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed as though her heart would break.

But even yet she had no conception of the truth. She had no idea that