matter, as it was for Mr Harding. It is much less difficult for the sufferer to be generous than for the oppressor. John Bold felt that he could not go to the warden’s party: he never loved Eleanor better than he did now; he had never so strongly felt how anxious he was to make her his wife as now, when so many obstacles to his doing so appeared in view. Yet here was her father himself, as it were, clearing away those very obstacles, and still he felt that he could not go to the house any more as an open friend.
As he sat thinking of these things with the note in his hand, his sister was waiting for his decision.
‘Well,’ said she, ‘I suppose we must write separate answers, and both say we shall be very happy.’
‘You’ll go, of course, Mary,’ said he; to which she readily assented. ‘I cannot,’ he continued, looking serious and gloomy. ‘I wish I could, with all my heart.’
‘And why not, John?’ said she. She had as yet heard nothing of the new-found abuse which her brother was about to reform — at least nothing which connected it with her brother’s name.
He sat thinking for a while till he determined that it would be best to tell her at once what it was that he was about: it must be done sooner or later.
‘I fear I cannot go to Mr Harding’s house any more as a friend, just at present.’
‘Oh, John! Why not? Ah, you’ve quarrelled with Eleanor!’
‘No, indeed,’ said he; ‘I’ve no quarrel with her as yet.’
‘What is it, John?’ said she, looking at him with an anxious, loving face, for she knew well how much of his heart was there in that house which he said he could no longer enter.
‘Why,’ said he at last, ‘I’ve taken up the case of these twelve old men of Hiram’s Hospital, and of course that brings me into contact with Mr Harding. I may have to oppose him, interfere with him, perhaps injure him.’
Mary looked at him steadily for some time before she committed herself to reply, and then merely asked him what he meant to do for the old men. ‘Why, it’s a long story, and I don’t know that I can make you understand it. John Hiram made a will, and left his property in charity for certain poor old men, and the proceeds, instead of going to the benefit of these men, goes chiefly into the pocket of the warden and the bishop’s steward.’
‘And you mean to take away from Mr Harding his share of it?’
‘I don’t know what I mean yet. I mean to inquire about it. I mean to see who is entitled to this property. I mean to see, if I can, that justice be done to the poor of the city of Barchester generally, who are, in fact, the legatees under the will. I mean, in short, to put the matter right, if I can.’
‘And why are you to do this, John?’
‘You might ask the same question of anybody else,’ said he; ‘and according to that the duty of righting these poor men would belong to nobody. If we are to act on that principle, the weak are never to be protected, injustice is never to be opposed, and no one is to struggle for the poor!’ And Bold began to comfort himself in the warmth of his own virtue.
‘But is there no one to do this but you, who have known Mr Harding so long? Surely, John, as a friend, as a young friend, so much younger than Mr Harding —’
‘That’s woman’s logic, all over, Mary. What has age to do with it? Another man might plead that he was too old; and as to his friendship, if the thing itself be right, private motives should never be allowed to interfere. Because I esteem Mr Harding, is that a reason that I should neglect a duty which I owe to these old men? or should I give up a work which my conscience tells me is a good one, because I regret the loss of his society?’
‘And Eleanor, John?’ said the sister, looking timidly into her brother’s face.
‘Eleanor, that is, Miss Harding, if she thinks fit — that is, if her father — or, rather, if she — or, indeed, he — if they find it necessary — but there is no necessity now to talk about Eleanor Harding; but this I will say, that if she has the kind of spirit for which I give her credit, she will not condemn me for doing what I think to be a duty.’ And Bold consoled himself with the 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
