Harding goes with me. But I'll
be back before your bride has got her wedding-dress ready." And so
they parted.

On his journey home the archdeacon occupied his mind with preparations
for the marriage festivities. He made a great resolve that he would
atone to Eleanor for all the injury he had done her by the munificence
of his future treatment. He would show her what was the difference
in his eyes between a Slope and an Arabin. On one other thing also
he decided with a firm mind: if the affair of the dean should not be
settled in Mr. Arabin's favour, nothing should prevent him putting a
new front and bow-window to the dining-room at St. Ewold's parsonage.

"So we're sold after all, Sue," said he to his wife, accosting her
with a kiss as soon as he entered his house. He did not call his wife
Sue above twice or thrice in a year, and these occasions were great
high days.

"Eleanor has had more sense than we gave her credit for," said Mrs.
Grantly.

And there was great content in Plumstead Rectory that evening. Mrs.
Grantly promised her husband that she would now open her heart and
take Mr. Arabin into it. Hitherto she had declined to do so.

CHAPTER LI

Mr. Slope Bids Farewell to the Palace and Its Inhabitants

We must now take leave of Mr. Slope, and of the bishop also, and of
Mrs. Proudie. These leave-takings in novels are as disagreeable as
they are in real life; not so sad, indeed, for they want the reality
of sadness; but quite as perplexing, and generally less satisfactory.
What novelist, what Fielding, what Scott, what George Sand, or Sue, or
Dumas, can impart an interest to the last chapter of his fictitious
history? Promises of two children and superhuman happiness are of no
avail, nor assurance of extreme respectability carried to an age far
exceeding that usually allotted to mortals. The sorrows of our heroes
and heroines, they are your delight, oh public!--their sorrows, or
their sins, or their absurdities; not their virtues, good sense,
and consequent rewards. When we begin to tint our final pages with
_couleur de rose_, as in accordance with fixed rule we must do, we
altogether extinguish our own powers of pleasing. When we become dull,
we offend your intellect; and we must become dull or we should offend
your taste. A late writer, wishing to sustain his interest to the last
page, hung his hero at the end of the third volume. The consequence
was that no one would read his novel. And who can