CHAPTER XLVIII

Miss Thorne Shows Her Talent at Match-Making

On Mr. Harding's return to Barchester from Plumstead, which was

effected by him in due course in company with the archdeacon, more

tidings of a surprising nature met him. He was, during the journey,

subjected to such a weight of unanswerable argument, all of which

went to prove that it was his bounden duty not to interfere with the

paternal Government that was so anxious to make him a dean, that when

he arrived at the chemist's door in High Street, he hardly knew which

way to turn himself in the matter. But, perplexed as he was, he was

doomed to further perplexity. He found a note there from his daughter

begging him most urgently to come to her immediately. But we must

again go back a little in our story.

Miss Thorne had not been slow to hear the rumours respecting Mr.

Arabin which had so much disturbed the happiness of Mrs. Grantly.

And she, also, was unhappy to think that her parish clergyman should

be accused of worshipping a strange goddess. She, also, was of

opinion that rectors and vicars should all be married, and with that

good-natured energy which was characteristic of her, she put her wits

to work to find a fitting match for Mr. Arabin. Mrs. Grantly, in this

difficulty, could think of no better remedy than a lecture from the

archdeacon. Miss Thorne thought that a young lady, marriageable and

with a dowry, might be of more efficacy. In looking through the

catalogue of her unmarried friends who might possibly be in want of

a husband, and might also be fit for such promotion as a country

parsonage affords, she could think of no one more eligible than Mrs.

Bold; consequently, losing no time, she went into Barchester on the

day of Mr. Slope's discomfiture, the same day that her brother had

had his interesting interview with the last of the Neros, and invited

Mrs. Bold to bring her nurse and baby to Ullathorne and make them a

protracted visit.

Miss Thorne suggested a month or two, intending to use her influence

afterwards in prolonging it so as to last out the winter, in order

that Mr. Arabin might have an opportunity of becoming fairly intimate

with his intended bride. "We'll have Mr. Arabin, too," said Miss

Thorne to herself; "and before the spring they'll know each other;

and in twelve or eighteen months' time, if all goes well, Mrs. Bold

will be domiciled at St. Ewold's;" and then the kind-hearted lady

gave herself some not undeserved praise for her match-making genius.

Eleanor was taken a little by surprise, but the matter ended in her

promising to go to Ullathorne for at any rate a week or two; on the

day previous to that on which her father drove out to Plumstead, she

had had herself driven out to Ullathorne.

Miss Thorne would not perplex her with her embryo lord on that same

evening, thinking that she would allow her a few hours to make herself

at home; but on the following morning Mr. Arabin arrived. "And now,"

said Miss Thorne to herself, "I must contrive to throw them in each

other's way." That same day, after dinner, Eleanor, with an assumed

air of dignity which she could not maintain, with tears which she

could not suppress, with a flutter which she could not conquer, and a

joy which she could not hide, told Miss Thorne that she was engaged

to marry Mr. Arabin and that it behoved her to get back home to

Barchester as quick as she could.

To say simply that Miss Thorne was rejoiced at the success of the

scheme would give a very faint idea of her feelings on the occasion.

My readers may probably have dreamt before now that they have had

before them some terribly long walk to accomplish, some journey of

twenty or thirty miles, an amount of labour frightful to anticipate,

and that immediately on starting they have ingeniously found some

accommodating short cut which has brought them without fatigue to

their work's end in five minutes. Miss Thorne's waking feelings were

somewhat of the same nature. My readers may perhaps have had to do

with children, and may on some occasion have promised to their young

charges some great gratification intended to come off, perhaps at

the end of the winter, or at the beginning of summer. The impatient

juveniles, however, will not wait, and clamorously demand their treat

before they go to bed. Miss Thorne had a sort of feeling that her

children were equally unreasonable. She was like an inexperienced

gunner, who has ill-calculated the length of the train that he has

laid. The gun-powder exploded much too soon, and poor Miss Thorne

felt that she was blown up by the strength of her own petard.

Miss Thorne had had lovers of her own, but they had been gentlemen

of old-fashioned and deliberate habits. Miss Thorne's heart also had

not always been hard, though she was still a virgin spinster; but it

had never yielded in this way at the first assault. She had intended

to bring together a middle-aged, studious clergyman and a discreet

matron who might possibly be induced to marry again, and in doing so

she had thrown fire among tinder. Well, it was all as it should be,

but she did feel perhaps a little put out by the precipitancy of her

own success, and perhaps a little vexed at the readiness of Mrs. Bold

to be wooed.

She said, however, nothing about it to anyone, and ascribed it all to

the altered manners of the new age. Their mothers and grandmothers

were perhaps a little more deliberate, but it was admitted on all

sides that things were conducted very differently now than in former

times. For aught Miss Thorne knew of the matter, a couple of hours

might be quite sufficient under the new régime to complete that for

which she in her ignorance had allotted twelve months.

But we must not pass over the wooing so cavalierly. It has been

told, with perhaps tedious accuracy, how Eleanor disposed of two

of her lovers at Ullathorne; and it must also be told with equal

accuracy, and if possible with less tedium, how she encountered Mr.

Arabin.

It cannot be denied that when Eleanor accepted Miss Thorne's

invitation she remembered that Ullathorne was in the parish of St.

Ewold's. Since her interview with the signora she had done little

else than think about Mr. Arabin and the appeal that had been made to

her. She could not bring herself to believe, or try to bring herself

to believe, that what she had been told was untrue. Think of it how

she would, she could not but accept it as a fact that Mr. Arabin was

fond of her; and then when she went further and asked herself the

question, she could not but accept it as a fact also that she was

fond of him. If it were destined for her to be the partner of his

hopes and sorrows, to whom could she look for friendship so properly

as to Miss Thorne? This invitation was like an ordained step towards

the fulfilment of her destiny, and when she also heard that Mr. Arabin

was expected to be at Ullathorne on the following day, it seemed as

though all the world were conspiring in her favour. Well, did she

not deserve it? In that affair of Mr. Slope had not all the world

conspired against her?

She could not, however, make herself easy and at home. When, in the

evening after dinner, Miss Thorne expatiated on the excellence of Mr.

Arabin's qualities, and hinted that any little rumour which might be

ill-naturedly spread abroad concerning him really meant nothing, Mrs.

Bold found herself unable to answer. When Miss Thorne went a little

further and declared that she did not know a prettier vicarage-house

in the county than St. Ewold's, Mrs. Bold, remembering the projected

bow-window and the projected priestess, still held her tongue, though

her ears tingled with the conviction that all the world knew that she

was in love with Mr. Arabin. Well, what would that matter if they

could only meet and tell each other what each now longed to tell?

And they did meet. Mr. Arabin came early in the day and found the two

ladies together at work in the drawing-room. Miss Thorne, who, had

she known all the truth, would have vanished into air at once, had

no conception that her immediate absence would be a blessing, and

remained chatting with them till luncheon-time. Mr. Arabin could talk

about nothing but the Signora Neroni's beauty, would discuss no people

but the Stanhopes. This was very distressing to Eleanor and not very

satisfactory to Miss Thorne. But yet there was evidence of innocence

in his open avowal of admiration.

And then they had lunch, and then Mr. Arabin went out on parish duty,

and Eleanor and Miss Thorne were left to take a walk together.

"Do you think the Signora Neroni is so lovely as people say?" Eleanor

asked as they were coming home.

"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.