Barchester Towers by Anthony Trollope (e reading malayalam books TXT) 📕

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