Der Praefekt

was a thing finally fixed on, a
    fact all but completed, was not in his mind a matter of any doubt; he
    knew his own weakness; he knew how prone he was to be led; but he was
    not weak enough to give way now, to go back from the position to which
    his conscience had driven him, after having purposely come to London
    to declare his determination: he did not in the least doubt his
    resolution, but he greatly doubted his power of defending it against
    his son-in-law.
     
    “You must be very tired, Susan,” said he: “wouldn’t you like to go to
    bed?”
     
    But Susan didn’t want to go till her husband went.  She had an idea
    that her papa might be bullied if she were away: she wasn’t tired at
    all, or at least she said so.
     
    The archdeacon was pacing the room, expressing, by certain nods of his
    head, his opinion of the utter fatuity of his father-in-law.
     
    “Why,” at last he said,—and angels might have blushed at the rebuke
    expressed in his tone and emphasis,—“Why did you go off from
    Barchester so suddenly?  Why did you take such a step without giving
    us notice, after what had passed at the palace?”
     
    The warden hung his head, and made no reply: he could not condescend
    to say that he had not intended to give his son-in-law the slip; and
    as he had not the courage to avow it, he said nothing.
     
    “Papa has been too much for you,” said the lady.
     
    The archdeacon took another turn, and again ejaculated, “Good
    heavens!” this time in a very low whisper, but still audible.
     
    “I think I’ll go to bed,” said the warden, taking up a side candle.
     
    “At any rate, you’ll promise me to take no further step without
    consultation,” said the archdeacon.  Mr Harding made no answer, but
    slowly proceeded to light his candle.
     
    “Of course,” continued the other, “such a declaration as that you made
    to Sir Abraham means nothing. Come, warden, promise me this. Die
    whole affair, you see, is already settled, and that with very little
    trouble or expense.  Bold has been compelled to abandon his action,
    and all you have to do is to remain quiet at the hospital.”  Mr
    Harding still made no reply, but looked meekly into his son-in-law’s
    Gesicht. The archdeacon thought he knew his father-in-law, but he was
    mistaken; he thought that he had already talked over a vacillating man
    to resign his promise.  “Come,” said he, “promise Susan to give up
    this idea of resigning the wardenship.”
     
    The warden looked at his daughter, thinking probably at the moment
    that if Eleanor were contented with him, he need not so much regard
    his other child, and said, “I am sure Susan will not ask me to break
    my word, or to do what I know to be wrong.”
     
    “Papa,” said she, “it would be madness in you to throw up your
    preferment.  What are you to live on?”
     
    “God, that feeds the young ravens, will take care of me also,” said Mr
    Harding, with a smile, as though afraid of giving offence by making
    his reference to scripture too solemn.
     
    “Pish!” said the archdeacon, turning away rapidly.  “If the ravens
    persisted in refusing the food prepared for them, they wouldn’t be
    fed.”  A clergyman generally dislikes to be met in argument by any
    scriptural quotation; he feels as affronted as a doctor does, when
    recommended by an old woman to take some favourite dose, or as a
    lawyer when an unprofessional man attempts to put him down by a
    quibble.
     
    “I shall have the living of Crabtree,” modestly suggested the warden.
     
    “Eighty pounds a year!” sneered the archdeacon.
     
    “And the precentorship,” said the father-in-law.
     
    “It goes with the wardenship,” said the son-in-law.  Mr Harding was
    prepared to argue this point, and began to do so, but Dr Grantly
    stopped him.  “My dear warden,” said he, “this is all nonsense.
    Eighty pounds or a hundred and sixty makes very little difference.
    You can’t live on it,—you can’t ruin Eleanor’s prospects for ever.
    In point of fact, you can’t resign; the bishop wouldn’t accept it;
    the whole thing is settled.  What I now want to do is to prevent any
    inconvenient tittle-tattle,—any more newspaper articles.”
     
    “That’s what I want, too,” said the warden.
     
    “And to prevent that,” continued the other, “we mustn’t let any talk
    of resignation get abroad.”
     
    “But I shall resign,” said the warden, very, very meekly.
     
    “Good