CHAPTER XXX

Another Love Scene

But there was another visitor at the rectory whose feelings in this

unfortunate matter must be somewhat strictly analysed. Mr. Arabin

had heard from his friend of the probability of Eleanor's marriage

with Mr. Slope with amazement, but not with incredulity. It has been

said that he was not in love with Eleanor, and up to this period

this certainly had been true. But as soon as he heard that she loved

someone else, he began to be very fond of her himself. He did not

make up his mind that he wished to have her for his wife; he had

never thought of her, and did not now think of her, in connexion with

himself; but he experienced an inward, indefinable feeling of deep

regret, a gnawing sorrow, an unconquerable depression of spirits,

and also a species of self-abasement that he--he, Mr. Arabin--had

not done something to prevent that other he, that vile he whom he so

thoroughly despised, from carrying off this sweet prize.

Whatever man may have reached the age of forty unmarried without

knowing something of such feelings must have been very successful or

else very cold-hearted.

Mr. Arabin had never thought of trimming the sails of his bark so

that he might sail as convoy to this rich argosy. He had seen that

Mrs. Bold was beautiful, but he had not dreamt of making her beauty

his own. He knew that Mrs. Bold was rich, but he had had no more

idea of appropriating her wealth than that of Dr. Grantly. He had

discovered that Mrs. Bold was intelligent, warm-hearted, agreeable,

sensible, all in fact that a man could wish his wife to be; but the

higher were her attractions, the greater her claims to consideration,

the less had he imagined that he might possibly become the possessor

of them. Such had been his instinct rather than his thoughts, so

humble and so diffident. Now his diffidence was to be rewarded by

his seeing this woman, whose beauty was to his eyes perfect, whose

wealth was such as to have deterred him from thinking of her, whose

widowhood would have silenced him had he not been so deterred, by his

seeing her become the prey of--Obadiah Slope!

On the morning of Mrs. Bold's departure he got on his horse to ride

over to St. Ewold's. As he rode he kept muttering to himself a line

from Van Artevelde,

How little flattering is woman's love.

And then he strove to recall his mind and to think of other

affairs--his parish, his college, his creed--but his thoughts would

revert to Mr. Slope and the Flemish chieftain.

When we think upon it,

How little flattering is woman's love,

Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest

And propped with most advantage.

It was not that Mrs. Bold should marry anyone but him--he had not put

himself forward as a suitor--but that she should marry Mr. Slope; and

so he repeated over again--

Outward grace

Nor inward light is needful--day by day

Men wanting both are mated with the best

And loftiest of God's feminine creation,

Whose love takes no distinction but of gender,

And ridicules the very name of choice.

And so he went on, troubled much in his mind.

He had but an uneasy ride of it that morning, and little good did he

do at St. Ewold's.

The necessary alterations in his house were being fast completed, and

he walked through the rooms, and went up and down the stairs, and

rambled through the garden, but he could not wake himself to much

interest about them. He stood still at every window to look out and

think upon Mr. Slope. At almost every window he had before stood and

chatted with Eleanor. She and Mrs. Grantly had been there continually;

and while Mrs. Grantly had been giving orders, and seeing that orders

had been complied with, he and Eleanor had conversed on all things

appertaining to a clergyman's profession. He thought how often

he had laid down the law to her and how sweetly she had borne with

his somewhat dictatorial decrees. He remembered her listening

intelligence, her gentle but quick replies, her interest in all that

concerned the church, in all that concerned him; and then he struck

his riding-whip against the window-sill and declared to himself that

it was impossible that Eleanor Bold should marry Mr. Slope.

And yet he did not really believe, as he should have done, that it

was impossible. He should have known her well enough to feel that it

was truly impossible. He should have been aware that Eleanor had

that within her which would surely protect her from such degradation.

But he, like so many others, was deficient in confidence in woman.

He said to himself over and over again that it was impossible that

Eleanor Bold should become Mrs. Slope, and yet he believed that she

would do so. And so he rambled about, and could do and think of

nothing. He was thoroughly uncomfortable, thoroughly ill at ease,

cross with himself and everybody else, and feeding in his heart on

animosity towards Mr. Slope. This was not as it should be, as he

knew and felt, but he could not help himself. In truth Mr. Arabin

was now in love with Mrs. Bold, though ignorant of the fact himself.

He was in love and, though forty years old, was in love without being

aware of it. He fumed and fretted and did not know what was the

matter, as a youth might do at one-and-twenty. And so having done no

good at St. Ewold's, he rode back much earlier than was usual with

him, instigated by some inward, unacknowledged hope that he might see

Mrs. Bold before she left.

Eleanor had not passed a pleasant morning. She was irritated with

everyone, and not least with herself. She felt that she had been

hardly used, but she felt also that she had not played her own cards

well. She should have held herself so far above suspicion as to have

received her sister's innuendoes and the archdeacon's lecture with

indifference. She had not done this, but had shown herself angry

and sore, and was now ashamed of her own petulance, yet unable to

discontinue it.

The greater part of the morning she had spent alone, but after awhile

her father joined her. He had fully made up his mind that, come what

come might, nothing should separate him from his younger daughter.

It was a hard task for him to reconcile himself to the idea of seeing

her at the head of Mr. Slope's table, but he got through it. Mr.

Slope, as he argued to himself, was a respectable man and a clergyman,

and he, as Eleanor's father, had no right even to endeavour to prevent

her from marrying such a one. He longed to tell her how he had

determined to prefer her to all the world, how he was prepared to

admit that she was not wrong, how thoroughly he differed from Dr.

Grantly; but he could not bring himself to mention Mr. Slope's name.

There was yet a chance that they were all wrong in their surmise, and

being thus in doubt, he could not bring himself to speak openly to her

on the subject.

He was sitting with her in the drawing-room, with his arm round her

waist, saying every now and then some little soft words of affection

and working hard with his imaginary fiddle-bow, when Mr. Arabin

entered the room. He immediately got up, and the two made some trite

remarks to each other, neither thinking of what he was saying, while

Eleanor kept her seat on the sofa, mute and moody. Mr. Arabin was

included in the list of those against whom her anger was excited.

He, too, had dared to talk about her acquaintance with Mr. Slope; he,

too, had dared to blame her for not making an enemy of his enemy.

She had not intended to see him before her departure, and was now but

little inclined to be gracious.

There was a feeling through the whole house that something was wrong.

Mr. Arabin, when he saw Eleanor, could not succeed in looking or

in speaking as though he knew nothing of all this. He could not be

cheerful and positive and contradictory with her, as was his wont.

He had not been two minutes in the room before he felt that he had

done wrong to return; and the moment he heard her voice, he thoroughly

wished himself back at St. Ewold's. Why, indeed, should he have wished

to have aught further to say to the future wife of Mr. Slope?

"I am sorry to hear that you are to leave us so soon," said he,

striving in vain to use his ordinary voice. In answer to this she

muttered something about the necessity of her being in Barchester,

and betook herself most industriously to her crochet work.

Then there was a little more trite conversation between Mr. Arabin

and Mr. Harding--trite, and hard, and vapid, and senseless. Neither

of them had anything to say to the other, and yet neither at such a

moment liked to remain silent. At last Mr. Harding, taking advantage

of a pause, escaped out of the room, and Eleanor and Mr. Arabin were

left together.

"Your going will be a great break-up to our party," said he.

She again muttered something which was all but inaudible, but kept

her eyes fixed upon her work.

"We have had a very pleasant month here," said he; "at least I have;

and I am sorry it should be so soon over."

"I have already been from home longer than I intended," said she,

"and it is time that I should return."

"Well, pleasant hours and pleasant days must come to an end. It is a

pity that so few of them are pleasant; or perhaps, rather--"

"It is a pity, certainly, that men and women do so much to destroy

the pleasantness of their days," said she, interrupting him. "It is

a pity that there should be so little charity abroad."

"Charity should begin at home," said he, and he was proceeding to

explain that he as a clergyman could not be what she would call

charitable at the expense of those principles which he considered it

his duty to teach, when he remembered that it would be worse than vain

to argue on such a matter with the future wife of Mr. Slope. "But

you are just leaving us," he continued, "and I will not weary your

last hour with another lecture. As it is, I fear I have given you

too many."

"You should practise as well as preach, Mr. Arabin."

"Undoubtedly I should. So should we all. All of us who presume to

teach are bound to do our utmost towards fulfilling our own lessons.

I thoroughly allow my deficiency in doing so, but I do not quite know

now to what you allude. Have you any special reason for telling me

now that I should practise as well as preach?"

Eleanor made no answer. She longed to let him know the cause of her

anger, to upbraid him for speaking of her disrespectfully, and then

at last to forgive him, and so part friends. She felt that she would

be unhappy to leave him in her present frame of mind, but yet she

could hardly bring herself to speak to him of Mr. Slope. And how

could she allude to the innuendo thrown out by the archdeacon, and

thrown out, as she believed, at the instigation of Mr. Arabin? She

wanted to make him know that he was wrong, to make him aware that he

had ill-treated her, in order that the sweetness of her forgiveness

might be enhanced. She felt that she liked him too well to be

contented to part with him in displeasure, yet she could not get over

her deep displeasure without some explanation, some acknowledgement

on his part, some assurance that he would never again so sin against

her.

"Why do you tell me that I should practise what I preach?" continued

he.

"All men should do so."

"Certainly. That is as it were understood and acknowledged. But you

do not say so to all men, or to all clergymen. The advice, good as

it is, is not given except in allusion to some special deficiency.

If you will tell me my special deficiency, I will endeavour to profit

by the advice."

She paused for awhile and then, looking full in his face, she said,

"You are not bold enough, Mr. Arabin, to speak out to me openly and

plainly, and yet you expect me, a woman, to speak openly to you. Why

did you speak calumny of me to Dr. Grantly behind my back?"

"Calumny!" said he, and his whole face became suffused with blood.

"What calumny? If I have spoken calumny of you, I will beg your

pardon, and his to whom I spoke it, and God's pardon also. But what

calumny have I spoken of you to Dr. Grantly?"

She also blushed deeply. She could not bring herself to ask him

whether he had not spoken of her as another man's wife. "You know

that best yourself," said she. "But I ask you as a man of honour, if

you have not spoken of me as you would not have spoken of your own

sister--or rather I will not ask you," she continued, finding that he

did not immediately answer her. "I will not put you to the necessity

of answering such a question. Dr. Grantly has told me what you

said."

"Dr. Grantly certainly asked me for my advice, and I gave it. He

asked me--"

"I know he did, Mr. Arabin. He asked you whether he would be doing

right to receive me at Plumstead if I continued my acquaintance with

a gentleman who happens to be personally disagreeable to yourself and

to him."

"You are mistaken, Mrs. Bold. I have no personal knowledge of Mr.

Slope; I never met him in my life."

"You are not the less individually hostile to him. It is not for me

to question the propriety of your enmity, but I had a right to expect

that my name should not have been mixed up in your hostilities. This

has been done, and been done by you in a manner the most injurious

and the most distressing to me as a woman. I must confess, Mr. Arabin,

that from you I expected a different sort of usage."

As she spoke she with difficulty restrained her tears--but she did

restrain them. Had she given way and sobbed aloud, as in such cases

a woman should do, he would have melted at once, implored her pardon,

perhaps knelt at her feet and declared his love. Everything would

have been explained, and Eleanor would have gone back to Barchester

with a contented mind. How easily would she have forgiven and

forgotten the archdeacon's suspicions had she but heard the whole

truth from Mr. Arabin. But then where would have been my novel?

She did not cry, and Mr. Arabin did not melt.

"You do me an injustice," said he. "My advice was asked by Dr.

Grantly, and I was obliged to give it."

"Dr. Grantly has been most officious, most impertinent. I have as

complete a right to form my acquaintance as he has to form his. What

would you have said had I consulted you as to the propriety of my

banishing Dr. Grantly from my house because he knows Lord Tattenham

Corner? I am sure Lord Tattenham is quite as objectionable an

acquaintance for a clergyman as Mr. Slope is for a clergyman's

daughter."

"I do not know Lord Tattenham Corner."

"No, but Dr. Grantly does. It is nothing to me if he knows all the

young lords on every race-course in England. I shall not interfere

with him, nor shall he with me."

"I am sorry to differ with you, Mrs. Bold, but as you have spoken to

me on this matter, and especially as you blame me for what little I

said on the subject, I must tell you that I do differ from you. Dr.

Grantly's position as a man in the world gives him a right to choose

his own acquaintances, subject to certain influences. If he chooses

them badly, those influences will be used. If he consorts with

persons unsuitable to him, his bishop will interfere. What the

bishop is to Dr. Grantly, Dr. Grantly is to you."

"I deny it. I utterly deny it," said Eleanor, jumping from her

seat and literally flashing before Mr. Arabin, as she stood on the

drawing-room floor. He had never seen her so excited, he had never

seen her look half so beautiful.

"I utterly deny it," said she. "Dr. Grantly has no sort of

jurisdiction over me whatsoever. Do you and he forget that I am not

altogether alone in the world? Do you forget that I have a father?

Dr. Grantly, I believe, always has forgotten it.

"From you, Mr. Arabin," she continued, "I would have listened to

advice because I should have expected it to have been given as one

friend may advise another--not as a schoolmaster gives an order to

a pupil. I might have differed from you--on this matter I should

have done so--but had you spoken to me in your usual manner and

with your usual freedom, I should not have been angry. But now--was

it manly of you, Mr. Arabin, to speak of me in this way--so

disrespectful--so--? I cannot bring myself to repeat what you said.

You must understand what I feel. Was it just of you to speak of me

in such a way and to advise my sister's husband to turn me out of my

sister's house because I chose to know a man of whose doctrine you

disapprove?"

"I have no alternative left to me, Mrs. Bold," said he, standing

with his back to the fire-place, looking down intently at the carpet

pattern, and speaking with a slow, measured voice, "but to tell you

plainly what did take place between me and Dr. Grantly."

"Well," said she, finding that he paused for a moment.

"I am afraid that what I may say may pain you."

"It cannot well do so more than what you have already done," said

she.

"Dr. Grantly asked me whether I thought it would be prudent for him

to receive you in his house as the wife of Mr. Slope, and I told him

that I thought it would be imprudent. Believing it to be utterly

impossible that Mr. Slope and--"

"Thank you, Mr. Arabin, that is sufficient. I do not want to know

your reasons," said she, speaking with a terribly calm voice. "I

have shown to this gentleman the commonplace civility of a neighbour;

and because I have done so, because I have not indulged against him

in all the rancour and hatred which you and Dr. Grantly consider due

to all clergymen who do not agree with yourselves, you conclude that

I am to marry him; or rather you do not conclude so--no rational man

could really come to such an outrageous conclusion without better

ground; you have not thought so, but, as I am in a position in which

such an accusation must be peculiarly painful, it is made in order

that I may be terrified into hostility against this enemy of yours."

As she finished speaking, she walked to the drawing-room window and

stepped out into the garden. Mr. Arabin was left in the room, still

occupied in counting the pattern on the carpet. He had, however,

distinctly heard and accurately marked every word that she had

spoken. Was it not clear from what she had said that the archdeacon

had been wrong in imputing to her any attachment to Mr. Slope? Was

it not clear that Eleanor was still free to make another choice? It

may seem strange that he should for a moment have had a doubt, and

yet he did doubt. She had not absolutely denied the charge; she had

not expressly said that it was untrue. Mr. Arabin understood little

of the nature of a woman's feelings, or he would have known how

improbable it was that she should make any clearer declaration than

she had done. Few men do understand the nature of a woman's heart,

till years have robbed such understanding of its value. And it is

well that it should be so, or men would triumph too easily.

Mr. Arabin stood counting the carpet, unhappy, wretchedly unhappy,

at the hard words that had been spoken to him, and yet happy,

exquisitely happy, as he thought that after all the woman whom he

so regarded was not to become the wife of the man whom he so much

disliked. As he stood there he began to be aware that he was himself

in love. Forty years had passed over his head, and as yet woman's

beauty had never given him an uneasy hour. His present hour was very

uneasy.

Not that he remained there for half or a quarter of that time. In

spite of what Eleanor had said, Mr. Arabin was, in truth, a manly man.

Having ascertained that he loved this woman, and having now reason

to believe that she was free to receive his love, at least if she

pleased to do so, he followed her into the garden to make such wooing

as he could.

He was not long in finding her. She was walking to and fro beneath

the avenue of elms that stood in the archdeacon's grounds, skirting

the churchyard. What had passed between her and Mr. Arabin had not,

alas, tended to lessen the acerbity of her spirit. She was very

angry--more angry with him than with anyone. How could he have so

misunderstood her? She had been so intimate with him, had allowed

him such latitude in what he had chosen to say to her, had complied

with his ideas, cherished his views, fostered his precepts, cared for

his comforts, made much of him in every way in which a pretty woman

can make much of an unmarried man without committing herself or her

feelings! She had been doing this, and while she had been doing it

he had regarded her as the affianced wife of another man.

As she passed along the avenue, every now and then an unbidden tear

would force itself on her cheek, and as she raised her hand to brush

it away, she stamped with her little foot upon the sward with very

spite to think that she had been so treated.

Mr. Arabin was very near to her when she first saw him, and she

turned short round and retraced her steps down the avenue, trying to

rid her cheeks of all trace of the tell-tale tears. It was a needless

endeavour, for Mr. Arabin was in a state of mind that hardly allowed

him to observe such trifles. He followed her down the walk and

overtook her just as she reached the end of it.

He had not considered how he would address her; he had not thought

what he would say. He had only felt that it was wretchedness to him

to quarrel with her, and that it would be happiness to be allowed to

love her. And yet he could not lower himself by asking her pardon.

He had done her no wrong. He had not calumniated her, not injured

her, as she had accused him of doing. He could not confess sins of

which he had not been guilty. He could only let the past be past and

ask her as to her and his hopes for the future.

"I hope we are not to part as enemies?" said he.

"There shall be no enmity on my part," said Eleanor; "I endeavour to

avoid all enmities. It would be a hollow pretence were I to say that

there can be true friendship between us, after what has just passed.

People cannot make their friends of those whom they despise."

"And am I despised?"

"I must have been so before you could have spoken of me as you did.

And I was deceived, cruelly deceived. I believed that you thought

well of me; I believed that you esteemed me."

"Thought well of you and esteemed you!" said he. "In justifying

myself before 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!