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-inlaw 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, good-natured 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, 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-inlaw. 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 ............