‘As David did Goliath,’ says the archdeacon, pushing over the four cards to his partner. And then a trump is led, then another trump; then a king — and then an ace — and then a long ten, which brings down from the meagre doctor his only remaining tower of strength — his cherished queen of trumps.
‘What, no second club?’ says the archdeacon to his partner.
‘Only one club,’ mutters from his inmost stomach the pursy rector, who sits there red-faced, silent, impervious, careful, a safe but not a brilliant ally.
But the archdeacon cares not for many clubs, or for none. He dashes out his remaining cards with a speed most annoying to his antagonists, pushes over to them some four cards as their allotted portion, shoves the remainder across the table to the red-faced rector; calls out ‘two by cards and two by honours, and the odd trick last time,’ marks a treble under the candle- stick, and has dealt round the second pack before the meagre doctor has calculated his losses.
And so went off the warden’s party, and men and women arranging shawls and shoes declared how pleasant it had been; and Mrs Goodenough, the red-faced rector’s wife, pressing the warden’s hand, declared she had never enjoyed herself better; which showed how little pleasure she allowed herself in this world, as she had sat the whole evening through in the same chair without occupation, not speaking, and unspoken to. And Matilda Johnson, when she allowed young Dickson of the bank to fasten her cloak round her neck, thought that two hundred pounds a year and a little cottage would really do for happiness; besides, he was sure to be manager some day. And Apollo, folding his flute into his pocket, felt that he had acquitted himself with honour; and the archdeacon pleasantly jingled his gains; but the meagre doctor went off without much audible speech, muttering ever and anon as he went, ‘three and thirty points!’ ‘three and thirty points!’
And so they all were gone, and Mr Harding was left alone with his daughter.
What had passed between Eleanor Harding and Mary Bold need not be told. It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that neither the historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by their heroes or heroines, or how would three volumes or twenty suffice! In the present case so little of this sort have I overheard, that I live in hopes of finishing my work within 300 pages, and of completing that pleasant task — a novel in one volume; but something had passed between them, and as the warden blew out the wax candles, and put his instrument into its case, his daughter stood sad and thoughtful by the empty fire-place, determined to speak to her father, but irresolute as to what she would say.
‘Well, Eleanor,’ said he, ‘are you for bed?’ ‘Yes,’ said she, moving, ‘I suppose so; but papa — Mr Bold was not here tonight; do you know why not?’
‘He was asked; I wrote to him myself,’ said the warden.
‘But do you know why he did not come, papa?’
‘Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it’s no use guessing at such things, my dear. What makes you look so earnest about it?’
‘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