for it but to excuse himself by platitudes about public duty, which it is by no means worth while to repeat, and to reiterate his eulogy on Mr Harding’s character. His position was certainly a cruel one: had any gentleman called upon him on behalf of Mr Harding he could of course have declined to enter upon the subject; but how could he do so with a beautiful girl, with the daughter of the man whom he had injured, with his own love?
In the meantime Eleanor recollected herself, and again summoned up her energies. ‘Mr Bold,’ said she, ‘I have come here to implore you to abandon this proceeding.’ He stood up from his seat, and looked beyond measure distressed. ‘To implore you to abandon it, to implore you to spare my father, to spare either his life or his reason, for one or the other will pay the forfeit if this goes on. I know how much I am asking, and how little right I have to ask anything; but I think you will listen to me as it is for my father. Oh, Mr Bold, pray, pray do this for us — pray do not drive to distraction a man who has loved you so well.’
She did not absolutely kneel to him, but she followed him as he moved from his chair, and laid her soft hands imploringly upon his arm. Ah! at any other time how exquisitely valuable would have been that touch! but now he was distraught, dumbfounded and unmanned. What could he say to that sweet suppliant; how explain to her that the matter now was probably beyond his control; how tell her that he could not quell the storm which he had raised?
‘Surely, surely, John, you cannot refuse her,’ said his sister.
‘I would give her my soul,’ said he, ‘if it would serve her.’ ‘Oh, Mr Bold,’ said Eleanor, ‘do not speak so; I ask nothing for myself; and what I ask for my father, it cannot harm you to grant.’
‘I would give her my soul, if it would serve her,’ said Bold, still addressing his sister; ‘everything I have is hers, if she will accept it; my house, my heart, my all; every hope of my breast is centred in her; her smiles are sweeter to me than the sun, and when I see her in sorrow as she now is, every nerve in my body suffers. No man can love better than I love her.’
‘No, no, no,’ ejaculated Eleanor; ‘there can be no talk of love between us. Will you protect my father from the evil you have brought upon him?’
‘Oh, Eleanor, I will do anything; let me tell you how I love you!’
‘No, no, no!’ she almost screamed. ‘This is unmanly of you, Mr Bold. Will you, will you, will you leave my father to die in peace in his quiet home?’ and seizing him by his arm and hand, she followed him across the room towards the door. ‘I will not leave you till you promise me; I’ll cling to you in the street; I’ll kneel to you before all the people. You shall promise me this, you shall promise me this, you shall —’ And she clung to him with fixed tenacity, and reiterated her resolve with hysterical passion.
‘Speak to her, John; answer her,’ said Mary, bewildered by the unexpected vehemence of Eleanor’s manner; ‘you cannot have the cruelty to refuse her.’
‘Promise me, promise me,’ said Eleanor; ‘say that my father is safe — one word will do. I know how true you are; say one word, and I will let you go.’
She still held him, and looked eagerly into his face, with her hair dishevelled and her eyes all bloodshot. She had no thought now of herself, no care now for her appearance; and yet he thought he had never seen her half so lovely; he was amazed at the intensity of her beauty, and could hardly believe that it was she whom he had dared to love. ‘Promise me,’ said she; ‘I will not leave you till you have promised me.’
‘I will,’ said he at length; ‘I do — all I can do, I will do.’
‘Then may God Almighty bless you for ever and ever!’ said Eleanor; and falling on her knees with her face in Mary’s lap, she wept and sobbed like a child: her strength had carried her through her allotted task, but now it was well nigh exhausted.
In a while she was partly recovered, and got up to go, and would have gone, had not Bold made her understand that it was necessary for him to explain to her how far it was in his power to put an end to the proceedings which had been taken against Mr Harding. Had he spoken on any other subject, she would have vanished, but on that she was bound to hear him; and now the danger of her position commenced. While she had an active part to play, while she clung to him as a suppliant, it was easy enough for her to reject his proffered love, and cast from her his caressing words; but now — now that he had yielded, and was talking to her calmly and kindly as to her father’s welfare, it was hard enough for her to do so. Then Mary Bold assisted her; but now she was quite on her brother’s side. Mary said but little, but every word she did say gave some direct and deadly blow. The first thing she did was to make room for her brother between herself and Eleanor on the sofa: as the sofa was full large for three, Eleanor could not resent this, nor could she show suspicion by taking another seat; but she felt it to be a most unkind proceeding. And then Mary would talk as though they three were joined in some close peculiar bond together; as though they were in future always to wish together, contrive together, and act together; and Eleanor could not gainsay this; she could not make another speech, and say, ‘Mr Bold and I are strangers, Mary, and are always to remain so!’
He explained to her that, though undoubtedly the proceeding against the hospital had commenced solely with himself, many others were now interested in the matter, some of whom were much more influential than himself; that it was to him alone, however, that the lawyers looked for instruction as to their doings, and, more important still, for the payment of their bills; and he promised that he would at once give them notice that it was his intention to abandon the cause. He thought, he said, that it was not probable that any active steps would be taken after he had seceded from the matter, though it was possible that some passing allusion might still be made to the hospital in the daily Jupiter. He promised, however, that he would use his best influence to prevent any further personal allusion being made to Mr Harding. He then suggested that he would on that afternoon ride over himself to Dr Grantly, and inform him of his altered intentions on the subject, and with this view, he postponed his immediate return to London.
This was all very pleasant, and Eleanor did enjoy a sort of triumph in the feeling that she had attained the object for which she had sought this interview; but still the part of Iphigenia was to be played out. The gods had heard her prayer, granted her request, and were they not to have their promised sacrifice? Eleanor was not a girl to defraud them wilfully; so, as soon as she decently could, she got up for her bonnet.
‘Are you going so soon?’ said Bold, who half an hour since would have given a hundred pounds that he was in London, and she still at Barchester.
‘Oh yes!’ said she. ‘I am so much obliged to you; papa will feel this to be so kind.’ She did not quite appreciate all her father’s feelings. ‘Of course I must tell him, and I will say that you will see the archdeacon.’
‘But may I not say one word for myself?’ said Bold.
‘I’ll fetch you your bonnet, Eleanor,’ said Mary, in the act of leaving the room.
‘Mary, Mary,’ said she, getting up and catching her by her dress; ‘don’t go, I’ll get my bonnet myself.’ But Mary, the traitress, stood fast by the door, and permitted no such retreat. Poor Iphigenia!
And with a volley of impassioned love, John Bold poured forth the feelings of his heart, swearing, as men do, some truths and many falsehoods; and Eleanor repeated with every shade of vehemence the ‘No, no, no,’ which had had a short time since so much effect; but now, alas! its strength was gone. Let her be never so vehement, her vehemence was not respected; all her ‘No, no, no’s’ were met with counter-asseverations, and at last were overpowered. The ground was cut from under her on every side. She was pressed to say whether
