His own child, his Eleanor, the daughter of whom he was so proud was not to become the wife of Mr Slope. He had been about to give his sanction to the marriage, so certified had he been of this fact; and now he learnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor's was at any rage as much disliked by her as by any one of the family. Mr Harding, however, was by no means sufficiently a man of the world to conceal the blunder he had made. He could not pretend that he had entertained no suspicion; he could not make believe that he had never joined the archdeacon in his surmises. He was greatly surprised, and gratified beyond measure, and he could not help showing that such was the case.
'My darling girl,' said he, 'I am so delighted, so overjoyed. My own child; you have taken such a weight off my mind.'
'But surely, papa, you didn't think--'
'I didn't know what to think, my dear. The archdeacon told me that -'
'The archdeacon!' said Eleanor, her face lighting up with passion.
'A man like the archdeacon might, one would think, be better employed than in traducing his sister-in-law, and creating bitterness between a father and his daughter.'
'He didn't mean to that, Eleanor.'
'What did he mean then? Why did he interfere with me, and fill your mind with such falsehood?'
'Never mind it now, my child; never mind it now. We shall all know you better now.'
'Oh, papa, that you should have thought it! that you should have suspected me!'
'I don't know what you mean by suspicion, Eleanor. There would be nothing disgraceful, you know; nothing wrong in such a marriage.
Nothing that could have justified my interfering as your father.'
And Mr Harding would have proceeded in his own defence to make out that Mr Slope after all was a very good sort of man, and a very fitting second husband for a young widow, had he not been interrupted by Eleanor's greater energy.
'It would be disgraceful,' said she; 'it would be wrong; it would be abominable. Could I do such a horrid thing, I should expect no one to speak to me. Ugh--' and she shuddered as she thought of the matrimonial torch which her friends had been so ready to light on her behalf. I don't wonder at Dr Grantly; I don't wonder at Susan;but, oh, papa, I do wonder at you. How could you, how could you believe it?' Poor Eleanor, as she thought of her father's defalcation, could resist her tears no longer, and was forced to cover her face with her handkerchief.
The place was not very opportune for her grief. They were walking through the shrubberies, and there were many people near them. Poor Mr Harding stammered out his excuse as best he could, and Eleanor with an effort controlled her tears, and returned her handkerchief to her pocket. She did not find it difficult to forgive her father, nor could she altogether refuse to join him in the returning gaiety of spirit to which her present avowal gave rise. It was such a load off his heart to think that he should not be called on to welcome Mr Slope as his son-in-law; it was such a relief to him to find that his daughter's feelings and his own were now, as they ever had been, in unison. He had been so unhappy for the last six weeks about this wretched Mr Slope!
He was so indifferent as to the loss of the hospital, so thankful for the recovery of his daughter, that, strong as was the ground for Eleanor's anger, she could not find it in her heart to be long angry with him.
'Dear papa,' she said, hanging closely to his arm, 'never suspect me again: promise me that you never will. Whatever I do, you may be sure I shall tell you first; you may be sure I shall consult you.'
And Mr Harding did promise, and owned his sin, and promised again.
And so, while he promised amendment and she uttered forgiveness, they returned together to the drawing-room windows.
And what had Eleanor meant when she declared that whatever she did, she would tell her father first? What was she thinking of doing?
So ended the first act of the melodrama which Eleanor was called on to perform this day at Ullathorne.
