THE CHRONICLES OF BARSETSHIRE & THE PALLISER NOVELS. Anthony Trollope

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 wellbeing 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 goodnatured 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.”