MISS THORNE SHOWS HER TALENT FOR MATCH-MAKING
On Mr Harding's return to Barchester from Plumstead, which was
effected by him in due course in company with the archdeacon, some
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
barely 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 to 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 a
promotion as a country parsonage affords, she could think of no one
more eligible than Mrs Bold; and, 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 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
matching 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; and
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 no maintain, with
tears that 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
schemed, 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 terrible 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 have 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 an inexperienced gunner, who has ill
calculated the length of the train that he has laid. The gunpowder
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 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 any one, 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 that in former times. For aught Miss Thorne knew of the matter,
a couple of hours might be quite sufficient under the new regime 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 she 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 was 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, she 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 country 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 would know that she was in love with Mr Arabin. Well; what
could 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 any one 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 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 the 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 resolve. 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, as he had
to go close to her.
'Very lovely,' said he, standing modestly so far away from her s 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 could, 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 this conversation was taking,
and yet she was quite relieved at his saying something which
enabled herself to speak without showing any emotion.
'What do I think, Mrs Bold?' and then he rumbled his money with his
hand 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 over in different
directions. I hardly know whether or no we do lead 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 a while, 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 coming 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 passing up and down the room, took four of 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 a 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 then 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 connection, Dr Grantly,
could justify it. Nor could the acquaintance which existed between
ourselves.' The word acquaintance struck cold on Eleanor's heart.
Was this to 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 this? 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 to so
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; and as he did so, there
was a sober and 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 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 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 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 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 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 his 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 any one 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 a 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 there, while he lay sprawling on the bed, she poured
forth the praises, so 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 in her arms, and,
opening her door, ran quickly down to the drawing-room. She at once
found, by the 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 then 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 Dr 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 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.