The Warden - Anthony Trollope (good books to read for adults .TXT) 📗

“Oh, papa, do tell me,” she exclaimed, throwing her arms round him, and looking into his face; “what is it he is going to do? What is it all about? Is there any⁠—any⁠—any⁠—” she didn’t well know what word to use⁠—“any danger?”

“Danger, my dear, what sort of danger?”

“Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and of⁠—Oh, papa, why haven’t you told me of all this before?”

Mr. Harding was not the man to judge harshly of anyone, much less of the daughter whom he now loved better than any living creature; but still he did judge her wrongly at this moment. He knew that she loved John Bold; he fully sympathised in her affection; day after day he thought more of the matter, and, with the tender care of a loving father, tried to arrange in his own mind how matters might be so managed that his daughter’s heart should not be made the sacrifice to the dispute which was likely to exist between him and Bold. Now, when she spoke to him for the first time on the subject, it was natural that he should think more of her than of himself, and that he should imagine that her own cares, and not his, were troubling her.

He stood silent before her awhile, as she gazed up into his face, and then kissing her forehead he placed her on the sofa.

“Tell me, Nelly,” he said (he only called her Nelly in his kindest, softest, sweetest moods, and yet all his moods were kind and sweet), “tell me, Nelly, do you like Mr. Bold⁠—much?”

She was quite taken aback by the question. I will not say that she had forgotten herself, and her own love in thinking about John Bold, and while conversing with Mary: she certainly had not done so. She had been sick at heart to think that a man of whom she could not but own to herself that she loved him, of whose regard she had been so proud, that such a man should turn against her father to ruin him. She had felt her vanity hurt, that his affection for her had not kept him from such a course; had he really cared for her, he would not have risked her love by such an outrage. But her main fear had been for her father, and when she spoke of danger, it was of danger to him and not to herself.

She was taken aback by the question altogether: “Do I like him, papa?”

“Yes, Nelly, do you like him? Why shouldn’t you like him? but that’s a poor word;⁠—do you love him?” She sat still in his arms without answering him. She certainly had not prepared herself for an avowal of affection, intending, as she had done, to abuse John Bold herself, and to hear her father do so also. “Come, my love,” said he, “let us make a clean breast of it: do you tell me what concerns yourself, and I will tell you what concerns me and the hospital.”

And then, without waiting for an answer, he described to her, as he best could, the accusation that was made about Hiram’s will; the claims which the old men put forward; what he considered the strength and what the weakness of his own position; the course which Bold had taken, and that which he presumed he was about to take; and then by degrees, without further question, he presumed on the fact of Eleanor’s love, and spoke of that love as a feeling which he could in no way disapprove: he apologised for Bold, excused what he was doing; nay, praised him for his energy and intentions; made much of his good qualities, and harped on none of his foibles; then, reminding his daughter how late it was, and comforting her with much assurance which he hardly felt himself, he sent her to her room, with flowing eyes and a full heart.

When Mr. Harding met his daughter at breakfast the next morning, there was no further discussion on the matter, nor was the subject mentioned between them for some days. Soon after the party Mary Bold called at the hospital, but there were various persons in the drawing-room at the time, and she therefore said nothing about her brother. On the day following, John Bold met Miss Harding in one of the quiet, sombre, shaded walks of the close. He was most anxious to see her, but unwilling to call at the warden’s house, and had in truth waylaid her in her private haunts.

“My sister tells me,” said he, abruptly hurrying on with his premeditated speech, “my sister tells me that you had a delightful party the other evening. I was so sorry I could not be there.”

“We were all sorry,” said Eleanor, with dignified composure.

“I believe, Miss Harding, you understand why, at this moment⁠—” And Bold hesitated, muttered, stopped, commenced his explanation again, and again broke down.

Eleanor would not help him in the least.

“I think my sister explained to you, Miss Harding?”

“Pray don’t apologise, Mr. Bold; my father will, I am sure, always be glad to see you, if you like to come to the house now as formerly; nothing has occurred to alter his feelings: of your own views you are, of course, the best judge.”

“Your father is all that is kind and generous; he always was so; but you, Miss Harding, yourself⁠—I hope you will not judge me harshly, because⁠—”

“Mr. Bold,” said she, “you may be sure of one thing; I shall always judge my father to be right, and those who oppose him I shall judge to be wrong. If those who do not know him oppose him, I shall have charity enough to believe that they are wrong, through error of judgment; but should I see him attacked by those who ought to know him, and to love him, and revere him, of such I shall be constrained to form a different opinion.” And then curtseying low she sailed on,