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 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. ARomish priest now would have escaped all this. Of, Father of heaven! How good for us would it be, if thou couldest vouchsafe to us a certain rule.'
'And have we not got 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 at 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 the joy of knowing it; and 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 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 re-kindled 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, Imust 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!
