“Yes, when the work of art is good enough to merit it. Do you, Mr. Stanhope, do something sufficiently excellent, and we ladies of Barchester will erect for it a fitting receptacle. Come, what shall the subject be?”
“I’ll put you in your pony-chair, Mrs. Bold, as Dannecker put Ariadne on her lion. Only you must promise to sit for me.”
“My ponies are too tame, I fear, and my broad-brimmed straw hat will not look so well in marble as the lace veil of the prebendary’s wife.”
“If you will not consent to that, Mrs. Bold, I will consent to try no other subject in Barchester.”
“You are determined then to push your fortune in other lands?”
“I am determined,” said Bertie slowly and significantly, as he tried to bring up his mind to a great resolve; “I am determined in this matter to be guided wholly by you.”
“Wholly by me?” said Eleanor, astonished at, and not quite liking, his altered manner.
“Wholly by you,” said Bertie, dropping his companion’s arm and standing before her on the path. In their walk they had come exactly to the spot in which Eleanor had been provoked into slapping Mr. Slope’s face. Could it be possible that this place was peculiarly unpropitious to her comfort? Could it be possible that she should here have to encounter yet another amorous swain?
“If you will be guided by me, Mr. Stanhope, you will set yourself down to steady and persevering work, and you will be ruled by your father as to the place in which it will be most advisable for you to do so.”
“Nothing could be more prudent, if only it were practicable. But now, if you will let me, I will tell you how it is that I will be guided by you, and why. Will you let me tell you?”
“I really do not know what you can have to tell.”
“No, you cannot know. It is impossible that you should. But we have been very good friends, Mrs. Bold, have we not?”
“Yes, I think we have,” said she, observing in his demeanour an earnestness very unusual with him.
“You were kind enough to say just now that you took an interest in me, and I was perhaps vain enough to believe you.”
“There is no vanity in that; I do so as your sister’s brother—and as my own friend also.”
“Well, I don’t deserve that you should feel so kindly towards me,” said Bertie, “but upon my word I am very grateful for it,” and he paused a while, hardly knowing how to introduce the subject that he had in hand.
And it was no wonder that he found it difficult. He had to make known to his companion the scheme that had been prepared to rob her of her wealth, he had to tell her that he had intended to marry her without loving her, or else that he loved her without intending to marry her; and he had also to bespeak from her not only his own pardon, but also that of his sister, and induce Mrs. Bold to protest in her future communion with Charlotte that an offer had been duly made to her and duly rejected.
Bertie Stanhope was not prone to be very diffident of his own conversational powers, but it did seem to him that he was about to tax them almost too far. He hardly knew where to begin, and he hardly knew where he should end.
By this time Eleanor was again walking on slowly by his side, not taking his arm as she had heretofore done but listening very intently for whatever Bertie might have to say to her.
“I wish to be guided by you,” said he; “and indeed, in this matter there is no one else who can set me right.”
“Oh, that must be nonsense,” said she.
“Well, listen to me now, Mrs. Bold, and if you can help it, pray don’t be angry with me.”
“Angry!” said she.
“Oh, indeed you will have cause to be so. You know how very much attached to you my sister Charlotte is.”
Eleanor acknowledged that she did.
“Indeed she is; I never knew her to love anyone so warmly on so short an acquaintance. You know also how well she loves me?”
Eleanor now made no answer, but she felt the blood tingle in her cheek as she gathered from what he said the probable result of this double-barrelled love on the part of Miss Stanhope.
“I am her only brother, Mrs. Bold, and it is not to be wondered at that she should love me. But you do not yet know Charlotte—you do not know how entirely the well-being of our family hangs on her. Without her to manage for us, I do not know how we should get on from day to day. You cannot yet have observed all this.”
Eleanor had indeed observed a good deal of this; she did not, however, now say so, but allowed him to proceed with his story.
“You cannot therefore be surprised that Charlotte should be most anxious to do the best for us all.”
Eleanor said that she was not at all surprised.
“And she has had a very difficult game to play, Mrs. Bold—a very difficult game. Poor Madeline’s unfortunate marriage and terrible accident, my mother’s ill-health, my father’s absence from England, and last, and worse perhaps, my own roving, idle spirit have almost been too much for her. You cannot wonder if among all her cares one of the foremost is to see me settled in the world.”
Eleanor on this occasion expressed no acquiescence. She certainly supposed that a formal offer was to be made and could not but think that so singular an exordium was never before made by a gentleman in a similar position. Mr. Slope had annoyed her by the excess of his ardour. It was quite clear that no such danger was to be feared from Mr. Stanhope. Prudential motives alone actuated him. Not only was he about to make love because his sister told him, but he also took the precaution of explaining all this before he began. ‘Twas thus, we may presume, that the matter presented itself to Mrs. Bold.
When he had got so far, Bertie began poking the gravel with a little cane which he carried. He still kept moving on, but very slowly, and his companion moved slowly by his side, not inclined to assist him in the task the performance of which appeared to be difficult to him.
“Knowing how fond she is of yourself, Mrs. Bold, cannot you imagine what scheme should have occurred to her?”
“I can imagine no better scheme, Mr. Stanhope, than the one I proposed to you just now.”
“No,” said he somewhat lackadaisically; “I suppose that would be the best, but Charlotte thinks another plan might be joined with it. She wants me to marry you.”
A thousand remembrances flashed across Eleanor’s mind all in a moment—how Charlotte had talked about and praised her brother, how she had continually contrived to throw the two of them together, how she had encouraged all manner of little intimacies, how she had with singular cordiality persisted in treating Eleanor as one of the family. All this had been done to secure her comfortable income for the benefit of one of the family!
Such a feeling as this is very bitter when it first impresses itself on a young mind. To the old, such plots and plans, such matured schemes for obtaining the goods of this world without the trouble of earning them, such long-headed attempts to convert
tuum
into
meum
are the ways of life to which they are accustomed. ‘Tis thus that many live, and it therefore behoves all those who are well-to-do in the world to be on their guard against those who are not. With them it is the success that disgusts, not the attempt. But Eleanor had not yet learnt to look on her money as a source of danger; she had not begun to regard herself as fair game to be hunted down by hungry gentlemen. She had enjoyed the society of the Stanhopes, she had greatly liked the cordiality of Charlotte, and had been happy in her new friends. Now she saw the cause of all this kindness, and her mind was opened to a new phase of human life.
“Miss Stanhope,” said she haughtily, “has been contriving for me a great deal of honour, but she might have saved herself the trouble. I am not sufficiently ambitious.”
“Pray don’t be angry with her, Mrs. Bold,” said he, “or with me either.”
“Certainly not with you, Mr. Stanhope,” said she with considerable sarcasm in her tone. “Certainly not with you.”
“No—nor with her,” said he imploringly.
“And why, may I ask you, Mr. Stanhope, have you told me this singular story? For I may presume I may judge by your manner of telling it that—that—that you and your sister are not exactly of one mind on the subject.”
“No, we are not.”
“And if so,” said Mrs. Bold, who was now really angry with the unnecessary insult which she thought had been offered to her. “And if so, why has it been worth your while to tell me all this?”
“I did once think, Mrs. Bold—that you—that you—”
The widow now again became entirely impassive, and would not lend the slightest assistance to her companion.
“I did once think that you perhaps might—might have been taught to regard me as more than a friend.”
“Never!” said Mrs. Bold, “never. If I have ever allowed myself to do anything to encourage such an idea, I have been very much to blame—very much to blame indeed.”
“You never have,” said Bertie, who really had a good-natured anxiety to make what he said as little unpleasant as possible. “You never have, and I have seen for some time that I had no chance—but my sister’s hopes ran higher. I have not mistaken you, Mrs. Bold, though perhaps she has.”
“Then why have you said all this to me?”
“Because I must not anger her.”
“And will not this anger her? Upon my word, Mr. Stanhope, I do not understand the policy of your family. Oh, how I wish I was at home!” And as she expressed the wish she could restrain herself no longer and burst out into a flood of tears.
Poor Bertie was greatly moved. “You shall have the carriage to yourself going home,” said he; “at least you and my father. As for me, I can walk, or for the matter of that it does not much signify what I do.” He perfectly understood that part of Eleanor’s grief arose from the apparent necessity of her going back to Barchester in the carriage with her second suitor.
This somewhat mollified her. “Oh, Mr. Stanhope,” said she, “why should you have made me so miserable? What will you have gained by telling me all this?”
He had not even yet explained to her the most difficult part of his proposition; he had not told her that she was to be a party to the little deception which he intended to play off upon his sister. This suggestion had still to be made, and as it was absolutely necessary, he proceeded to make it.
We need not follow him through the whole of his statement. At last, and not without considerable difficulty, he made Eleanor understand why he had let her into his confidence, seeing that he no longer intended her the honour of a formal offer. At last he made her comprehend the part which she was destined to play in this little family comedy.
But when she did understand it, she was only more angry with him than ever; more angry, not only with him, but with Charlotte also. Her fair name was to be bandied about between them in different senses, and each sense false. She was to be played off by the sister against the father, and then by the brother against the sister. Her dear friend Charlotte, with all her agreeable sympathy and affection, was striving to sacrifice her for the Stanhope family welfare; and Bertie, who, as he now proclaimed himself, was over head and ears in debt, completed the compliment of owning that he did not care to have his debts paid at so great a sacrifice of himself. Then she was asked to conspire together with this unwilling suitor for the sake of making the family believe that he had in obedience to their commands done his best to throw himself thus away!
She lifted up her face when he had finished, and looking at him with much dignity, even through her tears, she said—”I regret to say it, Mr. Stanhope, but after what has passed I believe that all intercourse between your family and myself had better cease.”
“Well, perhaps it had,” said Bertie naïvely; “perhaps that will be better at any rate for a time; and then Charlotte will think you are offended at what I have done.”
“And now I will go back to the house, if you please,” said Eleanor. “I can find my way by myself, Mr. Stanhope: after what has passed,” she added, “I would rather go alone.”
“But I must find the carriage for you, Mrs. Bold; and I must tell my father that you will return with him alone; and I must make some excuse to him for not going with you; and I must bid the servant put you down at your own house, for I suppose you will not now choose to see them again in the close.”
There was a truth about this, and a perspicuity in making arrangements for lessening her immediate embarrassment, which had some effect in softening Eleanor’s anger. So she suffered herself to walk by his side over the now deserted lawn, till they came to the drawing-room window. There was something about Bertie Stanhope which gave him, in the estimation of everyone, a different standing from that which any other man would occupy under similar circumstances. Angry as Eleanor was, and great as was her cause for anger, she was not half as angry with him as she would have been with anyone else. He was apparently so simple, so good-natured, so unaffected and easy to talk to, that she had already half-forgiven him before he was at the drawing-room window.
When they arrived there, Dr. Stanhope was sitting nearly alone with Mr. and Miss Thorne; one or two other unfortunates were there, who from one cause or another were still delayed in getting away, but they were every moment getting fewer in number.
As soon as he had handed Eleanor over to his father, Bertie started off to the front gate in search of the carriage, and there he waited leaning patiently against the front wall, comfortably smoking a cigar, till it came up. When he returned to the room, Dr. Stanhope and Eleanor were alone with their hosts.
“At last, Miss Thorne,” said he cheerily, “I have come to relieve you. Mrs. Bold and my father are the last roses of the very delightful summer you have given us, and desirable as Mrs. Bold’s society always is, now at least you must be glad to see the last flowers plucked from the tree.”
Miss Thorne declared that she was delighted to have Mrs. Bold and Dr. Stanhope still with her, and Mr. Thorne would have said the same, had he not been checked by a yawn, which he could not suppress.
“Father, will you give your arm to Mrs. Bold?” said Bertie: and so the last adieux were made, and the prebendary led out Mrs. Bold, followed by his son.