The Barsetshire Chronicles - All 6 Books in One Edition. Anthony Trollope

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