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 was 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
she would calculate that an interview would thus be possible? Thus
thinking, Eleanor was dressed a full hour before the time fixed at
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 stable.
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 the 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 bother 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 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 in 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 s 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 around 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 his 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 wonder how you will 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, with 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 his 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 me that, for my sake, you will love him.'
'Come, Nelly, come; tell me who it is.'
'But you will love him, papa?'
'Dearest, I must love any one that you love.' Then she turned he
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 connection 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 do 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?' and 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 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 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?