“We have had a very pleasant party,” said he, using the tone he would have used had he declared that the sun was shining very brightly, or the rain falling very fast.
“Very,” said Eleanor, who never in her life had passed a more unpleasant day.
“I hope Mr. Harding has enjoyed himself.”
“Oh, yes, very much,” said Eleanor, who had not seen her father since she parted from him soon after her arrival.
“He returns to Barchester to-night, I suppose.”
“Yes, I believe so—that is, I think he is staying at Plumstead.”
“Oh, staying at Plumstead,” said Mr. Arabin.
“He came from there this morning. I believe he is going back, he didn’t exactly say, however.”
“I hope Mrs. Grantly is quite well.”
“She seemed to be quite well. She is here; that is, unless she has gone away.”
“Oh, yes, to be sure. I was talking to her. Looking very well indeed.” Then there was a considerable pause; for Charlotte could not at once make Madeline understand why she was to be sent home in a hurry without her brother.
“Are you returning to Plumstead, Mrs. Bold?” Mr. Arabin merely asked this by way of making conversation, but he immediately perceived that he was approaching dangerous ground.
“No,” said Mrs. Bold very quietly; “I am going home to Barchester.”
“Oh, ah, yes. I had forgotten that you had returned.” And then Mr. Arabin, finding it impossible to say anything further, stood silent till Charlotte had completed her plans, and Mrs. Bold stood equally silent, intently occupied as it appeared in the arrangement of her rings.
And yet these two people were thoroughly in love with each other; and though one was a middle-aged clergyman, and the other a lady at any rate past the wishy-washy bread-and-butter period of life, they were as unable to tell their own minds to each other as any Damon and Phillis, whose united ages would not make up that to which Mr. Arabin had already attained.
Madeline Neroni consented to her sister’s proposal, and then the two ladies again went off in quest of Bertie Stanhope.
CHAPTER 8
Ullathorne Sports—Act III
And now Miss Thorne’s guests were beginning to take their departure, and the amusement of those who remained was becoming slack. It was getting dark, and ladies in morning costumes were thinking that, if they were to appear by candlelight, they ought to readjust themselves. Some young gentlemen had been heard to talk so loud that prudent mammas determined to retire judiciously, and the more discreet of the male sex, whose libations had been moderate, felt that there was not much more left for them to do.
Morning parties, as a rule, are failures. People never know how to get away from them gracefully. A picnic on an island or a mountain or in a wood may perhaps be permitted. There is no master of the mountain bound by courtesy to bid you stay while in his heart he is longing for your departure. But in a private house or in private grounds a morning party is a bore. One is called on to eat and drink at unnatural hours. One is obliged to give up the day, which is useful, and is then left without resource for the evening, which is useless. One gets home fagged and
désoeuvré
, and yet at an hour too early for bed. There is no comfortable resource left. Cards in these genteel days are among the things tabooed, and a rubber of whist is impracticable.
All this began now to be felt. Some young people had come with some amount of hope that they might get up a dance in the evening, and were unwilling to leave till all such hope was at an end. Others, fearful of staying longer than was expected, had ordered their carriages early, and were doing their best to go, solicitous for their servants and horses. The countess and her noble brood were among the first to leave, and as regarded the Hon. George, it was certainly time that he did so. Her ladyship was in a great fret and fume. Those horrid roads would, she was sure, be the death of her if unhappily she were caught in them by the dark night. The lamps she was assured were good, but no lamp could withstand the jolting of the roads of East Barsetshire. The De Courcy property lay in the western division of the county.
Mrs. Proudie could not stay when the countess was gone. So the bishop was searched for by the Revs. Messrs. Grey and Green and found in one corner of the tent enjoying himself thoroughly in a disquisition on the hebdomadal board. He obeyed, however, the behests of his lady without finishing the sentence in which he was promising to Dr. Gwynne that his authority at Oxford should remain unimpaired, and the episcopal horses turned their noses towards the palatial stables. Then the Grantlys went. Before they did so, Mr. Harding managed to whisper a word into his daughter’s ear. Of course, he said, he would undeceive the Grantlys as to that foolish rumour about Mr. Slope.
“No, no, no,” said Eleanor; “pray do not—pray wait till I see you. You will be home in a day or two, and then I will I explain to you everything.”
“I shall be home to-morrow,” said he.
“I am so glad,” said Eleanor. “You will come and dine with me, and then we shall be so comfortable.”
Mr. Harding promised. He did not exactly know what there was to be explained, or why Dr. Grantly’s mind should not be disabused of the mistake into which he had fallen, but nevertheless he promised. He owed some reparation to his daughter, and he thought that he might best make it by obedience.
And thus the people were thinning off by degrees as Charlotte and Eleanor walked about in quest of Bertie. Their search might have been long had they not happened to hear his voice. He was comfortably ensconced in the ha-ha, with his back to the sloping side, smoking a cigar, and eagerly engaged in conversation with some youngster from the further side of the county, whom he had never met before, who was also smoking under Bertie’s pupilage and listening with open ears to an account given by his companion of some of the pastimes of Eastern clime.
“Bertie, I am seeking you everywhere,” said Charlotte. “Come up here at once.”
Bertie looked up out of the ha-ha and saw the two ladies before him. As there was nothing for him but to obey, he got up and threw away his cigar. From the first moment of his acquaintance with her he had liked Eleanor Bold. Had he been left to his own devices, had she been penniless, and had it then been quite out of the question that he should marry her, he would most probably have fallen violently in love with her. But now he could not help regarding her somewhat as he did the marble workshops at Carrara, as he had done his easel and palette, as he had done the lawyer’s chambers in London—in fact, as he had invariably regarded everything by which it had been proposed to him to obtain the means of living. Eleanor Bold appeared before him, no longer as a beautiful woman, but as a new profession called matrimony. It was a profession indeed requiring but little labour, and one in which an income was insured to him. But nevertheless he had been as it were goaded on to it; his sister had talked to him of Eleanor, just as she had talked of busts and portraits. Bertie did not dislike money, but he hated the very thought of earning it. He was now called away from his pleasant cigar to earn it, by offering himself as a husband to Mrs. Bold. The work indeed was made easy enough, for in lieu of his having to seek the widow, the widow had apparently come to seek him.
He made some sudden absurd excuse to his auditor and then, throwing away his cigar, climbed up the wall of the ha-ha and joined the ladies on the lawn.
“Come and give Mrs. Bold an arm,” said Charlotte, “while I set you on a piece of duty which, as a
preux chevalier
, you must immediately perform. Your personal danger will, I fear, be insignificant, as your antagonist is a clergyman.”
Bertie immediately gave his arm to Eleanor, walking between her and his sister. He had lived too long abroad to fall into the Englishman’s habit of offering each an arm to two ladies at the same time—a habit, by the by, which foreigners regard as an approach to bigamy, or a sort of incipient Mormonism.
The little history of Mr. Slope’s misconduct was then told to Bertie by his sister, Eleanor’s ears tingling the while. And well they might tingle. If it were necessary to speak of the outrage at all, why should it be spoken of to such a person as Mr. Stanhope, and why in her own hearing? She knew she was wrong, and was unhappy and dispirited, yet she could think of no way to extricate herself, no way to set herself right. Charlotte spared her as much as she possibly could, spoke of the whole thing as though Mr. Slope had taken a glass of wine too much, said that of course there would be nothing more about it, but that steps must be taken to exclude Mr. Slope from the carriage.
“Mrs. Bold need be under no alarm about that,” said Bertie, “for Mr. Slope has gone this hour past. He told me that business made it necessary that he should start at once for Barchester.”
“He is not so tipsy, at any rate, but what he knows his fault,” said Charlotte. “Well, my dear, that is one difficulty over. Now I’ll leave you with your true knight and get Madeline off as quickly as I can. The carriage is here, I suppose, Bertie?”
“It has been here for the last hour.”
“That’s well. Good-bye, my dear. Of course you’ll come in to tea. I shall trust to you to bring her, Bertie, even by force if necessary.” And so saying, Charlotte ran off across the lawn, leaving her brother alone with the widow.
As Miss Stanhope went off, Eleanor bethought herself that, as Mr. Slope had taken his departure, there no longer existed any necessity for separating Mr. Stanhope from his sister Madeline, who so much needed his aid. It had been arranged that he should remain so as to preoccupy Mr. Slope’s place in the carriage, and act as a social policeman to effect the exclusion of that disagreeable gentleman. But Mr. Slope had effected his own exclusion, and there was no possible reason now why Bertie should not go with his sister—at least Eleanor saw none, and she said as much.
“Oh, let Charlotte have her own way,” said he. “She has arranged it, and there will be no end of confusion if we make another change. Charlotte always arranges everything in our house and rules us like a despot.”
“But the signora?” said Eleanor.
“Oh, the signora can do very well without me. Indeed, she will have to do without me,” he added, thinking rather of his studies in Carrara than of his Barchester hymeneals.
“Why, you are not going to leave us?” asked Eleanor.
It has been said that Bertie Stanhope was a man without principle. He certainly was so. He had no power of using active mental exertion to keep himself from doing evil. Evil had no ugliness in his eyes; virtue no beauty. He was void of any of these feelings which actuate men to do good. But he was perhaps equally void of those which actuate men to do evil. He got into debt with utter recklessness, thinking nothing as to whether the tradesmen would ever be paid or not. But he did not invent active schemes of deceit for the sake of extracting the goods of others. If a man gave him credit, that was the man’s look-out; Bertie Stanhope troubled himself nothing further. In borrowing money he did the same; he gave people references to “his governor;” told them that the “old chap” had a good income; and agreed to pay sixty per cent for the accommodation. All this he did without a scruple of conscience; but then he never contrived active villainy.
In this affair of his marriage it had been represented to him as a matter of duty that he ought to put himself in possession of Mrs. Bold’s hand and fortune, and at first he had so regarded it. About her he had thought but little. It was the customary thing for men situated as he was to marry for money, and there was no reason why he should not do what others around him did. And so he consented. But now he began to see the matter in another light. He was setting himself down to catch this woman, as a cat sits to catch a mouse. He was to catch her, and swallow her up, her and her child, and her houses and land, in order that he might live on her instead of on his father. There was a cold, calculating, cautious cunning about this quite at variance with Bertie’s character. The prudence of the measure was quite as antagonistic to his feelings as the iniquity.
And then, should he be successful, what would be the reward? Having satisfied his creditors with half of the widow’s fortune, he would be allowed to sit down quietly at Barchester, keeping economical house with the remainder. His duty would be to rock the cradle of the late Mr. Bold’s child, and his highest excitement a demure party at Plumstead Rectory, should it ultimately turn out that the archdeacon would be sufficiently reconciled to receive him.
There was very little in the programme to allure such a man as Bertie Stanhope. Would not the Carrara workshop, or whatever worldly career fortune might have in store for him, would not almost anything be better than this? The lady herself was undoubtedly all that was desirable, but the most desirable lady becomes nauseous when she has to be taken as a pill. He was pledged to his sister, however, and let him quarrel with whom he would, it behoved him not to quarrel with her. If she were lost to him, all would be lost that he could ever hope to derive henceforward from the paternal roof-tree. His mother was apparently indifferent to his weal or woe, to his wants or his warfare. His father’s brow got blacker and blacker from day to day, as the old man looked at his hopeless son. And as for Madeline—poor Madeline, whom of all of them he liked the best—she had enough to do to shift for herself. No; come what might, he must cling to his sister and obey her behests, let them be ever so stern—or at the very least seem to obey them. Could not some happy deceit bring him through in this matter, so that he might save appearances with his sister and yet not betray the widow to her ruin? What if he made a confederate of Eleanor? ‘Twas in this spirit that Bertie Stanhope set about his wooing.
“But you are not going to leave Barchester?” asked Eleanor.
“I do not know,” he replied; “I hardly know yet what I am going to do. But it is at any rate certain that I must do something.”
“You mean about your profession?” said she.
“Yes, about my profession, if you can call it one.”
“And is it not one?” said Eleanor. “Were I a man, I know none I should prefer to it, except painting. And I believe the one is as much in your power as the other.”
“Yes, just about equally so,” said Bertie with a little touch of inward satire directed at himself. He knew in his heart that he would never make a penny by either.
“I have often wondered, Mr. Stanhope, why you do not exert yourself more,” said Eleanor, who felt a friendly fondness for the man with whom she was walking. “But I know it is very impertinent in me to say so.”
“Impertinent!” said he. “Not so, but much too kind. It is much too kind in you to take any interest in so idle a scamp.”
“But you are not a scamp, though you are perhaps idle. And I do take an interest in you, a very great interest,” she added in a voice which almost made him resolve to change his mind. “And when I call you idle, I know you are only so for the present moment. Why can’t you settle steadily to work here in Barchester?”
“And make busts of the bishop, dean, and chapter? Or perhaps, if I achieve a great success, obtain a commission to put up an elaborate tombstone over a prebendary’s widow, a dead lady with a Grecian nose, a bandeau, and an intricate lace veil; lying of course on a marble sofa from among the legs of which death will be creeping out and poking at his victim with a small toasting-fork.”
Eleanor laughed, but yet she thought that if the surviving prebendary paid the bill, the object of the artist as a professional man would in a great measure be obtained.
“I don’t know about the dean and chapter and the prebendary’s widow,” said Eleanor. “Of course you must take them as they come. But the fact of your having a great cathedral in which such ornaments are required could not but be in your favour.”
“No real artist could descend to the ornamentation of a cathedral,” said Bertie, who had his ideas of the high ecstatic ambition of art, as indeed all artists have who are not in receipt of a good income. “Buildings should be fitted to grace the sculpture, not the sculpture to grace the building.”