Barchester Towers, Anthony Trollope [top business books of all time .txt] 📗

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 hearthrug, 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 hearthrug.

“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 fireplace 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