CHAPTER XLII

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 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."

"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 awhile, 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; "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.

"I shall be home soon after you," said he as the two got into the

carriage.

"Are you not coming in the carriage?" said the father.

"No, no; I have someone to see on the road, and shall walk. John,

mind you drive to Mrs. Bold's house first."

Eleanor, looking out of the window, saw him with his hat in his hand,

bowing to her with his usual gay smile, as though nothing had happened

to mar the tranquillity of the day. It was many a long year before

she saw him again. Dr. Stanhope hardly spoke to her on her way home,

and she was safely deposited by John at her own hall-door before the

carriage drove into the close.

And thus our heroine played the last act of that day's melodrama.