Barchester Towers

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"She is very beautiful, certainly, very beautiful," Miss Thorne
answered; "but I do not know that anyone considers her lovely. She
is a woman all men would like to look at, but few, I imagine, would
be glad to take her to their hearths, even were she unmarried and not
afflicted as she is."

There was some little comfort in this. Eleanor made the most of
it till she got back to the house. She was then left alone in the
drawing-room, and just as it was getting dark Mr. Arabin came in.

It was a beautiful afternoon in the beginning of October, and Eleanor
was sitting in the window to get the advantage of the last daylight
for her novel. There was a fire in the comfortable room, but the
weather was not cold enough to make it attractive; and as she could
see the sun set from where she sat, she was not very attentive to her
book.

Mr. Arabin, when he entered, stood awhile with his back to the
fire in his usual way, merely uttering a few commonplace remarks
about the beauty of the weather, while he plucked up courage for
more interesting converse. It cannot probably be said that he
had resolved then and there to make an offer to Eleanor. Men, we
believe, seldom make such resolves. Mr. Slope and Mr. Stanhope had
done so, it is true, but gentlemen generally propose without any
absolutely defined determination as to their doing so. Such was now
the case with Mr. Arabin.

"It is a lovely sunset," said Eleanor, answering him on the dreadfully
trite subject which he had chosen.

Mr. Arabin could not see the sunset from the hearth-rug, so he had to
go close to her.

"Very lovely," said he, standing modestly so far away from her as to
avoid touching the flounces of her dress. Then it appeared that he
had nothing further to say; so, after gazing for a moment in silence
at the brightness of the setting sun, he returned to the fire.

Eleanor found that it was quite impossible for herself to commence a
conversation. In the first place she could find nothing to say; words,
which were generally plenty enough with her, would not come to her
relief. And moreover, do what she would, she could hardly prevent
herself from crying.

"Do you like Ullathorne?" said Mr. Arabin, speaking from the safely
distant position which he had assumed on the hearth-rug.

"Yes, indeed, very much!"

"I don't mean Mr. and Miss Thorne--I know you like them--but the style
of the house. There is something about old-fashioned mansions, built
as this is, and old-fashioned gardens, that to me is especially
delightful."

"I like everything old-fashioned," said Eleanor; "old-fashioned things
are so much the honestest."

"I don't know about that," said Mr. Arabin, gently laughing. "That
is an opinion on which very much may be said on either side. It is
strange how widely the world is divided on a subject which so nearly
concerns us all, and which is so close beneath our eyes. Some think
that we are quickly progressing towards perfection, while others
imagine that virtue is disappearing from the earth."

"And you, Mr. Arabin, what do you think?" said Eleanor. She felt
somewhat surprised at the tone which his conversation was taking, and
yet she was relieved at his saying something which enabled herself to
speak without showing her own emotion.

"What do I think, Mrs. Bold?" and then he rumbled his money with his
hands in his trousers pockets, and looked and spoke very little like a
thriving lover. "It is the bane of my life that on important subjects
I acquire no fixed opinion. I think, and think, and go on thinking,
and yet my thoughts are running ever in different directions. I hardly
know whether or no we do lean more confidently than our fathers did on
those high hopes to which we profess to aspire."

"I think the world grows more worldly every day," said Eleanor.

"That is because you see more of it than when you were younger. But
we should hardly judge by what we see--we see so very, very little."
There was then a pause for awhile, during which Mr. Arabin continued
to turn over his shillings and half-crowns. "If we believe in
Scripture, we can hardly think that mankind in general will now be
allowed to retrograde."

Eleanor, whose mind was certainly engaged otherwise than on the
general state of mankind, made no answer to this. She felt thoroughly
dissatisfied with herself. She could not force her thoughts away from
the topic on which the signora had spoken to her in so strange a way,
and yet she knew that she could not converse with Mr. Arabin in an
unrestrained, natural tone till she did so. She was most anxious not
to show to him any special emotion, and yet she felt that if he looked
at her, he would at once see that she was not at ease.

But he did not look at her. Instead of doing so, he left the
fire-place and began walking up and down the room. Eleanor took up her
book resolutely, but she could not read, for there was a tear in her
eye, and do what she would, it fell on her cheek. When Mr. Arabin's
back was turned to her, she wiped it away; but another was soon
coursing down her face in its place. They would come--not a deluge
of tears that would have betrayed her at once, but one by one, single
monitors. Mr. Arabin did not observe her closely, and they passed
unseen.

Mr. Arabin, thus pacing up and down the room, took four or five turns
before he spoke another word, and Eleanor sat equally silent with her
face bent over her book. She was afraid that her tears would get the
better of her, and was preparing for an escape from the room, when
Mr. Arabin in his walk stood opposite to her. He did not come close
up but stood exactly on the spot to which his course brought him, and
then, with his hands under his coat-tails, thus made his confession.

"Mrs. Bold," said he, "I owe you retribution for a great offence of
which I have been guilty towards you." Eleanor's heart beat so that
she could not trust herself to say that he had never been guilty of
any offence. So Mr. Arabin thus went on.

"I have thought much of it since, and I am now aware that I was wholly
unwarranted in putting to you a question which I once asked you. It
was indelicate on my part, and perhaps unmanly. No intimacy which may
exist between myself and your connexion, Dr. Grantly, could justify
it. Nor could the acquaintance which existed between ourselves." This
word acquaintance struck cold on Eleanor's heart. Was this to be her
doom after all? "I therefore think it right to beg your pardon in a
humble spirit, and I now do so."

What was Eleanor to say to him? She could not say much because she
was crying, and yet she must say something. She was most anxious to
say that something graciously, kindly, and yet not in such a manner
as to betray herself. She had never felt herself so much at a loss
for words.

"Indeed, I took no offence, Mr. Arabin."

"Oh, but you did! And had you not done so, you would not have been
yourself. You were as right to be offended as I was wrong so to
offend you. I have not forgiven myself, but I hope to hear that you
forgive me."

She was now past speaking calmly, though she still continued to hide
her tears; and Mr. Arabin, after pausing a moment in vain for her
reply, was walking off towards the door. She felt that she could not
allow him to go unanswered without grievously sinning against all
charity; so, rising from her seat, she gently touched his arm and
said, "Oh, Mr. Arabin, do not go till I speak to you! I do forgive
you. You know that I forgive you."

He took the hand that had so gently touched his arm and then gazed
into her face as if he would peruse there, as though written in a
book, the whole future destiny of his life; as he did so, there was
a sober, sad seriousness in his own countenance which Eleanor found
herself unable to sustain. She could only look down upon the carpet,
let her tears trickle as they would, and leave her hand within his.

It was but for a minute that they stood so, but the duration of that
minute was sufficient to make it ever memorable to them both. Eleanor
was sure now that she was loved. No words, be their eloquence what it
might, could be more impressive than that eager, melancholy gaze.

Why did he look so into her eyes? Why did he not speak to her? Could
it be that he looked for her to make the first sign?

And he, though he knew but little of women, even he knew that he
was loved. He had only to ask, and it would be all his own, that
inexpressible loveliness, those ever-speaking but yet now mute eyes,
that feminine brightness and eager, loving spirit which had so
attracted him since first he had encountered it at St. Ewold's. It
might, must, all be his own now. On no other supposition was it
possible that she should allow her hand to remain thus clasped within
his own. He had only to ask. Ah, but that was the difficulty. Did a
minute suffice for all this? Nay, perhaps it might be more than a
minute.

"Mrs. Bold--" at last he said and then stopped himself.

If he could not speak, how was she to do so? He had called her by her
name, the same name that any merest stranger would have used! She
withdrew her hand from his and moved as though to return to her seat.
"Eleanor!" he then said in his softest tone, as though the courage of
a lover were as yet but half-assumed, as though he were still afraid
of giving offence by the freedom which he took. She looked slowly,
gently, almost piteously up into his face. There was at any rate no
anger there to deter him.

"Eleanor!" he again exclaimed, and in a moment he had her clasped to
his bosom. How this was done, whether the doing was with him or her,
whether she had flown thither conquered by the tenderness of his
voice, or he with a violence not likely to give offence had drawn her
to his breast, neither of them knew; nor can I declare. There was
now that sympathy between them which hardly admitted of individual
motion. They were one and the same--one flesh--one spirit--one life.

"Eleanor, my own Eleanor, my own, my wife!" She ventured to look up at
him through her tears, and he, bowing his face down over hers, pressed
his lips upon her brow--his virgin lips, which, since a beard first
grew upon his chin, had never yet tasted the luxury of a woman's
cheek.

She had been told that her yea must be yea, or her nay, nay, but she
was called on for neither the one nor the other. She told Miss Thorne
that she was engaged to Mr. Arabin, but no such words had passed
between them, no promises had been asked or given.

"Oh, let me go," said she, "let me go now. I am too happy to
remain--let me go, that I may be alone." He did not try to hinder
her; he did not repeat the kiss; he did not press another on her
lips. He might have done so, had he been so minded. She was now all
his own. He took his arm from round her waist, his arm that was
trembling with a new delight, and let her go. She fled like a roe to
her own chamber, and then, having turned the bolt, she enjoyed the
full luxury of her love. She idolised, almost worshipped this man
who had so meekly begged her pardon. And he was now her own. Oh, how
she wept and cried and laughed as the hopes and fears and miseries of
the last few weeks passed in remembrance through her mind.

Mr. Slope! That anyone should have dared to think that she who had
been chosen by him could possibly have mated herself with Mr. Slope!
That they should have dared to tell him, also, and subject her bright
happiness to such needless risk! And then she smiled with joy as she
thought of all the comforts that she could give him--not that he cared
for comforts, but that it would be so delicious for her to give.

She got up and rang for her maid that she might tell her little boy of
his new father, and in her own way she did tell him. She desired her
maid to leave her, in order that she might be alone with her child;
and then, while he lay sprawling on the bed, she poured forth the
praises, all unmeaning to him, of the man she had selected to guard
his infancy.

She could not be happy, however, till she had made Mr. Arabin take
the child to himself and thus, as it were, adopt him as his own. The
moment the idea struck her she took the baby up in her arms and,
opening her door, ran quickly down to the drawing-room. She at once
found, by his step still pacing on the floor, that he was there, and
a glance within the room told her that he was alone. She hesitated a
moment and then hurried in with her precious charge.

Mr. Arabin met her in the middle of the room. "There," said she,
breathless with her haste; "there, take him--take him, and love him."

Mr. Arabin took the little fellow from her and, kissing him again and
again, prayed God to bless him. "He shall be all as my own--all as
my own," said he. Eleanor, as she stooped to take back her child,
kissed the hand that held him and then rushed back with her treasure
to her chamber.

It was thus that Mr. Harding's younger daughter was won for the second
time. At dinner neither she nor Mr. Arabin were very bright, but their
silence occasioned no remark. In the drawing-room, as we have before
said, she told Miss Thorne what had occurred. The next morning she
returned to Barchester, and Mr. Arabin went over with his budget of
news to the archdeacon. As Doctor Grantly was not there, he could only
satisfy himself by telling Mrs. Grantly how that he intended himself
the honour of becoming her brother-in-law. In the ecstasy of her joy
at hearing such tidings Mrs. Grantly vouchsafed him a warmer welcome
than any he had yet received from Eleanor.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed--it was the general exclamation of the
rectory. "Poor Eleanor! Dear Eleanor! What a monstrous injustice
has been done her! Well, it shall all be made up now." And then she
thought of the signora. "What lies people tell," she said to herself.

But people in this matter had told no lies at all.




CHAPTER XLIX

The Beelzebub Colt


When Miss Thorne left the dining-room, Eleanor had formed no intention
of revealing to her what had occurred, but when she was seated beside
her hostess on the sofa, the secret dropped from her almost unawares.
Eleanor was but a bad hypocrite, and she found herself quite unable to
continue talking about Mr. Arabin as though he were a stranger while
her heart was full of him. When Miss Thorne, pursuing her own scheme
with discreet zeal, asked the young widow whether, in her opinion,
it would not be a good thing for Mr. Arabin to get married, she had
nothing for it but to confess the truth. "I suppose it would," said
Eleanor rather sheepishly. Whereupon Miss Thorne amplified on the
idea. "Oh, Miss Thorne," said Eleanor, "he is going to be married: I
am engaged to him."

Now Miss Thorne knew very well that there had been no such engagement
when she had been walking with Mrs. Bold in the morning. She had also
heard enough to be tolerably sure that there had been no preliminaries
to such an engagement. She was, therefore, as we have before
described, taken a little by surprise. But nevertheless, she embraced
her guest and cordially congratulated her.

Eleanor had no opportunity of speaking another word to Mr. Arabin that
evening, except such words as all the world might hear; and these,
as may be supposed, were few enough. Miss Thorne did her best to
leave them in privacy, but Mr. Thorne, who knew nothing of what had
occurred, and another guest, a friend of his, entirely interfered with
her good intentions. So poor Eleanor had to go to bed without one sign
of affection. Her state, nevertheless, was not to be pitied.

The next morning she was up early. It was probable, she thought, that
by going down a little before the usual hour of breakfast she might
find Mr. Arabin alone in the dining-room. Might it not be that he
also would calculate that an interview would thus be possible? Thus
thinking, Eleanor was dressed a full hour before the time fixed in the
Ullathorne household for morning prayers. She did not at once go down.
She was afraid to seem to be too anxious to meet her lover, though
heaven knows her anxiety was intense enough. She therefore sat herself
down at her window, and repeatedly looking at her watch, nursed her
child till she thought she might venture forth.

When she found herself at the dining-room door, she stood a moment,
hesitating to turn the handle; but when she heard Mr. Thorne's voice
inside she hesitated no longer. Her object was defeated, and she might
now go in as soon as she liked without the slightest imputation on her
delicacy. Mr. Thorne and Mr. Arabin were standing on the hearth-rug,
discussing the merits of the Beelzebub colt; or rather, Mr. Thorne
was discussing, and Mr. Arabin was listening. That interesting animal
had rubbed the stump of his tail against the wall of his stable and
occasioned much uneasiness to the Ullathorne master of the horse. Had
Eleanor but waited another minute, Mr. Thorne would have been in the
stables.

Mr. Thorne, when he saw his lady guest, repressed his anxiety. The
Beelzebub colt must do without him. And so the three stood, saying
little or nothing to each other, till at last the master of the house,
finding that he could no longer bear his present state of suspense
respecting his favourite young steed, made an elaborate apology to
Mrs. Bold and escaped. As he shut the door behind him Eleanor almost
wished that he had remained. It was not that she was afraid of Mr.
Arabin, but she hardly yet knew how to address him.

He, however, soon relieved her from her embarrassment. He came up to
her, and taking both her hands in his, he said, "So, Eleanor, you and
I are to be man and wife. Is it so?"

She looked up into his face, and her lips formed themselves into a
single syllable. She uttered no sound, but he could read the
affirmative plainly in her face.

"It is a great trust," said he, "a very great trust."

"It is--it is," said Eleanor, not exactly taking what he had said in
the sense that he had meant. "It is a very, very great trust, and I
will do my utmost to deserve it."

"And I also will do my utmost to deserve it," said Mr. Arabin very
solemnly. And then, winding his arm round her waist, he stood there
gazing at the fire, and she, with her head leaning on his shoulder,
stood by him, well satisfied with her position. They neither of them
spoke, or found any want of speaking. All that was needful for them
to say had been said. The yea, yea, had been spoken by Eleanor in her
own way--and that way had been perfectly satisfactory to Mr. Arabin.

And now it remained to them each to enjoy the assurance of the other's
love. And how great that luxury is! How far it surpasses any other
pleasure which God has allowed to his creatures! And to a woman's
heart how doubly delightful!

When the ivy has found its tower, when the delicate creeper has found
its strong wall, we know how the parasite plants grow and prosper.
They were not created to stretch forth their branches alone, and
endure without protection the summer's sun and the winter's storm.
Alone they but spread themselves on the ground and cower unseen in
the dingy shade. But when they have found their firm supporters, how
wonderful is their beauty; how all-pervading and victorious! What
is the turret without its ivy, or the high garden wall without the
jasmine which gives it its beauty and fragrance? The hedge without
the honeysuckle is but a hedge.

There is a feeling still half-existing, but now half-conquered by the
force of human nature, that a woman should be ashamed of her love till
the husband's right to her compels her to acknowledge it. We would
fain preach a different doctrine. A woman should glory in her love,
but on that account let her take the more care that it be such as to
justify her glory.

Eleanor did glory in hers, and she felt, and had cause to feel, that
it deserved to be held as glorious. She could have stood there for
hours with his arm round her, had fate and Mr. Thorne permitted it.
Each moment she crept nearer to his bosom and felt more and more
certain that there was her home. What now to her was the archdeacon's
arrogance, her sister's coldness, or her dear father's weakness? What
need she care for the duplicity of such friends as Charlotte Stanhope?
She had found the strong shield that should guard her from all wrongs,
the trusty pilot that should henceforward guide her through the shoals
and rocks. She would give up the heavy burden of her independence, and
once more assume the position of a woman and the duties of a trusting
and loving wife.

And he, too, stood there fully satisfied with his place. They were
both looking intently on the fire, as though they could read there
their future fate, till at last Eleanor turned her face towards his.
"How sad you are," she said, smiling; and indeed his face was, if not
sad, at least serious. "How sad you are, love!"

"Sad," said he, looking down at her; "no, certainly not sad." Her
sweet, loving eyes were turned towards him, and she smiled softly as
he answered her. The temptation was too strong even for the demure
propriety of Mr. Arabin, and bending over her, he pressed his lips to
hers.

Immediately after this Mr. Thorne appeared, and they were both
delighted to hear that the tail of the Beelzebub colt was not
materially injured.

It had been Mr. Harding's intention to hurry over to Ullathorne as
soon as possible after his return to Barchester, in order to secure
the support of his daughter in his meditated revolt against the
archdeacon as touching the deanery; but he was spared the additional
journey by hearing that Mrs. Bold had returned unexpectedly home. As
soon as he had read her note he started off, and found her waiting
for him in her own house.

How much each of them had to tell the other, and how certain each was
that the story which he or she had to tell would astonish the other!

"My dear, I am so anxious to see you," said Mr. Harding, kissing his
daughter.

"Oh, Papa, I have so much to tell you!" said the daughter, returning
the embrace.

"My dear, they have offered me the deanery!" said Mr. Harding,
anticipating by the suddenness of the revelation the tidings which
Eleanor had to give him.

"Oh, Papa," said she, forgetting her own love and happiness in her joy
at the surprising news. "Oh, Papa, can it be possible? Dear Papa, how
thoroughly, thoroughly happy that makes me!"

"But, my dear, I think it best to refuse it."

"Oh, Papa!"

"I am sure you will agree with me, Eleanor, when I explain it to you.
You know, my dear, how old I am. If I live I--"

"But, Papa, I must tell you about myself."

"Well, my dear."

"I do so wonder how you'll take it."

"Take what?"

"If you don't rejoice at it, if it doesn't make you happy, if you
don't encourage me, I shall break my heart."

"If that be the case, Nelly, I certainly will encourage you."

"But I fear you won't. I do so fear you won't. And yet you can't but
think I am the most fortunate woman living on God's earth."

"Are you, dearest? Then I certainly will rejoice with you. Come,
Nelly, come to me and tell me what it is."

"I am going--"

He led her to the sofa and, seating himself beside her, took both her
hands in his. "You are going to be married, Nelly. Is not that it?"

"Yes," she said faintly. "That is, if you will approve;" and then
she blushed as she remembered the promise which she had so lately
volunteered to him and which she had so utterly forgotten in making
her engagement with Mr. Arabin.

Mr. Harding thought for a moment who the man could be whom he was to
be called upon to welcome as his son-in-law. A week since he would
have had no doubt whom to name. In that case he would have been
prepared to give his sanction, although he would have done so with a
heavy heart. Now he knew that at any rate it would not be Mr. Slope,
though he was perfectly at a loss to guess who could possibly have
filled the place. For a moment he thought that the man might be
Bertie Stanhope, and his very soul sank within him.

"Well, Nelly?"

"Oh, Papa, promise to me that, for my sake, you will love him."

"Come, Nelly, come; tell me who it is."

"But will you love him, Papa?"

"Dearest, I must love anyone that you love." Then she turned her face
to his and whispered into his ear the name of Mr. Arabin.

No man that she could have named could have more surprised or more
delighted him. Had he looked round the world for a son-in-law to his
taste, he could have selected no one whom he would have preferred to
Mr. Arabin. He was a clergyman; he held a living in the neighbourhood;
he was of a set to which all Mr. Harding's own partialities most
closely adhered; he was the great friend of Dr. Grantly; and he was,
moreover, a man of whom Mr. Harding knew nothing but what he approved.
Nevertheless, his surprise was so great as to prevent the immediate
expression of his joy. He had never thought of Mr. Arabin in connexion
with his daughter; he had never imagined that they had any feeling
in common. He had feared that his daughter had been made hostile to
clergymen of Mr. Arabin's stamp by her intolerance of the archdeacon's
pretensions. Had he been put to wish, he might have wished for Mr.
Arabin for a son-in-law; but had he been put to guess, the name would
never have occurred to him.