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!

CHAPTER XXXI

The Bishop's Library

And thus the pleasant party at Plumstead was broken up. It had been
a very pleasant party as long as they had all remained in good humour
with one another. Mrs. Grantly had felt her house to be gayer and
brighter than it had been for many a long day, and the archdeacon had
been aware that the month had passed pleasantly without attributing
the pleasure to any other special merits than those of his own
hospitality. Within three or four days of Eleanor's departure, Mr.
Harding had also returned, and Mr. Arabin had gone to Oxford to
spend one week there previous to his settling at the vicarage of St.
Ewold's. He had gone laden with many messages to Dr. Gwynne touching
the iniquity of the doings in Barchester palace and the peril in
which it was believed the hospital still stood in spite of the
assurances contained in Mr. Slope's inauspicious letter.

During Eleanor's drive into Barchester she had not much opportunity
of reflecting on Mr. Arabin. She had been constrained to divert her
mind both from his sins and his love by the necessity of conversing
with her sister and maintaining the appearance of parting with her
on good terms. When the carriage reached her own door, and while she
was in the act of giving her last kiss to her sister and nieces, Mary
Bold ran out and exclaimed:

"Oh, Eleanor, have you heard? Oh, Mrs. Grantly, have you heard what
has happened? The poor dean!"

"Good heavens!" said Mrs. Grantly. "What--what has happened?"

"This morning at nine he had a fit of apoplexy, and he has not spoken
since. I very much fear that by this time he is no more."

Mrs. Grantly had been very intimate with the d