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.

"Mr. Arabin!" he exclaimed; "impossible!"

"Oh, Papa, for heaven's sake don't say anything against him! If you

love me, don't say anything against him. Oh, Papa, it's done and

mustn't be undone--oh, Papa!"

Fickle Eleanor! Where was the promise that she would make no choice

for herself without her father's approval? She had chosen, and now

demanded his acquiescence. "Oh, Papa, isn't he good? Isn't he noble?

Isn't he religious, high-minded, everything that a good man possibly

can be?" She clung to her father, beseeching him for his consent.

"My Nelly, my child, my own daughter! He is; he is noble and good and

high-minded; he is all that a woman can love and a man admire. He

shall be my son, my own son. He shall be as close to my heart as you

are. My Nelly, my child, my happy, happy child!"

We need not pursue the interview any further. By degrees they returned

to the subject of the new promotion. Eleanor tried to prove to him,

as the Grantlys had done, that his age could be no bar to his being a

very excellent dean, but those arguments had now even less weight on

him than before. He said little or nothing but sat, meditative. Every

now and then he would kiss his daughter and say "yes," or "no," or

"very true," or "well, my dear, I can't quite agree with you there,"

but he could not be got to enter sharply into the question of "to be,

or not to be" Dean of Barchester. Of her and her happiness, of Mr.

Arabin and his virtues, he would talk as much as Eleanor desired--and

to tell the truth, that was not a little--but about the deanery

he would now say nothing further. He had got a new idea into his

head--why should not Mr. Arabin be the new dean?