you, I must use stronger words than those.” He paused for a moment, and Eleanor’s heart beat with painful violence within her bosom as she waited for him to go on. “I have esteemed, do esteem you, as I never yet esteemed any woman. Think well of you! I never thought to think so well, so much of any human creature. Speak calumny of you! Insult you! Wilfully injure you! I wish it were my privilege to shield you from calumny, insult, and injury. Calumny! Ah me! ’Twere almost better that it were so. Better than to worship with a sinful worship; sinful and vain also.” And then he walked along beside her, with his hands clasped behind his back, looking down on the grass beneath his feet and utterly at a loss how to express his meaning. And Eleanor walked beside him determined at least to give him no assistance.
“Ah me!” he uttered at last, speaking rather to himself than to her. “Ah me! These Plumstead walks were pleasant enough, if one could have but heart’s ease, but without that the dull, dead stones of Oxford were far preferable — and St. Ewold’s, too. Mrs. Bold, I am beginning to think that I mistook myself when I came hither. A Romish priest now would have escaped all this. Oh, Father of heaven, how good for us would it be if thou couldest vouchsafe to us a certain rule.”
“And have we not a certain rule, Mr. Arabin?”
“Yes — yes, surely; ‘Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.’ But what is temptation? What is evil? Is this evil — is this temptation?”
Poor Mr. Arabin! It would not come out of him, that deep, true love of his. He could not bring himself to utter it in plain language that would require and demand an answer. He knew not how to say to the woman by his side, “Since the fact is that you do not love that other man, that you are not to be his wife, can you love me, will you be my wife?” These were the words which were in his heart, but with all his sighs he could not draw them to his lips. He would have given anything, everything for power to ask this simple question, but glib as was his tongue in pulpits and on platforms, now he could not find a word wherewith to express the plain wish of his heart.
And yet Eleanor understood him as thoroughly as though he had declared his passion with all the elegant fluency of a practised Lothario. With a woman’s instinct, she followed every bend of his mind as he spoke of the pleasantness of Plumstead and the stones of Oxford, as he alluded to the safety of the Romish priest and the hidden perils of temptation. She knew that it all meant love. She knew that this man at her side, this accomplished scholar, this practised orator, this great polemical combatant, was striving and striving in vain to tell her that his heart was no longer his own.
She knew this and felt a sort of joy in knowing it, yet she would not come to his aid. He had offended her deeply, had treated her unworthily, the more unworthily seeing that he had learnt to love her, and Eleanor could not bring herself to abandon her revenge. She did not ask herself whether or no she would ultimately accept his love. She did not even acknowledge to herself that she now perceived it with pleasure. At the present moment it did not touch her heart; it merely appeased her pride and flattered her vanity. Mr. Arabin had dared to associate her name with that of Mr. Slope, and now her spirit was soothed by finding that he would fain associate it with his own. And so she walked on beside him, inhaling incense but giving out no sweetness in return.
“Answer me this,” said Mr. Arabin, stopping suddenly in his walk and stepping forward so that he faced his companion. “Answer me this one question. You do not love Mr. Slope? You do not intend to be his wife?”
Mr. Arabin certainly did not go the right way to win such a woman as Eleanor Bold. Just as her wrath was evaporating, as it was disappearing before the true warmth of his untold love, he rekindled it by a most useless repetition of his original sin. Had he known what he was about, he should never have mentioned Mr. Slope’s name before Eleanor Bold, till he had made her all his own. Then, and not till then, he might have talked of Mr. Slope with as much triumph as he chose.
“I shall answer no such question,” said she; “and what is more, I must tell you that nothing can justify your asking it. Good morning!”
And so saying, she stepped proudly across the lawn and, passing through the drawing-room window, joined her father and sister at lunch in the dining-room. Half an hour afterwards she was in the carriage, and so she left Plumstead without again seeing Mr. Arabin.
His walk was long and sad among the sombre trees that overshadowed the churchyard. He left the archdeacon’s grounds that he might escape attention and sauntered among the green hillocks under which lay at rest so many of the once loving swains and forgotten beauties of Plumstead. To his ears Eleanor’s last words sounded like a knell never to be reversed. He could not comprehend that she might be angry with him, indignant with him, remorseless with him, and yet love him. He could not make up his mind whether or no Mr. Slope was in truth a favoured rival. If not, why should she not have answered his question?
Poor Mr. Arabin — untaught, illiterate, boorish, ignorant man! That at forty years of age you should know so little of the workings of a woman’s heart!
CHAPTER XXXI
The Bishop’s Library
And thus the pleasant party at Plumstead was broken up. It had been a very pleasant party as long as they had all remained in good humour with one another. Mrs. Grantly had felt her house to be gayer and brighter than it had been for many a long day, and the archdeacon had been aware that the month had passed pleasantly without attributing the pleasure to any other special merits than those of his own hospitality. Within three or four days of Eleanor’s departure, Mr. Harding had also returned, and Mr. Arabin had gone to Oxford to spend one week there previous to his settling at the vicarage of St. Ewold’s. He had gone laden with many messages to Dr. Gwynne touching the iniquity of the doings in Barchester palace and the peril in which it was believed the hospital still stood in spite of the assurances contained in Mr. Slope’s inauspicious letter.
During Eleanor’s drive into Barchester she had not much opportunity of reflecting on Mr. Arabin. She had been constrained to divert her mind both from his sins and his love by the necessity of conversing with her sister and maintaining the appearance of parting with her on good terms. When the carriage reached her own door, and while she was in the act of giving her last kiss to her sister and nieces, Mary Bold ran out and exclaimed:
“Oh, Eleanor, have you heard? Oh, Mrs. Grantly, have you heard what has happened? The poor dean!”
“Good heavens!” said Mrs. Grantly. “What — what has happened?”
“This morning at nine he had a fit of apoplexy, and he has not spoken since. I very much fear that by this time he is no more.”
Mrs. Grantly had been very intimate with the dean, and was therefore much shocked. Eleanor had not known him so well; nevertheless, she was sufficiently acquainted with his person and manners to feel startled and grieved also at the tidings she now received. “I will go at once to the deanery,” said Mrs. Grantly; “the archdeacon, I am sure, will be there. If there is any news to send you, I will let Thomas call before he leaves town.” And so the carriage drove off, leaving Eleanor and her baby with Mary Bold.
Mrs. Grantly had been quite right. The archdeacon was at the deanery. He had come into Barchester that morning by himself, not caring to intrude himself upon Eleanor, and he also immediately on his arrival had heard of the dean’s fit. There was, as we have before said, a library or reading-room connecting the cathedral with the dean’s house. This was generally called the bishop’s library, because a certain bishop of Barchester was supposed to have added it to the cathedral. It was built immediately
