Free The Chronicles of Barsetshire by Anthony Trollope Page B

consolation of a Roman.
    Mary sat silent for a while, till at last her brother reminded her that the notes must be answered, and she got up, and placed her desk before her, took out her pen and paper, wrote on it slowly:
    Pakenham Villas, Tuesday morning
    MY DEAR ELEANOR,
    I—
    and then stopped, and looked at her brother.
    “Well, Mary, why don’t you write it?”
    “Oh, John,” said she, “dear John, pray think better of this.”
    “Think better of what?” said he.
    “Of this about the hospital—of all this about Mr. Harding—of what you say about those old men. Nothing can call upon you—no duty can require you to set yourself against your oldest, your best friend. Oh, John, think of Eleanor. You’ll break her heart, and your own.”
    “Nonsense, Mary; Miss Harding’s heart is as safe as yours.”
    “Pray, pray, for my sake, John, give it up. You know how dearly you love her.” And she came and knelt before him on the rug. “Pray give it up. You are going to make yourself, and her, and her father miserable: you are going to make us all miserable. And for what? For a dream of justice. You will never make those twelve men happier than they now are.”
    “You don’t understand it, my dear girl,” said he, smoothing her hair with his hand.
    “I do understand it, John. I understand that this is a chimera—a dream that you have got. I know well that no duty can require you to do this mad—this suicidal thing. I know you love Eleanor Harding with all your heart, and I tell you now that she loves you as well. If there was a plain, a positive duty before you, I would be the last to bid you neglect it for any woman’s love; but this—oh, think again, before you do anything to make it necessary that you and Mr. Harding should be at variance.” He did not answer, as she knelt there, leaning on his knees, but by his face she thought that he was inclined to yield. “At any rate let me say that you will go to this party. At any rate do not break with them while your mind is in doubt.” And she got up, hoping to conclude her note in the way she desired.
    “My mind is not in doubt,” at last he said, rising. “I could never respect myself again, were I to give way now, because Eleanor Harding is beautiful. I do love her: I would give a hand to hear her tell me what you have said, speaking on her behalf; but I cannot for her sake go back from the task which I have commenced. I hope she may hereafter acknowledge and respect my motives, but I cannot now go as a guest to her father’s house.” And the Barchester Brutus went out to fortify his own resolution by meditations on his own virtue.
    Poor Mary Bold sat down, and sadly finished her note, saying that she would herself attend the party, but that her brother was unavoidably prevented from doing so. I fear that she did not admire as she should have done the self-devotion of his singular virtue.
    The party went off as such parties do: there were fat old ladies in fine silk dresses, and slim young ladies in gauzy muslin frocks; old gentlemen stood up with their backs to the empty fireplace, looking by no means so comfortable as they would have done in their own armchairs at home; and young gentlemen, rather stiff about the neck, clustered near the door, not as yet sufficiently in courage to attack the muslin frocks, who awaited the battle, drawn up in a semicircular array. The warden endeavoured to induce a charge, but failed signally, not having the tact of a general; his daughter did what she could to comfort the forces under her command, who took in refreshing rations of cake and tea, and patiently looked for the coming engagement: but she herself, Eleanor, had no spirit for the work; the only enemy whose lance she cared to encounter was not there, and she and others were somewhat dull.
    Loud above all voices was heard the clear sonorous tones of the archdeacon as he dilated to brother parsons of the danger of the Church, of the fearful rumours of mad