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by Anthony Trollope
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THE WARDEN
Anthony Trollope
CONTENTS
I. Hiram's Hospital
II. The Barchester Reformer
III. The Bishop of Barchester
IV. Hiram's Bedesmen
v. Dr Grantly Visits the Hospital
VI. The Warden's Tea Party
VII. The Jupiter
VIII. Plumstead Episcopi
IX. The Conference
X. Tribulation
XI. Iphigenia
XII. Mr Bold's Visit to Plumstead
XIII. The Warden's Decision
XIV. Mount Olympus
XV. Tom Towers, Dr Anticant, and Mr Sentiment
XVI. A Long Day in London
XVII. Sir Abraham Haphazard
XVIII. The Warden is very Obstinate
XIX. The Warden Resigns
XX. Farewell
XXI. Conclusion
CHAPTER I
Hiram's Hospital
The Rev. Septimus Harding was, a few years since, a beneficed
clergyman residing in the cathedral town of ---;
let us call it Barchester. Were we to name Wells or Salisbury,
Exeter, Hereford, or Gloucester, it might be presumed that
something personal was intended; and as this tale will refer
mainly to the cathedral dignitaries of the town in question, we
are anxious that no personality may be suspected. Let us presume
that Barchester is a quiet town in the West of England,
more remarkable for the beauty of its cathedral and the
antiquity of its monuments than for any commercial prosperity;
that the west end of Barchester is the cathedral close, and that
the aristocracy of Barchester are the bishop, dean, and canons,
with their respective wives and daughters.
Early in life Mr Harding found himself located at Barchester.
A fine voice and a taste for sacred music had decided the
position in which he was to exercise his calling, and for
many years he performed the easy but not highly paid duties
of a minor canon. At the age of forty a small living in the close
vicinity of the town increased both his work and his income,
and at the age of fifty he became precentor of the cathedral.
Mr Harding had married early in life, and was the father
of two daughters. The eldest, Susan, was born soon after his
marriage; the other, Eleanor, not till ten years later.
At the time at which we introduce him to our readers he was
living as precentor at Barchester with his youngest daughter,
then twenty-four years of age; having been many years a
widower, and having married his eldest daughter to a son of
the bishop a very short time before his installation to the office
of precentor.
Scandal at Barchester affirmed that had it not been for the
beauty of his daughter, Mr Harding would have remained a
minor canon, but here probably Scandal lied, as she so often
does; for even as a minor canon no one had been more popular
among his reverend brethren in the close than Mr Harding;
and Scandal, before she had reprobated Mr Harding for being
made precentor by his friend the bishop, had loudly blamed
the bishop for having so long omitted to do something for his
friend Mr Harding. Be this as it may, Susan Harding, some
twelve years since, had married the Rev. Dr Theophilus
Grantly, son of the bishop, archdeacon of Barchester, and
rector of Plumstead Episcopi, and her father became, a few
months later, precentor of Barchester Cathedral, that office
being, as is not usual, in the bishop's gift.
Now there are peculiar circumstances connected with the
precentorship which must be explained. In the year 1434
there died at Barchester one John Hiram, who had made
money in the town as a wool-stapler, and in his will he left
the house in which he died and certain meadows and closes
near the town, still called Hiram's Butts, and Hiram's Patch,
for the support of twelve superannuated wool-carders, all of
whom should have been born and bred and spent their days in
Barchester; he also appointed that an alms-house should be
built for their abode, with a fitting residence for a warden,
which warden was also to receive a certain sum annually out
of the rents of the said butts and patches. He, moreover,
willed, having had a soul alive to harmony, that the precentor
of the cathedral should have the option of being also warden
of the almshouses, if the bishop in each case approved.
From that day to this the charity had gone on and prospered
--at least, the charity had gone on, and the estates had prospered.
Wool-carding in Barchester there was no longer any;
so the bishop, dean, and warden, who took it in turn to put in
the old men, generally appointed some hangers-on of their
own; worn-out gardeners, decrepit grave-diggers, or octogenarian
sextons, who thankfully received a comfortable lodging
and one shilling and fourpence a day, such being the
stipend to which, under the will of John Hiram, they were
declared to be entitled. Formerly, indeed--that is, till within
some fifty years of the present time--they received but sixpence
a day, and their breakfast and dinner was found them
at a common table by the warden, such an arrangement being
in stricter conformity with the absolute wording of old Hiram's
will: but this was thought to be inconvenient, and to suit the
tastes of neither warden nor bedesmen, and the daily one
shilling and fourpence was substituted with the common
consent of all parties, including the bishop and the corporation
of Barchester.
Such was the condition of Hiram's twelve old men when
Mr Harding was appointed warden; but if they may be
considered as well-to-do in the world according to their condition,
the happy warden was much more so. The patches and
butts which, in John Hiram's time, produced hay or fed cows,
were now covered with rows of houses; the value of the property
had gradually increased from year to year and century to
century, and was now presumed by those who knew anything
about it, to bring in a very nice income; and by some
who knew nothing about it, to have increased to an almost
fabulous extent.
The property was farmed by a gentleman in Barchester,
who also acted as the bishop's steward--a man whose father
and grandfather had been stewards to the bishops of Barchester,
and farmers of John Hiram's estate. The Chadwicks
had earned a good name in Barchester; they had lived
respected by bishops, deans, canons, and precentors; they
had been buried in the precincts of the cathedral; they had
never been known as griping, hard men, but had always lived
comfortably, maintained a good house, and held a high position
in Barchester society. The present Mr Chadwick was a
worthy scion of a worthy stock, and the tenants living on the
butts and patches, as well as those on the wide episcopal
domains of the see, were well pleased to have to do with so
worthy and liberal a steward.
For many, many years--records hardly tell how many,
probably from the time when Hiram's wishes had been first
fully carried out--the proceeds of the estate had been paid
by the steward or farmer to the warden, and by him divided
among the bedesmen; after which division he paid himself
such sums as became his due. Times had been when the poor
warden got nothing but his bare house, for the patches had
been subject to floods, and the land of Barchester butts was
said to be unproductive; and in these hard times the warden
was hardly able to make out the daily dole for his twelve
dependents. But by degrees things mended; the patches
were drained, and cottages began to rise upon the butts, and
the wardens, with fairness enough, repaid themselves for the
evil days gone by. In bad times the poor men had had their
due, and therefore in good times they could expect no more.
In this manner the income of the warden had increased; the
picturesque house attached to the hospital had been enlarged
and adorned, and the office had become one of the most
coveted of the snug clerical sinecures attached to our church.
It was now wholly in the bishop's gift, and though the dean
and chapter, in former days, made a stand on the subject,
they had thought it more conducive to their honour to have
a rich precentor appointed by the bishop, than a poor one
appointed by themselves. The stipend of the precentor of
Barchester was eighty pounds a year. The income arising
from the wardenship of the hospital was eight hundred,
besides the value of the house.
Murmurs, very slight murmurs, had been heard in
Barchester--few indeed, and far between--that the proceeds of
John Hiram's property had not been fairly divided: but they
can hardly be said to have been of such a nature as to have
caused uneasiness to anyone: still the thing had been whispered,
and Mr Harding had heard it. Such was his character in
Barchester, so universal was his popularity, that the very
fact of his appointment would have quieted louder whispers
than those which had been heard; but Mr Harding was an
open-handed, just-minded man, and feeling that there might
be truth in what had been said, he had, on his instalment,
declared his intention of adding twopence a day to each man's
pittance, making a sum of sixty-two pounds eleven shillings
and fourpence, which he was to pay out of his own pocket.
In doing so, however, he distinctly and repeatedly observed
to the men, that though he promised for himself, he could
not promise for his successors, and that the extra twopence
could only be looked on as a gift from himself, and not from
the trust. The bedesmen, however, were most of them older
than Mr Harding, and were quite satisfied with the security
on which their extra income was based.
This munificence on the part of Mr Harding had not been
unopposed. Mr Chadwick had mildly but seriously dissuaded
him from it; and his strong-minded son-in-law, the
archdeacon, the man of whom alone Mr Harding stood in awe,
had urgently, nay, vehemently, opposed so impolitic a concession:
but the warden had made known his intention to the
hospital before the archdeacon had been able to interfere, and
the deed was done.
Hiram's Hospital, as the retreat is called, is a picturesque
building enough, and shows the correct taste with which the
ecclesiastical architects of those days were imbued. It stands
on the banks of the little river, which flows nearly round the
cathedral close, being on the side furthest from the town. The
London road crosses the river by a pretty one-arched bridge,
and, looking from this bridge, the stranger will see the windows
of the old men's rooms, each pair of windows separated by a
small buttress. A broad gravel walk runs between the building
and the river, which is always trim and cared for; and at
the end of the walk, under the parapet of the approach to the
bridge, is a large and well-worn seat, on which, in mild
weather, three or four of Hiram's bedesmen are sure to be seen
seated. Beyond this row of buttresses, and further from the
bridge, and also further from the water which here suddenly
bends, are the pretty oriel windows of Mr Harding's house,
and his well-mown lawn. The entrance to the hospital is
from the London road, and is made through a ponderous
gateway under a heavy stone arch, unnecessary, one would
suppose, at any time, for the protection of twelve old men,
but greatly conducive to the good appearance of Hiram's
charity. On passing through this portal, never closed to anyone
from 6 A.M. till 10 P.M., and never open afterwards,
except on application to a huge, intricately hung mediaeval
bell, the handle of which no uninitiated intruder can possibly
find, the six doors of the old men's abodes are seen, and beyond
them is a slight iron screen, through which the more happy
portion of the Barchester elite pass into the Elysium of Mr
Harding's dwelling.
Mr Harding is a small man, now verging on sixty years, but
bearing few of the signs of age; his hair is rather grizzled,
though not gray; his eye is very mild, but clear and bright,
though the double glasses which are held swinging from his
hand, unless when fixed upon his nose, show that time has told
upon his sight; his hands are delicately white, and both
hands and feet are small; he always wears a black frock coat,
black knee-breeches, and black gaiters, and somewhat scandalises
some of his more hyperclerical brethren by a black
neck-handkerchief.
Mr Harding's warmest admirers cannot say that he was
ever an industrious man; the circumstances of his life have
not called on him to be so; and yet he can hardly be called
an idler. Since his appointment to his precentorship, he has
published, with all possible additions of vellum, typography,
and gilding, a collection of our ancient church music, with
some correct dissertations on Purcell, Crotch, and Nares. He
has greatly improved the choir of Barchester, which, under
his dominion, now rivals that of any cathedral in England.
He has taken something more than his fair share in the
cathedral services, and has played the violoncello daily to
such audiences as he could collect, or, faute de mieux, to no
audience at all.
We must mention one other peculiarity of Mr Harding. As
we have before stated, he has an income of eight hundred a
year, and has no family but his one daughter; and yet he is
never quite at ease in money matters. The vellum and gilding
of 'Harding's Church Music' cost more than any one knows,
except the author, the publisher, and the Rev. Theophilus
Grantly, who allows none of his father-in-law's extravagances
to escape him. Then he is generous to his daughter, for whose
service he keeps a small carriage and pair of ponies. He is,
indeed, generous to all, but especially to the twelve old men
who are in a peculiar manner under his care. No doubt with
such an income Mr Harding should be above the world, as
the saying is; but, at any rate, he is not above Archdeacon
Theophilus Grantly, for he is always more or less in debt to
his son-in-law, who has, to a certain extent, assumed the
arrangement of the precentor's pecuniary affairs.
CHAPTER II
The Barchester Reformer
Mr Harding has been now precentor of Barchester for
ten years; and, alas, the murmurs respecting the proceeds
of Hiram's estate are again becoming audible. It is not
that any one begrudges to Mr Harding the income which he
enjoys, and the comfortable place which so well becomes him;
but such matters have begun to be talked of in various parts
of England. Eager pushing politicians have asserted in the
House of Commons, with very telling indignation, that the
grasping priests of the Church of England are gorged with the
wealth which the charity of former times has left for the solace
of the aged, or the education of the young. The well-known
case of the Hospital of St Cross has even come before the law
courts of the country, and the struggles of Mr Whiston, at
Rochester, have met with sympathy and support. Men are
beginning to say that these things must be looked into.
Mr Harding, whose conscience in the matter is clear, and
who has never felt that he had received a pound from Hiram's
will to which he was not entitled, has naturally taken the part
of the church in talking over these matters with his friend, the
bishop, and his son-in-law, the archdeacon. The archdeacon,
indeed, Dr Grantly, has been somewhat loud in the matter.
He is a personal friend of the dignitaries of the Rochester
Chapter, and has written letters in the public press on the
subject of that turbulent Dr Whiston, which, his admirers
think, must wellnigh set the question at rest. It is also known
at Oxford that he is the author of the pamphlet signed
'Sacerdos' on the subject of the Earl of Guildford and St
Cross, in which it is so clearly argued that the manners of the
present times do not admit of a literal adhesion to the very
words of the founder's will, but that the interests of the church
for which the founder was so deeply concerned are best consulted
in enabling its bishops to reward those shining lights whose
services have been most signally serviceable to Christianity.
In answer to this, it is asserted that Henry de Blois,
founder of St Cross, was not greatly interested in the welfare
of the reformed church, and that the masters of St Cross, for
many years past, cannot be called shining lights in the service
of Christianity; it is, however, stoutly maintained, and no
doubt felt, by all the archdeacon's friends, that his logic is
conclusive, and has not, in fact, been answered.
With such a tower of strength to back both his arguments
and his conscience, it may be imagined that Mr Harding has
never felt any compunction as to receiving his quarterly sum
of two hundred pounds. Indeed, the subject has never presented
itself to his mind in that shape. He has talked not unfrequently,
and heard very much about the wills of old founders and
the incomes arising from their estates, during the last year
or two; he did even, at one moment, feel a doubt (since expelled
by his son-in-law's logic) as to whether Lord Guildford
was clearly entitled to receive so enormous an income as he
does from the revenues of St Cross; but that he himself was
overpaid with his modest eight hundred pounds--he who, out
of that, voluntarily gave up sixty-two pounds eleven shillings
and fourpence a year to his twelve old neighbours--he who,
for the money, does his precentor's work as no precentor
has done it before, since Barchester Cathedral was built,--such
an idea has never sullied his quiet, or disturbed his conscience.
Nevertheless, Mr Harding is becoming uneasy at the rumour
which he knows to prevail in Barchester on the subject. He is
aware that, at any rate, two of his old men have been heard to
say, that if everyone had his own, they might each have their
hundred pounds a year, and live like gentlemen, instead of a
beggarly one shilling and sixpence a day; and that they had
slender cause to be thankful for a miserable dole of twopence,
when Mr Harding and Mr Chadwick, between them, ran
away with thousands of pounds which good old John Hiram
never intended for the like of them. It is the ingratitude of
this which stings Mr Harding. One of this discontented pair,
Abel Handy, was put into the hospital by himself; he had
been a stone-mason in Barchester, and had broken his thigh
by a fall from a scaffolding, while employed about the cathedral;
and Mr Harding had given him the first vacancy in the
hospital after the occurrence, although Dr Grantly had been
very anxious to put into it an insufferable clerk of his at
Plumstead Episcopi, who had lost all his teeth, and whom the
archdeacon hardly knew how to get rid of by other means. Dr
Grantly has not forgotten to remind Mr Harding how well
satisfied with his one-and-sixpence a day old Joe Mutters would
have been, and how injudicious it was on the part of Mr
Harding to allow a radical from the town to get into the concern.
Probably Dr Grantly forgot at the moment, that the
charity was intended for broken-down journeymen of Barchester.
There is living at Barchester, a young man, a surgeon,
named John Bold, and both Mr Harding and Dr Grantly are
well aware that to him is owing the pestilent rebellious feeling
which has shown itself in the hospital; yes, and the renewal,
too, of that disagreeable talk about Hiram's estates which is
now again prevalent in Barchester. Nevertheless, Mr Harding
and Mr Bold are acquainted with each other; we may say,
are friends, considering the great disparity in their years. Dr
Grantly, however, has a holy horror of the impious demagogue,
as on one occasion he called Bold, when speaking of him
to the precentor; and being a more prudent far-seeing man
than Mr Harding, and possessed of a stronger head, he
already perceives that this John Bold will work great trouble in
Barchester. He considers that he is to be regarded as an enemy,
and thinks that he should not be admitted into the camp on
anything like friendly terms. As John Bold will occupy much
of our attention we must endeavour to explain who he is, and
why he takes the part of John Hiram's bedesmen.
John Bold is a young surgeon, who passed many of his boyish
years at Barchester. His father was a physician in the city of
London, where he made a moderate fortune, which he invested
in houses in that city. The Dragon of Wantly inn and posting-
house belonged to him, also four shops in the High Street,
and a moiety of the new row of genteel villas (so called in
the advertisements), built outside the town just beyond
Hiram's Hospital. To one of these Dr Bold retired to spend
the evening of his life, and to die; and here his son John spent
his holidays, and afterwards his Christmas vacation when he
went from school to study surgery in the London hospitals.
Just as John Bold was entitled to write himself surgeon and
apothecary, old Dr Bold died, leaving his Barchester property to
his son, and a certain sum in the three per cents. to his daughter
Mary, who is some four or five years older than her brother.
John Bold determined to settle himself at Barchester, and
look after his own property, as well as the bones and bodies of
such of his neighbours as would call upon him for assistance in
their troubles. He therefore put up a large brass plate with
'John Bold, Surgeon' on it, to the great disgust of the nine
practitioners who were already trying to get a living out of the
bishop, dean, and canons; and began house-keeping with the
aid of his sister. At this time he was not more than twenty-
four years old; and though he has now been three years in
Barchester, we have not heard that he has done much harm
to the nine worthy practitioners. Indeed, their dread of him
has died away; for in three years he has not taken three fees.
Nevertheless, John Bold is a clever man, and would, with
practice, be a clever surgeon; but he has got quite into another
line of life. Having enough to live on, he has not been forced
to work for bread; he has declined to subject himself to what
he calls the drudgery of the profession, by which, I believe, he
means the general work of a practising surgeon; and has
found other employment. He frequently binds up the bruises
and sets the limbs of such of the poorer classes as profess his
way of thinking--but this he does for love. Now I will not
say that the archdeacon is strictly correct in stigmatising John
Bold as a demagogue, for I hardly know how extreme must be
a man's opinions before he can be justly so called; but Bold is
a strong reformer. His passion is the reform of all abuses;
state abuses, church abuses, corporation abuses (he has got
himself elected a town councillor of Barchester, and has so
worried three consecutive mayors, that it became somewhat
difficult to find a fourth), abuses in medical practice, and
general abuses in the world at large. Bold is thoroughly sincere
in his patriotic endeavours to mend mankind, and there
is something to be admired in the energy with which he devotes
himself to remedying evil and stopping injustice; but I fear
that he is too much imbued with the idea that he has a special
mission for reforming. It would be well if one so young had
a little more diffidence himself, and more trust in the honest
purposes of others--if he could be brought to believe that old
customs need not necessarily be evil, and that changes may
possibly be dangerous; but no, Bold has all the ardour and all
the self-assurance of a Danton, and hurls his anathemas against
time-honoured practices with the violence of a French Jacobin.
No wonder that Dr Grantly should regard Bold as a firebrand,
falling, as he has done, almost in the centre of the quiet
ancient close of Barchester Cathedral. Dr Grantly would
have him avoided as the plague; but the old Doctor and Mr
Harding were fast friends. Young Johnny Bold used to play
as a boy on Mr Harding's lawn; he has many a time won the
precentor's heart by listening with rapt attention to his sacred
strains; and since those days, to tell the truth at once, he has
nearly won another heart within the same walls.
Eleanor Harding has not plighted her troth to John Bold,
nor has she, perhaps, owned to herself how dear to her the
young reformer is; but she cannot endure that anyone should
speak harshly of him. She does not dare to defend him when
her brother-in-law is so loud against him; for she, like her
father, is somewhat afraid of Dr Grantly; but she is beginning
greatly to dislike the archdeacon. She persuades her father
that it would be both unjust and injudicious to banish his
young friend because of his politics; she cares little to go to
houses where she will not meet him, and, in fact, she is in love.
Nor is there any good reason why Eleanor Harding should
not love John Bold. He has all those qualities which are likely
to touch a girl's heart. He is brave, eager, and amusing;
well-made and good-looking; young and enterprising; his
character is in all respects good; he has sufficient income to
support a wife; he is her father's friend; and, above all, he
is in love with her: then why should not Eleanor Harding be
attached to John Bold?
Dr Grantly, who has as many eyes as Argus, and has long
seen how the wind blows in that direction, thinks there are
various strong reasons why this should not be so. He has not
thought it wise as yet to speak to his father-in-law on the
subject, for he knows how foolishly indulgent is Mr Harding in
everything that concerns his daughter; but he has discussed the
matter with his all-trusted helpmate, within that sacred recess
formed by the clerical bed-curtains at Plumstead Episcopi.
How much sweet solace, how much valued counsel has our
archdeacon received within that sainted enclosure! 'Tis there
alone that he unbends, and comes down from his high church
pedestal to the level of a mortal man. In the world Dr Grantly
never lays aside that demeanour which so well becomes him.
He has all the dignity of an ancient saint with the sleekness of
a modern bishop; he is always the same; he is always the
archdeacon; unlike Homer, he never nods. Even with his
father-in-law, even with the bishop and dean, he maintains
that sonorous tone and lofty deportment which strikes awe
into the young hearts of Barchester, and absolutely cows the
whole parish of Plumstead Episcopi. 'Tis only when he has
exchanged that ever-new shovel hat for a tasselled nightcap,
and those shining black habiliments for his accustomed robe
de nuit, that Dr Grantly talks, and looks, and thinks like an
ordinary man.
Many of us have often thought how severe a trial of faith
must this be to the wives of our great church dignitaries. To
us these men are personifications of St Paul; their very gait is
a speaking sermon; their clean and sombre apparel exacts
from us faith and submission, and the cardinal virtues seem to
hover round their sacred hats. A dean or archbishop, in the
garb of his order, is sure of our reverence, and a well-got-up
bishop fills our very souls with awe. But how can this feeling
be perpetuated in the bosoms of those who see the bishops
without their aprons, and the archdeacons even in a lower state
of dishabille?
Do we not all know some reverend, all but sacred, personage
before whom our tongue ceases to be loud and our step to be
elastic? But were we once to see him stretch himself beneath
the bed-clothes, yawn widely, and bury his face upon his
pillow, we could chatter before him as glibly as before a doctor
or a lawyer. From some such cause, doubtless, it arose that
our archdeacon listened to the counsels of his wife, though he
considered himself entitled to give counsel to every other being
whom he met.
'My dear,' he said, as he adjusted the copious folds of his
nightcap, 'there was that John Bold at your father's again
today. I must say your father is very imprudent.'
'He is imprudent--he always was,' replied Mrs Grantly,
speaking from under the comfortable bed-clothes. 'There's
nothing new in that.'
'No, my dear, there's nothing new--I know that; but, at
the present juncture of affairs, such imprudence is--is--I'll
tell you what, my dear, if he does not take care what he's about,
John Bold will be off with Eleanor.'
'I think he will, whether papa takes care or no; and why not?'
'Why not!' almost screamed the archdeacon, giving so
rough a pull at his nightcap as almost to bring it over his nose;
'why not!-that pestilent, interfering upstart, John Bold--the
most vulgar young person I ever met! Do you know that he
is meddling with your father's affairs in a most uncalled-for--
most--' And being at a loss for an epithet sufficiently
injurious, he finished his expressions of horror by muttering,
'Good heavens!' in a manner that had been found very
efficacious in clerical meetings of the diocese. He must for
the moment have forgotten where he was.
'As to his vulgarity, archdeacon' (Mrs Grantly had never
assumed a more familiar term than this in addressing her
husband), 'I don't agree with you. Not that I like Mr Bold
--he is a great deal too conceited for me; but then Eleanor
does, and it would be the best thing in the world for papa if
they were to marry. Bold would never trouble himself about
Hiram's Hospital if he were papa's son-in-law.' And the lady
turned herself round under the bed-clothes, in a manner to
which the doctor was well accustomed, and which told him,
as plainly as words, that as far as she was concerned the subject
was over for that night.
'Good heavens!' murmured the doctor again--he was evidently
much put beside himself.
Dr Grantly is by no means a bad man; he is exactly the
man which such an education as his was most likely to form;
his intellect being sufficient for such a place in the world, but
not sufficient to put him in advance of it. He performs with a
rigid constancy such of the duties of a parish clergyman as are,
to his thinking, above the sphere of his curate, but it is as an
archdeacon that he shines.
We believe, as a general rule, that either a bishop or his
archdeacons have sinecures: where a bishop works, archdeacons
have but little to do, and vice versa. In the diocese of
Barchester the Archdeacon of Barchester does the work. In
that capacity he is diligent, authoritative, and, as his friends
particularly boast, judicious. His great fault is an overbearing
assurance of the virtues and claims of his order, and his great
foible is an equally strong confidence in the dignity of his own
manner and the eloquence of his own words. He is a moral
man, believing the precepts which he teaches, and believing
also that he acts up to them; though we cannot say that he
would give his coat to the man who took his cloak, or that he
is prepared to forgive his brother even seven times. He is
severe enough in exacting his dues, considering that any laxity
in this respect would endanger the security of the church; and,
could he have his way, he would consign to darkness and
perdition, not only every individual reformer, but every
committee and every commission that would even dare to ask a
question respecting the appropriation of church revenues.
'They are church revenues: the laity admit it. Surely the
church is able to administer her own revenues.' 'Twas thus
he was accustomed to argue, when the sacrilegious doings of
Lord John Russell and others were discussed either at Barchester
or at Oxford.
It was no wonder that Dr Grantly did not like John Bold,
and that his wife's suggestion that he should become closely
connected with such a man dismayed him. To give him his
due, the archdeacon never wanted courage; he was quite
willing to meet his enemy on any field and with any weapon.
He had that belief in his own arguments that he felt sure of
success, could he only be sure of a fair fight on the part of his
adversary. He had no idea that John Bold could really prove
that the income of the hospital was malappropriated; why,
then, should peace be sought for on such base terms? What!
bribe an unbelieving enemy of the church with the sister-in-law
of one dignitary and the daughter of another--with a
young lady whose connections with the diocese and chapter of
Barchester were so close as to give her an undeniable claim to
a husband endowed with some of its sacred wealth! When
Dr Grantly talks of unbelieving enemies, he does not mean to
imply want of belief in the doctrines of the church, but an
equally dangerous scepticism as to its purity in money matters.
Mrs Grantly is not usually deaf to the claims of the high
order to which she belongs. She and her husband rarely
disagree as to the tone with which the church should be defended;
how singular, then, that in such a case as this she should be
willing to succumb! The archdeacon again murmurs 'Good
heavens!' as he lays himself beside her, but he does so in a
voice audible only to himself, and he repeats it till sleep relieves
him from deep thought.
Mr Harding himself has seen no reason why his daughter
should not love John Bold. He has not been unobservant of
her feelings, and perhaps his deepest regret at the part which
he fears Bold is about to take regarding the hospital arises from
the dread that he may be separated from his daughter, or that
she may be separated from the man she loves. He has never
spoken to Eleanor about her lover; he is the last man in the
world to allude to such a subject unconsulted, even with his
own daughter; and had he considered that he had ground to
disapprove of Bold, he would have removed her, or forbidden
him his house; but he saw no such ground. He would probably
have preferred a second clerical son-in-law, for Mr Harding,
also, is attached to his order; and, failing in that, he
would at any rate have wished that so near a connection should
have thought alike with him on church matters. He would
not, however, reject the man his daughter loved because he
differed on such subjects with himself.
Hitherto Bold had taken no steps in the matter in any way
annoying to Mr Harding personally. Some months since,
after a severe battle, which cost him not a little money, he
gained a victory over a certain old turnpike woman in the
neighbourhood, of whose charges another old woman had
complained to him. He got the Act of Parliament relating to
the trust, found that his protegee had been wrongly taxed,
rode through the gate himself, paying the toll, then brought
an action against the gate-keeper, and proved that all people
coming up a certain by-lane, and going down a certain other
by-lane, were toll-free. The fame of his success spread widely
abroad, and he began to be looked on as the upholder of the
rights of the poor of Barchester. Not long after this success, he
heard from different quarters that Hiram's bedesmen were
treated as paupers, whereas the property to which they were,
in effect, heirs was very large; and he was instigated by the
lawyer whom he had employed in the case of the turnpike to call
upon Mr Chadwick for a statement as to the funds of the estate.
Bold had often expressed his indignation at the malappropriation
of church funds in general, in the hearing of his friend
the precentor; but the conversation had never referred to
anything at Barchester; and when Finney, the attorney, induced
him to interfere with the affairs of the hospital, it was
against Mr Chadwick that his efforts were to be directed.
Bold soon found that if he interfered with Mr Chadwick as
steward, he must also interfere with Mr Harding as warden;
and though he regretted the situation in which this would
place him, he was not the man to flinch from his undertaking
from personal motives.
As soon as he had determined to take the matter in hand, he
set about his work with his usual energy. He got a copy of
John Hiram's will, of the wording of which he made himself
perfectly master. He ascertained the extent of the property,
and as nearly as he could the value of it; and made out a
schedule of what he was informed was the present distribution
of its income. Armed with these particulars, he called on
Mr Chadwick, having given that gentleman notice of his visit;
and asked him for a statement of the income and expenditure
of the hospital for the last twenty-five years.
This was of course refused, Mr Chadwick alleging that he
had no authority for making public the concerns of a property
in managing which he was only a paid servant.
'And who is competent to give you that authority, Mr Chadwick?'
asked Bold.
'Only those who employ me, Mr Bold,' said the steward.
'And who are those, Mr Chadwick?' demanded Bold.
Mr Chadwick begged to say that if these inquiries were
made merely out of curiosity, he must decline answering them:
if Mr Bold had any ulterior proceeding in view, perhaps it
would be desirable that any necessary information should be
sought for in a professional way by a professional man. Mr
Chadwick's attorneys were Messrs Cox and Cummins, of
Lincoln's Inn. Mr Bold took down the address of Cox and
Cummins, remarked that the weather was cold for the time of
the year, and wished Mr Chadwick good-morning. Mr Chadwick
said it was cold for June, and bowed him out.
He at once went to his lawyer, Finney. Now, Bold was not
very fond of his attorney, but, as he said, he merely wanted a
man who knew the forms of law, and who would do what he
was told for his money. He had no idea of putting himself in
the hands of a lawyer. He wanted law from a lawyer as he
did a coat from a tailor, because he could not make it so well
himself; and he thought Finney the fittest man in Barchester
for his purpose. In one respect, at any rate, he was right:
Finney was humility itself.
Finney advised an instant letter to Cox and Cummins,
mindful of his six-and-eightpence. 'Slap at them at once,
Mr Bold. Demand categorically and explicitly a full statement
of the affairs of the hospital.'
'Suppose I were to see Mr Harding first,' suggested Bold.
'Yes, yes, by all means,' said the acquiescing Finney;
'though, perhaps, as Mr Harding is no man of business, it may
lead--lead to some little difficulties; but perhaps you're right.
Mr Bold, I don't think seeing Mr Harding can do any harm.'
Finney saw from the expression of his client's face that he
intended to have his own way.
CHAPTER III
The Bishop of Barchester
Bold at once repaired to the hospital. The day was now
far advanced, but he knew that Mr Harding dined in the
summer at four, that Eleanor was accustomed to drive in the
evening, and that he might therefore probably find Mr Harding
alone. It was between seven and eight when he reached
the slight iron gate leading into the precentor's garden, and
though, as Mr Chadwick observed, the day had been cold for
June, the evening was mild, and soft, and sweet. The little
gate was open. As he raised the latch he heard the notes of
Mr Harding's violoncello from the far end of the garden, and,
advancing before the house and across the lawn, he found him
playing: and not without an audience. The musician was
seated in a garden-chair just within the summer-house, so as
to allow the violoncello which he held between his knees to
rest upon the dry stone flooring; before him stood a rough
music desk, on which was open a page of that dear sacred book,
that much-laboured and much-loved volume of church music,
which had cost so many guineas; and around sat, and lay,
and stood, and leaned, ten of the twelve old men who dwelt
with him beneath old John Hiram's roof. The two reformers
were not there. I will not say that in their hearts they were
conscious of any wrong done or to be done to their mild
warden, but latterly they had kept aloof from him, and his
music was no longer to their taste.
It was amusing to see the positions, and eager listening faces
of these well-to-do old men. I will not say that they all
appreciated the music which they heard, but they were intent
on appearing to do so; pleased at being where they were, they
were determined, as far as in them lay, to give pleasure in
return; and they were not unsuccessful. It gladdened the
precentor's heart to think that the old bedesmen whom he
loved so well admired the strains which were to him so full of
almost ecstatic joy; and he used to boast that such was the
air of the hospital, as to make it a precinct specially fit for the
worship of St Cecilia.
Immediately before him, on the extreme corner of the bench
which ran round the summer-house, sat one old man, with his
handkerchief smoothly lain upon his knees, who did enjoy the
moment, or acted enjoyment well. He was one on whose
large frame many years, for he was over eighty, had made
small havoc--he was still an upright, burly, handsome figure,
with an open, ponderous brow, round which clung a few,
though very few, thin gray locks. The coarse black gown of
the hospital, the breeches, and buckled shoes became him
well; and as he sat with his hands folded on his staff, and his
chin resting on his hands, he was such a listener as most
musicians would be glad to welcome.
This man was certainly the pride of the hospital. It had
always been the custom that one should be selected as being
to some extent in authority over the others; and though
Mr Bunce, for such was his name, and so he was always designated
by his inferior brethren, had no greater emoluments than
they, he had assumed, and well knew how to maintain, the
dignity of his elevation. The precentor delighted to call
him his sub-warden, and was not ashamed, occasionally, when
no other guest was there, to bid him sit down by the same
parlour fire, and drink the full glass of port which was placed
near him. Bunce never went without the second glass, but no
entreaty ever made him take a third.
'Well, well, Mr Harding; you're too good, much too good,'
he'd always say, as the second glass was filled; but when that
was drunk, and the half hour over, Bunce stood erect, and
with a benediction which his patron valued, retired to his own
abode. He knew the world too well to risk the comfort of such
halcyon moments, by prolonging them till they were disagreeable.
Mr Bunce, as may be imagined, was most strongly opposed
to innovation. Not even Dr Grantly had a more holy horror
of those who would interfere in the affairs of the hospital; he
was every inch a churchman, and though he was not very fond
of Dr Grantly personally, that arose from there not being room
in the hospital for two people so much alike as the doctor and
himself, rather than from any dissimilarity in feeling. Mr
Bunce was inclined to think that the warden and himself could
manage the hospital without further assistance; and that,
though the bishop was the constitutional visitor, and as such
entitled to special reverence from all connected with John
Hiram's will, John Hiram never intended that his affairs
should be interfered with by an archdeacon.
At the present moment, however, these cares were off his
mind, and he was looking at his warden, as though he thought
the music heavenly, and the musician hardly less so.
As Bold walked silently over the lawn, Mr Harding did not
at first perceive him, and continued to draw his bow slowly
across the plaintive wires; but he soon found from his audience
that some stranger was there, and looking up, began to
welcome his young friend with frank hospitality.
'Pray, Mr Harding--pray don't let me disturb you,' said
Bold; 'you know how fond I am of sacred music.'
'Oh! it's nothing,' said the precentor, shutting up the book
and then opening it again as he saw the delightfully imploring
look of his old friend Bunce. Oh, Bunce, Bunce, Bunce, I fear
that after all thou art but a flatterer. 'Well, I'll just finish it
then; it's a favourite little bit of Bishop's; and then, Mr Bold,
we'll have a stroll and a chat till Eleanor comes in and gives
us tea.' And so Bold sat down on the soft turf to listen, or
rather to think how, after such sweet harmony, he might best
introduce a theme of so much discord, to disturb the peace of
him who was so ready to welcome him kindly.
Bold thought that the performance was soon over, for he
felt that he had a somewhat difficult task, and he almost
regretted the final leave-taking of the last of the old men, slow
as they were in going through their adieux.
Bold's heart was in his mouth, as the precentor made some
ordinary but kind remark as to the friendliness of the visit.
'One evening call,' said he, 'is worth ten in the morning.
It's all formality in the morning; real social talk never begins
till after dinner. That's why I dine early so as to get as much
as I can of it.'
'Quite true, Mr Harding,' said the other; 'but I fear I've
reversed the order of things, and I owe you much apology for
troubling you on business at such an hour; but it is on business
that I have called just now.'
Mr Harding looked blank and annoyed; there was something
in the tone of the young man's voice which told him that
the interview was intended to be disagreeable, and he shrank
back at finding his kindly greeting so repulsed.
'I wish to speak to you about the hospital,' continued Bold.
'Well, well, anything I can tell you I shall be most happy--'
'It's about the accounts.'
'Then, my dear fellow, I can tell you nothing, for I'm as
ignorant as a child. All I know is, that they pay me #800 a year.
Go to Chadwick, he knows all about the accounts; and now tell
me, will poor Mary Jones ever get the use of her limb again?'
'Well, I think she will, if she's careful; but, Mr Harding,
I hope you won't object to discuss with me what I have to say
about the hospital.'
Mr Harding gave a deep, long-drawn sigh. He did object,
very strongly object, to discuss any such subject with John
Bold; but he had not the business tact of Mr Chadwick, and
did not know how to relieve himself from the coming evil; he
sighed sadly, but made no answer.
'I have the greatest regard for you, Mr Harding,' continued
Bold; 'the truest respect, the most sincere--'
'Thank ye, thank ye, Mr Bold,' interjaculated the precentor
somewhat impatiently; 'I'm much obliged, but never mind
that; I'm as likely to be in the wrong as another man--quite
as likely.'
'But, Mr Harding, I must express what I feel, lest you
should think there is personal enmity in what I'm going to do.'
'Personal enmity! Going to do! Why, you're not going
to cut my throat, nor put me into the Ecclesiastical Court!'
Bold tried to laugh, but he couldn't. He was quite in
earnest, and determined in his course, and couldn't make a
joke of it. He walked on awhile in silence before he recommenced
his attack, during which Mr Harding, who had still the bow
in his hand, played rapidly on an imaginary violoncello. 'I
fear there is reason to think that John Hiram's will is not
carried out to the letter, Mr Harding,' said the young man at
last; 'and I have been asked to see into it.'
'Very well, I've no objection on earth; and now we need
not say another word about it.'
'Only one word more, Mr Harding. Chadwick has referred
me to Cox and Cummins, and I think it my duty to apply to
them for some statement about the hospital. In what I do I
may appear to be interfering with you, and I hope you will
forgive me for doing so.'
'Mr Bold,' said the other, stopping, and speaking with some
solemnity, 'if you act justly, say nothing in this matter but the
truth, and use no unfair weapons in carrying out your purposes,
I shall have nothing to forgive. I presume you think
I am not entitled to the income I receive from the hospital,
and that others are entitled to it. Whatever some may do, I
shall never attribute to you base motives because you hold an
opinion opposed to my own and adverse to my interests: pray
do what you consider to be your duty; I can give you no
assistance, neither will I offer you any obstacle. Let me,
however, suggest to you, that you can in no wise forward your
views nor I mine, by any discussion between us. Here comes
Eleanor and the ponies, and we'll go in to tea.'
Bold, however, felt that he could not sit down at ease with
Mr Harding and his daughter after what had passed, and
therefore excused himself with much awkward apology; and
merely raising his hat and bowing as he passed Eleanor and the
pony chair, left her in disappointed amazement at his departure.
Mr Harding's demeanour certainly impressed Bold with a
full conviction that the warden felt that he stood on strong
grounds, and almost made him think that he was about to
interfere without due warrant in the private affairs of a just
and honourable man; but Mr Harding himself was anything
but satisfied with his own view of the case.
In the first place, he wished for Eleanor's sake to think well
of Bold and to like him, and yet he could not but feel disgusted
at the arrogance of his conduct. What right had he to say
that John Hiram's will was not fairly carried out? But then
the question would arise within his heart,--Was that will fairly
acted on? Did John Hiram mean that the warden of his
hospital should receive considerably more out of the legacy
than all the twelve old men together for whose behoof the
hospital was built? Could it be possible that John Bold was
right, and that the reverend warden of the hospital had been
for the last ten years and more the unjust recipient of an income
legally and equitably belonging to others? What if it should
be proved before the light of day that he, whose life had been
so happy, so quiet, so respected, had absorbed #800 to which
he had no title, and which he could never repay? I do not
say that he feared that such was really the case; but the first
shade of doubt now fell across his mind, and from this evening,
for many a long, long day, our good, kind loving warden was
neither happy nor at ease.
Thoughts of this kind, these first moments of much misery,
oppressed Mr Harding as he sat sipping his tea, absent and
ill at ease. Poor Eleanor felt that all was not right, but her
ideas as to the cause of the evening's discomfort did not go
beyond her lover, and his sudden and uncivil departure. She
thought there must have been some quarrel between Bold and
her father, and she was half angry with both, though she did
not attempt to explain to herself why she was so.
Mr Harding thought long and deeply over these things, both
before he went to bed and after it, as he lay awake, questioning
within himself the validity of his claim to the income which he
enjoyed. It seemed clear at any rate that, however unfortunate
he might be at having been placed in such a position, no one
could say that he ought either to have refused the appointment
first, or to have rejected the income afterwards. All the
world--meaning the ecclesiastical world as confined to the
English church--knew that the wardenship of the Barchester
Hospital was a snug sinecure, but no one had ever been
blamed for accepting it. To how much blame, however,
would he have been open had he rejected it! How mad would
he have been thought had he declared, when the situation was
vacant and offered to him, that he had scruples as to receiving
#800 a year from John Hiram's property, and that he had
rather some stranger should possess it! How would Dr
Grantly have shaken his wise head, and have consulted with
his friends in the close as to some decent retreat for the coming
insanity of the poor minor canon! If he was right in accepting
the place, it was clear to him also that he would be wrong in
rejecting any part of the income attached to it. The patronage
was a valuable appanage of the bishopric; and surely it would
not be his duty to lessen the value of that preferment which
had been bestowed on himself; surely he was bound to stand
by his order.
But somehow these arguments, though they seemed logical,
were not satisfactory. Was John Hiram's will fairly carried
out? that was the true question: and if not, was it not his
especial duty to see that this was done--his especial duty,
whatever injury it might do to his order--however ill such
duty might be received by his patron and his friends? At the
idea of his friends, his mind turned unhappily to his son-in-law.
He knew well how strongly he would be supported by Dr Grantly,
if he could bring himself to put his case into the archdeacon's
hands and to allow him to fight the battle; but he knew also that
he would find no sympathy there for his doubts, no friendly
feeling, no inward comfort. Dr Grantly would be ready enough to
take up his cudgel against all comers on behalf of the church
militant, but he would do so on the distasteful ground of the
church's infallibility. Such a contest would give no comfort to
Mr Harding's doubts. He was not so anxious to prove himself
right, as to be so.
I have said before that Dr Grantly was the working man of
the diocese, and that his father the bishop was somewhat
inclined to an idle life. So it was; but the bishop, though he
had never been an active man, was one whose qualities had
rendered him dear to all who knew him. He was the very
opposite to his son; he was a bland and a kind old man, opposed
by every feeling to authoritative demonstrations and episcopal
ostentation. It was perhaps well for him, in his situation,
that his son had early in life been able to do that which
he could not well do when he was younger, and which he could
not have done at all now that he was over seventy. The
bishop knew how to entertain the clergy of his diocese, to
talk easy small-talk with the rectors' wives, and put curates at
their ease; but it required the strong hand of the archdeacon
to deal with such as were refractory either in their doctrines or
their lives.
The bishop and Mr Harding loved each other warmly.
They had grown old together, and had together spent many,
many years in clerical pursuits and clerical conversation.
When one of them was a bishop and the other only a minor
canon they were even then much together; but since their
children had married, and Mr Harding had become warden
and precentor, they were all in all to each other. I will
not say that they managed the diocese between them, but they
spent much time in discussing the man who did, and in forming
little plans to mitigate his wrath against church delinquents,
and soften his aspirations for church dominion.
Mr Harding determined to open his mind, and confess his
doubts to his old friend; and to him he went on the morning
after John Bold's uncourteous visit.
Up to this period no rumour of these cruel proceedings
against the hospital had reached the bishop's ears. He had
doubtless heard that men existed who questioned his right to
present to a sinecure of #800 a year, as he had heard from
time to time of some special immorality or disgraceful
disturbance in the usually decent and quiet city of Barchester:
but all he did, and all he was called on to do, on such occasions,
was to shake his head, and to beg his son, the great
dictator, to see that no harm happened to the church.
It was a long story that Mr Harding had to tell before he
made the bishop comprehend his own view of the case; but
we need not follow him through the tale. At first the bishop
counselled but one step, recommended but one remedy, had
but one medicine in his whole pharmacopoeia strong enough
to touch so grave a disorder--he prescribed the archdeacon.
'Refer him to the archdeacon,' he repeated, as Mr Harding
spoke of Bold and his visit. 'The archdeacon will set you quite
right about that,' he kindly said, when his friend spoke with
hesitation of the justness of his cause. 'No man has got up all
that so well as the archdeacon'; but the dose, though large,
failed to quiet the patient; indeed it almost produced nausea.
'But, bishop,' said he, 'did you ever read John Hiram's
will?'
The bishop thought probably he had, thirty-five years ago,
when first instituted to his see, but could not state positively:
however, he very well knew that he had the absolute right to
present to the wardenship, and that the income of the warden
had been regularly settled.
'But, bishop, the question is, who has the power to settle it?
If, as this young man says, the will provides that the proceeds
of the property are to be divided into shares, who has the
power to alter these provisions?' The bishop had an indistinct
idea that they altered themselves by the lapse of years;
that a kind of ecclesiastical statute of limitation barred the
rights of the twelve bedesmen to any increase of income
arising from the increased value of property. He said something
about tradition; more of the many learned men who by their
practice had confirmed the present arrangement; then went
at some length into the propriety of maintaining the due
difference in rank and income between a beneficed clergyman
and certain poor old men who were dependent on charity; and
concluded his argument by another reference to the archdeacon.
The precentor sat thoughtfully gazing at the fire, and listening
to the good-natured reasoning of his friend. What the
bishop said had a sort of comfort in it, but it was not a sustaining
comfort. It made Mr Harding feel that many others--
indeed, all others of his own order--would think him right;
but it failed to prove to him that he truly was so.
Bishop,' said he, at last, after both had sat silent for a while,
'I should deceive you and myself too, if I did not tell you that
I am very unhappy about this. Suppose that I cannot bring myself
to agree with Dr Grantly!--that I find, after inquiry, that the
young man is right, and that I am wrong--what then?'
The two old men were sitting near each other--so near that
the bishop was able to lay his hand upon the other's knee, and
he did so with a gentle pressure. Mr Harding well knew what
that pressure meant. The bishop had no further argument to
adduce; he could not fight for the cause as his son would do;
he could not prove all the precentor's doubts to be groundless;
but he could sympathise with his friend, and he did so; and
Mr Harding felt that he had received that for which he came.
There was another period of silence, after which the bishop
asked, with a degree of irritable energy very unusual with him,
whether this 'pestilent intruder' (meaning John Bold) had
any friends in Barchester.
Mr Harding had fully made up his mind to tell the bishop
everything; to speak of his daughter's love, as well as his own
troubles; to talk of John Bold in his double capacity of future
son-in-law and present enemy; and though he felt it to be
sufficiently disagreeable, now was his time to do it.
'He is very intimate at my own house, bishop.' The bishop
stared. He was not so far gone in orthodoxy and church
militancy as his son, but still he could not bring himself to
understand how so declared an enemy of the establishment
could be admitted on terms of intimacy into the house, not
only of so firm a pillar as Mr Harding, but one so much injured
as the warden of the hospital.
'Indeed, I like Mr Bold much, personally,' continued the
disinterested victim; 'and to tell you the "truth"'--he hesitated
as he brought out the dreadful tidings--'I have sometimes
thought it not improbable that he would be my second son-in-law.'
The bishop did not whistle: we believe that they lose the power of
doing so on being consecrated; and that in these days one might
as easily meet a corrupt judge as a whistling bishop; but he
looked as though he would have done so, but for his apron.
What a brother-in-law for the archdeacon! what an alliance
for Barchester close! what a connection for even the episcopal
palace! The bishop, in his simple mind, felt no doubt that
John Bold, had he so much power, would shut up all cathedrals,
and probably all parish churches; distribute all tithes
among Methodists, Baptists, and other savage tribes; utterly
annihilate the sacred bench, and make shovel hats and lawn
sleeves as illegal as cowls, sandals, and sackcloth! Here was
a nice man to be initiated into the comfortable arcana of
ecclesiastical snuggeries; one who doubted the integrity of
parsons, and probably disbelieved the Trinity!
Mr Harding saw what an effect his communication had
made, and almost repented the openness of his disclosure; he,
however, did what he could to moderate the grief of his friend
and patron. 'I do not say that there is any engagement between
them. Had there been, Eleanor would have told me; I know her
well enough to be assured that she would have done so; but I see
that they are fond of each other; and as a man and a father, I
have had no objection to urge against their intimacy.'
'But, Mr Harding,' said the bishop, 'how are you to oppose
him, if he is your son-in-law?'
'I don't mean to oppose him; it is he who opposes me; if
anything is to be done in defence, I suppose Chadwick will do
it. I suppose--'
'Oh, the archdeacon will see to that: were the young man
twice his brother-in-law, the archdeacon will never be deterred
from doing what he feels to be right.'
Mr Harding reminded the bishop that the archdeacon and
the reformer were not yet brothers, and very probably never
would be; exacted from him a promise that Eleanor's name
should not be mentioned in any discussion between the father
bishop and son archdeacon respecting the hospital; and then
took his departure, leaving his poor old friend bewildered,
amazed, and confounded.
CHAPTER IV
Hiram's Bedesmen
The parties most interested in the movement which is about
to set Barchester by the ears were not the foremost to
discuss the merit of the question, as is often the case; but
when the bishop, the archdeacon, the warden, the steward,
and Messrs Cox and Cummins, were all busy with the matter,
each in his own way, it is not to be supposed that Hiram's
bedesmen themselves were altogether passive spectators.
Finney, the attorney, had been among them, asking sly questions,
and raising immoderate hopes, creating a party hostile to
the warden, and establishing a corps in the enemy's camp, as
he figuratively calls it to himself. Poor old men: whoever
may be righted or wronged by this inquiry, they at any rate
will assuredly be only injured: to them it can only be an
unmixed evil. How can their lot be improved? all their wants
are supplied; every comfort is administered; they have
warm houses, good clothes, plentiful diet, and rest after a life
of labour; and above all, that treasure so inestimable in
declining years, a true and kind friend to listen to their
sorrows, watch over their sickness, and administer comfort
as regards this world, and the world to come!
John Bold sometimes thinks of this, when he is talking loudly
of the rights of the bedesmen, whom he has taken under his
protection; but he quiets the suggestion within his breast
with the high-sounding name of justice: 'Fiat justitia ruat
coelum.' These old men should, by rights, have one hundred
pounds a year instead of one shilling and sixpence a day, and
the warden should have two hundred or three hundred pounds
instead of eight hundred pounds. What is unjust must be
wrong; what is wrong should be righted; and if he declined
the task, who else would do it?
'Each one of you is clearly entitled to one hundred pounds
a year by common law': such had been the important whisper
made by Finney into the ears of Abel Handy, and by him retailed
to his eleven brethren.
Too much must not be expected from the flesh and blood
even of John Hiram's bedesmen, and the positive promise of
one hundred a year to each of the twelve old men had its way
with most of them. The great Bunce was not to be wiled away,
and was upheld in his orthodoxy by two adherents. Abel
Handy, who was the leader of the aspirants after wealth, had,
alas, a stronger following. No less than five of the twelve soon
believed that his views were just, making with their leader a
moiety of the hospital. The other three, volatile unstable
minds, vacillated between the two chieftains, now led away by
the hope of gold, now anxious to propitiate the powers that
still existed.
It had been proposed to address a petition to the bishop
as visitor, praying his lordship to see justice done to the legal
recipients of John Hiram's Charity, and to send copies of this
petition and of the reply it would elicit to all the leading London
papers, and thereby to obtain notoriety for the subject. This
it was thought would pave the way for ulterior legal proceedings.
It would have been a great thing to have had the signatures
and marks of all the twelve injured legatees; but this
was impossible: Bunce would have cut his hand off sooner
than have signed it. It was then suggested by Finney that if
even eleven could be induced to sanction the document, the
one obstinate recusant might have been represented as unfit to
judge on such a question--in fact, as being non compos mentis--
and the petition would have been taken as representing the
feeling of the men. But this could not be done: Bunce's
friends were as firm as himself, and as yet only six crosses
adorned the document. It was the more provoking, as Bunce
himself could write his name legibly, and one of those three
doubting souls had for years boasted of like power, and
possessed, indeed, a Bible, in which he was proud to show his
name written by himself some thirty years ago--'Job Skulpit';
but it was thought that job Skulpit, having forgotten his
scholarship, on that account recoiled from the petition, and
that the other doubters would follow as he led them. A petition
signed by half the hospital would have but a poor effect.
It was in Skulpit's room that the petition was now lying,
waiting such additional signatures as Abel Handy, by his
eloquence, could obtain for it. The six marks it bore were
duly attested, thus:
his his his
Abel X Handy, Gregory X Moody, Mathew X Spriggs,
mark mark mark
&c., and places were duly designated in pencil for those
brethren who were now expected to join: for Skulpit alone
was left a spot on which his genuine signature might be written
in fair clerk-like style. Handy had brought in the document,
and spread it out on the small deal table, and was now standing
by it persuasive and eager. Moody had followed with an
inkhorn, carefully left behind by Finney; and Spriggs bore
aloft, as though it were a sword, a well-worn ink-black pen,
which from time to time he endeavoured to thrust into
Skulpit's unwilling hand.
With the learned man were his two abettors in indecision,
William Gazy and Jonathan Crumple. If ever the petition
were to be forwarded, now was the time, so said Mr Finney;
and great was the anxiety on the part of those whose one hundred
pounds a year, as they believed, mainly depended on the
document in question.
'To be kept out of all that money,' as the avaricious Moody
had muttered to his friend Handy, 'by an old fool saying that
he can write his own name like his betters!'
'Well, job,' said Handy, trying to impart to his own sour,
ill-omened visage a smile of approbation, in which he greatly
failed; 'so you're ready now, Mr Finney says; here's the
place, d'ye see'--and he put his huge brown finger down on
the dirty paper-'name or mark, it's all one. Come along,
old boy; if so be we're to have the spending of this money,
why the sooner the better--that's my maxim.'
'To be sure,' said Moody. 'We a'n't none of us so young;
we can't stay waiting for old Catgut no longer.'
It was thus these miscreants named our excellent friend.
The nickname he could easily have forgiven, but the allusion
to the divine source of all his melodious joy would have irritated
even him. Let us hope he never knew the insult.
'Only think, old Billy Gazy,' said Spriggs, who rejoiced in
greater youth than his brethren, but having fallen into a fire
when drunk, had had one eye burnt out, one cheek burnt
through, and one arm nearly burnt off, and who, therefore,
in regard to personal appearance, was not the most prepossessing
of men, 'a hundred a year, and all to spend; only think, old
Billy Gazy'; and he gave a hideous grin that showed off his
misfortunes to their full extent.
Old Billy Gazy was not alive to much enthusiasm. Even
these golden prospects did not arouse him to do more than rub
his poor old bleared eyes with the cuff of his bedesman's gown,
and gently mutter; 'he didn't know, not he; he didn't know.'
'But you'd know, Jonathan,' continued Spriggs, turning to
the other friend of Skulpit's, who was sitting on a stool by the
table, gazing vacantly at the petition. Jonathan Crumple was
a meek, mild man, who had known better days; his means
had been wasted by bad children, who had made his life
wretched till he had been received into the hospital, of which
he had not long been a member. Since that day he had known
neither sorrow nor trouble, and this attempt to fill him with
new hopes was, indeed, a cruelty.
'A hundred a year's a nice thing, for sartain, neighbour
Spriggs,' said he. 'I once had nigh to that myself, but it
didn't do me no good.' And he gave a low sigh, as he thought
of the children of his own loins who had robbed him.
'And shall have again, Joe,' said Handy; 'and will have
someone to keep it right and tight for you this time.'
Crumple sighed again--he had learned the impotency of
worldly wealth, and would have been satisfied, if left
untempted, to have remained happy with one and sixpence a day.
'Come, Skulpit,' repeated Handy, getting impatient, 'you're
not going to go along with old Bunce in helping that parson
to rob us all. Take the pen, man, and right yourself. Well,'
he added, seeing that Skulpit still doubted, 'to see a man as is
afraid to stand by hisself is, to my thinking, the meanest thing
as is.'
'Sink them all for parsons, says I,' growled Moody;
'hungry beggars, as never thinks their bellies full till they have
robbed all and everything!'
'Who's to harm you, man?' argued Spriggs. 'Let them
look never so black at you, they can't get you put out when
you're once in--no, not old Catgut, with Calves to help him!'
I am sorry to say the archdeacon himself was designated by
this scurrilous allusion to his nether person.
'A hundred a year to win, and nothing to lose,' continued
Handy. 'My eyes! Well, how a man's to doubt about sich
a bit of cheese as that passes me--but some men is timorous--
some men is born with no pluck in them--some men is cowed
at the very first sight of a gentleman's coat and waistcoat.'
Oh, Mr Harding, if you had but taken the archdeacon's
advice in that disputed case, when Joe Mutters was this
ungrateful demagogue's rival candidate!
'Afraid of a parson,' growled Moody, with a look of ineffable
scorn. 'I tell ye what I'd be afraid of--I'd be afraid of
not getting nothing from 'em but just what I could take by
might and right--that's the most I'd be afraid on of any
parson of 'em all.'
'But,' said Skulpit, apologetically, 'Mr Harding's not so
bad--he did give us twopence a day, didn't he now?'
'Twopence a day!' exclaimed Spriggs with scorn, opening
awfully the red cavern of his lost eye.
'Twopence a day!' muttered Moody with a curse; 'sink
his twopence!'
'Twopence a day!' exclaimed Handy; 'and I'm to go, hat
in hand, and thank a chap for twopence a day, when he owes
me a hundred pounds a year; no, thank ye; that may do for
you, but it won't for me. Come, I say, Skulpit, are you a going
to put your mark to this here paper, or are you not?'
Skulpit looked round in wretched indecision to his two
friends. 'What d'ye think, Bill Gazy?' said he.
But Bill Gazy couldn't think. He made a noise like the
bleating of an old sheep, which was intended to express the
agony of his doubt, and again muttered that 'he didn't know.'
'Take hold, you old cripple,' said Handy, thrusting the pen
into poor Billy's hand: 'there, so--ugh! you old fool, you've
been and smeared it all--there--that'll do for you--that's as
good as the best name as ever was written': and a big blotch
of ink was presumed to represent Billy Gazy's acquiescence.
'Now, Jonathan,' said Handy, turning to Crumple.
'A hundred a year's a nice thing, for sartain,' again argued
Crumple. 'Well, neighbour Skulpit, how's it to be?'
'Oh, please yourself,' said Skulpit: 'please yourself, and
you'll please me.'
The pen was thrust into Crumple's hand, and a faint,
wandering, meaningless sign was made, betokening such
sanction and authority as Jonathan Crumple was able to convey.
'Come, job,' said Handy, softened by success, 'don't let
'em have to say that old Bunce has a man like you under his
thumb--a man that always holds his head in the hospital as
high as Bunce himself, though you're never axed to drink
wine, and sneak, and tell lies about your betters as he does.'
Skulpit held the pen, and made little flourishes with it in the
air, but still hesitated.
'And if you'll be said by me,' continued Handy, 'you'll not
write your name to it at all, but just put your mark like the
others,' --the cloud began to clear from Skulpit's brow--'we
all know you can do it if you like, but maybe you wouldn't
like to seem uppish, you know.'
'Well, the mark would be best,' said Skulpit. 'One name
and the rest marks wouldn't look well, would it?'
'The worst in the world,' said Handy; 'there--there': and
stooping over the petition, the learned clerk made a huge
cross on the place left for his signature.
'That's the game,' said Handy, triumphantly pocketing the
petition; 'we're all in a boat now, that is, the nine of us; and
as for old Bunce, and his cronies, they may--' But as he was
hobbling off to the door, with a crutch on one side and a
stick on the other, he was met by Bunce himself.
'Well Handy, and what may old Bunce do?' said the gray-
haired, upright senior.
Handy muttered something, and was departing; but he
was stopped in the doorway by the huge frame of the newcomer.
'You've been doing no good here, Abel Handy,' said he, ''tis
plain to see that; and 'tisn't much good, I'm thinking, you
ever do.'
'I mind my own business, Master Bunce,' muttered the
other, 'and do you do the same. It ain't nothing to you what
I does--and your spying and poking here won't do no good
nor yet no harm.'
'I suppose then, job,' continued Bunce, not noticing his
opponent, 'if the truth must out, you've stuck your name to
that petition of theirs at last.'
Skulpit looked as though he were about to sink into the
ground with shame.
'What is it to you what he signs?' said Handy. 'I suppose
if we all wants to ax for our own, we needn't ax leave of you
first, Mr Bunce, big a man as you are; and as to your sneaking
in here, into Job's room when he's busy, and where you're
not wanted--'
'I've knowed job Skulpit, man and boy, sixty years,' said
Bunce, looking at the man of whom he spoke, 'and that's ever
since the day he was born. I knowed the mother that bore
him, when she and I were little wee things, picking daisies
together in the close yonder; and I've lived under the same
roof with him more nor ten years; and after that I may come
into his room without axing leave, and yet no sneaking neither.'
'So you can, Mr Bunce,' said Skulpit; 'so you can, any
hour, day or night.'
'And I'm free also to tell him my mind,' continued Bunce,
looking at the one man and addressing the other; 'and I tell
him now that he's done a foolish and a wrong thing. He's
turned his back upon one who is his best friend; and is playing
the game of others, who care nothing for him, whether he be
poor or rich, well or ill, alive or dead. A hundred a year?
Are the lot of you soft enough to think that if a hundred a
year be to be given, it's the likes of you that will get it?'--and
he pointed to Billy Gazy, Spriggs, and Crumple. 'Did any of
us ever do anything worth half the money? Was it to make
gentlemen of us we were brought in here, when all the world
turned against us, and we couldn't longer earn our daily
bread? A'n't you all as rich in your ways as he in his?'--and
the orator pointed to the side on which the warden lived.
'A'n't you getting all you hoped for, ay, and more than you
hoped for? Wouldn't each of you have given the dearest limb
of his body to secure that which now makes you so unthankful?'
'We wants what John Hiram left us,' said Handy. 'We
wants what's ourn by law; it don't matter what we expected.
What's ourn by law should be ourn, and by goles we'll have it.'
'Law!' said Bunce, with all the scorn he knew how to
command--'law! Did ye ever know a poor man yet was the
better for law, or for a lawyer? Will Mr Finney ever be as
good to you, job, as that man has been? Will he see to you
when you're sick, and comfort you when you're wretched?
Will he--'
'No, nor give you port wine, old boy, on cold winter nights!
he won't do that, will he?' asked Handy; and laughing at the
severity of his own wit, he and his colleagues retired, carrying
with them, however, the now powerful petition.
There is no help for spilt milk; and Mr Bunce could only
retire to his own room, disgusted at the frailty of human nature.
Job Skulpit scratched his head--Jonathan Crumple again
remarked, that, 'for sartain, sure a hundred a year was very
nice'--and Billy Gazy again rubbed his eyes, and lowly
muttered that 'he didn't know.'
CHAPTER V
Dr Grantly Visits the Hospital
Though doubt and hesitation disturbed the rest of our poor
warden, no such weakness perplexed the nobler
breast of his son-in-law. As the indomitable cock preparing
for the combat sharpens his spurs, shakes his feathers, and
erects his comb, so did the archdeacon arrange his weapons
for the coming war, without misgiving and without fear. That
he was fully confident of the justice of his cause let no one
doubt. Many a man can fight his battle with good courage,
but with a doubting conscience. Such was not the case with
Dr Grantly. He did not believe in the Gospel with more
assurance than he did in the sacred justice of all ecclesiastical
revenues. When he put his shoulder to the wheel to defend
the income of the present and future precentors of Barchester,
he was animated by as strong a sense of a holy cause, as that
which gives courage to a missionary in Africa, or enables a
sister of mercy to give up the pleasures of the world for the
wards of a hospital. He was about to defend the holy of holies
from the touch of the profane; to guard the citadel of his
church from the most rampant of its enemies; to put on his
good armour in the best of fights; and secure, if possible, the
comforts of his creed for coming generations of ecclesiastical
dignitaries. Such a work required no ordinary vigour; and
the archdeacon was, therefore, extraordinarily vigorous. It
demanded a buoyant courage, and a heart happy in its toil; and
the archdeacon's heart was happy, and his courage was buoyant.
He knew that he would not be able to animate his father-in-law
with feelings like his own, but this did not much disturb
him. He preferred to bear the brunt of the battle alone, and
did not doubt that the warden would resign himself into his
hands with passive submission.
'Well, Mr Chadwick,' he said, walking into the steward's
office a day or two after the signing of the petition as
commemorated in the last chapter: 'anything from Cox and
Cummins this morning?' Mr Chadwick handed him a letter;
which he read, stroking the tight-gaitered calf of his right leg
as he did so. Messrs Cox and Cummins merely said that they
had as yet received no notice from their adversaries; that they
could recommend no preliminary steps; but that should any
proceeding really be taken by the bedesmen, it would be
expedient to consult that very eminent Queen's Counsel, Sir
Abraham Haphazard.
'I quite agree with them,' said Dr Grantly, refolding the
letter. 'I perfectly agree with them. Haphazard is no doubt
the best man; a thorough churchman, a sound conservative,
and in every respect the best man we could get--he's in the
House, too, which is a great thing.'
Mr Chadwick quite agreed.
'You remember how completely he put down that scoundrel
Horseman about the Bishop of Beverley's income; how completely
he set them all adrift in the earl's case.' Since the question
of St Cross had been mooted by the public, one noble lord had
become 'the earl,' par excellence, in the doctor's estimation.
'How he silenced that fellow at Rochester. Of course
we must have Haphazard; and I'll tell you what, Mr Chadwick,
we must take care to be in time, or the other party will
forestall us.'
With all his admiration for Sir Abraham, the doctor seemed
to think it not impossible that that great man might be induced
to lend his gigantic powers to the side of the church's enemies.
Having settled this point to his satisfaction, the doctor
stepped down to the hospital, to learn how matters were going
on there; and as he walked across the hallowed close, and
looked up at the ravens who cawed with a peculiar reverence
as he wended his way, he thought with increased acerbity of
those whose impiety would venture to disturb the goodly grace
of cathedral institutions.
And who has not felt the same? We believe that Mr Horseman
himself would relent, and the spirit of Sir Benjamin Hall
give way, were those great reformers to allow themselves to
stroll by moonlight round the towers of some of our ancient
churches. Who would not feel charity for a prebendary when
walking the quiet length of that long aisle at Winchester, looking
at those decent houses, that trim grass-plat, and feeling, as
one must, the solemn, orderly comfort of the spot! Who could
be hard upon a dean while wandering round the sweet close
of Hereford, and owning that in that precinct, tone and colour,
design and form, solemn tower and storied window, are all in
unison, and all perfect! Who could lie basking in the cloisters
of Salisbury, and gaze on Jewel's library and that unequalled
spire, without feeling that bishops should sometimes be rich!
The tone of our archdeacon's mind must not astonish us;
it has been the growth of centuries of church ascendancy; and
though some fungi now disfigure the tree, though there be
much dead wood, for how much good fruit have not we to be
thankful? Who, without remorse, can batter down the dead
branches of an old oak, now useless, but, ah! still so beautiful,
or drag out the fragments of the ancient forest, without feeling
that they sheltered the younger plants, to which they are now
summoned to give way in a tone so peremptory and so harsh?
The archdeacon, with all his virtues, was not a man of
delicate feeling; and after having made his morning salutations
in the warden's drawing-room, he did not scruple to
commence an attack on 'pestilent' John Bold in the presence
of Miss Harding, though he rightly guessed that that lady was
not indifferent to the name of his enemy.
'Nelly, my dear, fetch me my spectacles from the back
room,' said her father, anxious to save both her blushes and
her feelings.
Eleanor brought the spectacles, while her father was trying,
in ambiguous phrases, to explain to her too-practical brother-
in-law that it might be as well not to say anything about Bold
before her, and then retreated. Nothing had been explained
to her about Bold and the hospital; but, with a woman's
instinct she knew that things were going wrong.
'We must soon be doing something,' commenced the archdeacon,
wiping his brows with a large, bright-coloured handkerchief,
for he had felt busy, and had walked quick, and it was a broiling
summer's day. 'Of course you have heard of the petition?'
Mr Harding owned, somewhat unwillingly, that he had
heard of it.
'Well'--the archdeacon looked for some expressions of
opinion, but none coming, he continued--' We must be doing
something, you know; we mustn't allow these people to cut the
ground from under us while we sit looking on.' The archdeacon,
who was a practical man, allowed himself the use of everyday
expressive modes of speech when among his closest intimates,
though no one could soar into a more intricate labyrinth of
refined phraseology when the church was the subject, and his
lower brethren were his auditors.
The warden still looked mutely in his face, making the
slightest possible passes with an imaginary fiddle bow, and
stopping, as he did so, sundry imaginary strings with the
fingers of his other hand. 'Twas his constant consolation in
conversational troubles. While these vexed him sorely, the
passes would be short and slow, and the upper hand would not
be seen to work; nay, the strings on which it operated would
sometimes lie concealed in the musician's pocket, and the
instrument on which he played would be beneath his chair--
but as his spirit warmed to the subject--as his trusting heart
looking to the bottom of that which vexed him, would see its
clear way out--he would rise to a higher melody, sweep the
unseen strings with a bolder hand, and swiftly fingering the
cords from his neck, down along his waistcoat, and up again
to his very ear, create an ecstatic strain of perfect music,
audible to himself and to St Cecilia, and not without effect.
'I quite agree with Cox and Cummins,' continued the
archdeacon. 'They say we must secure Sir Abraham Haphazard.
I shall not have the slightest fear in leaving the case
in Sir Abraham's hands.'
The warden played the slowest and saddest of tunes. It was
but a dirge on one string.
'I think Sir Abraham will not be long in letting Master
Bold know what he's about. I fancy I hear Sir Abraham
cross-questioning him at the Common Pleas.'
The warden thought of his income being thus discussed, his
modest life, his daily habits, and his easy work; and nothing
issued from that single cord, but a low wail of sorrow. 'I
suppose they've sent this petition up to my father.' The
warden didn't know; he imagined they would do so this very day.
'What I can't understand is, how you let them do it, with
such a command as you have in the place, or should have with
such a man as Bunce. I cannot understand why you let them do it.'
'Do what?' asked the warden.
'Why, listen to this fellow Bold, and that other low pettifogger,
Finney--and get up this petition too. Why didn't you tell
Bunce to destroy the petition?'
'That would have been hardly wise,' said the warden.
'Wise--yes, it would have been very wise if they'd done it
among themselves. I must go up to the palace and answer it now,
I suppose. It's a very short answer they'll get, I can tell you.'
'But why shouldn't they petition, doctor?'
'Why shouldn't they!' responded the archdeacon, in a loud
brazen voice, as though all the men in the hospital were
expected to hear him through the walls; 'why shouldn't they?
I'll let them know why they shouldn't: by the bye, warden,
I'd like to say a few words to them all together.'
The warden's mind misgave him, and even for a moment he
forgot to play. He by no means wished to delegate to his
son-in-law his place and authority of warden; he had expressly
determined not to interfere in any step which the men might
wish to take in the matter under dispute; he was most
anxious neither to accuse them nor to defend himself. All
these things he was aware the archdeacon would do in his
behalf, and that not in the mildest manner; and yet he knew
not how to refuse the permission requested.
'I'd so much sooner remain quiet in the matter,' said he, in
an apologetic voice.
Quiet!' said the archdeacon, still speaking with his brazen
trumpet; 'do you wish to be ruined in quiet?'
'Why, if I am to be ruined, certainly.'
'Nonsense, warden; I tell you something must be done--
we must act; just let me ring the bell, and send the men word
that I'll speak to them in the quad.'
Mr Harding knew not how to resist, and the disagreeable
order was given. The quad, as it was familiarly called, was a
small quadrangle, open on one side to the river, and surrounded
on the others by the high wall of Mr Harding's garden, by one
gable end of Mr Harding's house, and by the end of the row of
buildings which formed the residences of the bedesmen. It was
flagged all round, and the centre was stoned; small stone
gutters ran from the four corners of the square to a grating in
the centre; and attached to the end of Mr Harding's house was a
conduit with four cocks covered over from the weather, at which
the old men got their water, and very generally performed their
morning toilet. It was a quiet, sombre place, shaded over by the
trees of the warden's garden. On the side towards the river,
there stood a row of stone seats, on which the old men would sit
and gaze at the little fish, as they flitted by in the running
stream. On the other side of the river was a rich, green meadow,
running up to and joining the deanery, and as little open to the
public as the garden of the dean itself. Nothing, therefore,
could be more private than the quad of the hospital; and it was
there that the archdeacon determined to convey to them his sense
of their refractory proceedings.
The servant soon brought in word that the men were
assembled in the quad, and the archdeacon, big with his
purpose, rose to address them.
'Well, warden, of course you're coming,' said he, seeing that
Mr Harding did not prepare to follow him.
'I wish you'd excuse me,' said Mr Harding.
'For heaven's sake, don't let us have division in the camp,'
replied the archdeacon: 'let us have a long pull and a strong
pull, but above all a pull all together; come warden, come;
don't be afraid of your duty.'
Mr Harding was afraid; he was afraid that he was being
led to do that which was not his duty: he was not, however,
strong enough to resist, so he got up and followed his son-in-law.
The old men were assembled in groups in the quadrangle--
eleven of them at least, for poor old Johnny Bell was bed-ridden,
and couldn't come; he had, however, put his mark to the
petition, as one of Handy's earliest followers. 'Tis true he
could not move from the bed where he lay; 'tis true he had
no friend on earth, but those whom the hospital contained;
and of those the warden and his daughter were the most constant
and most appreciated; 'tis true that everything was administered
to him which his failing body could require, or which his faint
appetite could enjoy; but still his dull eye had glistened for a
moment at the idea of possessing a hundred pounds a year 'to his
own cheek,' as Abel Handy had eloquently expressed it; and poor
old Johnny Bell had greedily put his mark to the petition.
When the two clergymen appeared, they all uncovered their
heads. Handy was slow to do it, and hesitated; but the black
coat and waistcoat of which he had spoken so irreverently in
Skulpit's room, had its effect even on him, and he too doffed
his hat. Bunce, advancing before the others, bowed lowly to
the archdeacon, and with affectionate reverence expressed his
wish, that the warden and Miss Eleanor were quite well; 'and
the doctor's lady,' he added, turning to the archdeacon, 'and
the children at Plumstead, and my lord'; and having made
his speech, he also retired among the others, and took his place
with the rest upon the stone benches.
As the archdeacon stood up to make his speech, erect in the
middle of that little square , he looked like an ecclesiastical
statue placed there, as a fitting impersonation of the church
militant here on earth; his shovel hat, large, new, and well-
pronounced, a churchman's hat in every inch, declared the
profession as plainly as does the Quaker's broad brim; his
heavy eyebrows, large open eyes, and full mouth and chin
expressed the solidity of his order; the broad chest, amply
covered with fine cloth, told how well to do was its estate; one
hand ensconced within his pocket, evinced the practical hold
which our mother church keeps on her temporal possessions;
and the other, loose for action, was ready to fight if need be in
her defence; and, below these, the decorous breeches, and
neat black gaiters showing so admirably that well-turned leg,
betokened the decency, the outward beauty and grace of our
church establishment.
'Now, my men,' he began, when he had settled himself well
in his position, 'I want to say a few words to you. Your good
friend, the warden here, and myself, and my lord the bishop,
on whose behalf I wish to speak to you, would all be very sorry,
very sorry indeed, that you should have any just ground of
complaint. Any just ground of complaint on your part would
be removed at once by the warden, or by his lordship, or by
me on his behalf, without the necessity of any petition on your
part.' Here the orator stopped for a moment, expecting that
some little murmurs of applause would show that the weakest
of the men were beginning to give way; but no such murmurs
came. Bunce, himself, even sat with closed lips, mute and
unsatisfactory. 'Without the necessity of any petition at all,'
he repeated. 'I'm told you have addressed a petition to my
lord.' He paused for a reply from the men, and after a while,
Handy plucked up courage and said, 'Yes, we has.'
' You have addressed a petition to my lord, in which, as I am
informed, you express an opinion that you do not receive from
Hiram's estate all that is your due.' Here most of the men
expressed their assent. 'Now what is it you ask for? What is
it you want that you hav'n't got here? What is it--'
'A hundred a year,' muttered old Moody, with a voice as
if it came out of the ground.
'A hundred a year!' ejaculated the archdeacon militant,
defying the impudence of these claimants with one hand
stretched out and closed, while with the other he tightly
grasped, and secured within his breeches pocket, that symbol
of the church's wealth which his own loose half-crowns not
unaptly represented. 'A hundred a year! Why, my men, you
must be mad; and you talk about John Hiram's will! When
John Hiram built a hospital for worn-out old men, worn-out
old labouring men, infirm old men past their work, cripples,
blind, bed-ridden, and such like, do you think he meant to
make gentlemen of them? Do you think John Hiram intended
to give a hundred a year to old single men, who earned perhaps
two shillings or half-a-crown a day for themselves and families
in the best of their time? No, my men, I'll tell you what John
Hiram meant: he meant that twelve poor old worn-out
labourers, men who could no longer support themselves, who
had no friends to support them, who must starve and perish
miserably if not protected by the hand of charity; he meant
that twelve such men as these should come in here in their
poverty and wretchedness, and find within these walls shelter
and food before their death, and a little leisure to make their
peace with God. That was what John Hiram meant: you
have not read John Hiram's will, and I doubt whether those
wicked men who are advising you have done so. I have; I
know what his will was; and I tell you that that was his will,
and that that was his intention.'
Not a sound came from the eleven bedesmen, as they sat
listening to what, according to the archdeacon, was their
intended estate. They grimly stared upon his burly figure, but
did not then express, by word or sign, the anger and disgust to
which such language was sure to give rise.
'Now let me ask you,' he continued: 'do you think you are
worse off than John Hiram intended to make you? Have you
not shelter, and food, and leisure? Have you not much more?
Have you not every indulgence which you are capable of
enjoying? Have you not twice better food, twice a better bed,
ten times more money in your pocket than you were ever able
to earn for yourselves before you were lucky enough to get into
this place? And now you send a petition to the bishop, asking
for a hundred pounds a year! I tell you what, my friends;
you are deluded, and made fools of by wicked men who are
acting for their own ends. You will never get a hundred pence
a year more than what you have now: it is very possible that
you may get less; it is very possible that my lord the bishop,
and your warden, may make changes--'
'No, no, no,' interrupted Mr Harding, who had been listening
with indescribable misery to the tirade of his son-in-law;
'no, my friends. I want no changes--at least no changes that
shall make you worse off than you now are, as long as you and
I live together.'
'God bless you, Mr Harding,' said Bunce; and 'God bless
you, Mr Harding, God bless you, sir: we know you was
always our friend,' was exclaimed by enough of the men to
make it appear that the sentiment was general.
The archdeacon had been interrupted in his speech before he
had quite finished it; but he felt that he could not recommence
with dignity after this little ebullition, and he led the way
back into the garden, followed by his father-in-law.
'Well,' said he, as soon as he found himself within the cool
retreat of the warden's garden; 'I think I spoke to them
plainly.' And he wiped the perspiration from his brow; for
making a speech under a broiling mid-day sun in summer, in a
full suit of thick black cloth, is warm work.
'Yes, you were plain enough,' replied the warden, in a tone
which did not express approbation.
'And that's everything,' said the other, who was clearly well
satisfied with himself; 'that's everything: with those sort of
people one must be plain, or one will not be understood. Now,
I think they did understand me--I think they knew what I meant.'
The warden agreed. He certainly thought they had understood
to the full what had been said to them.
'They know pretty well what they have to expect from us;
they know how we shall meet any refractory spirit on their
part; they know that we are not afraid of them. And now I'll just
step into Chadwick's, and tell him what I've done; and then I'll
go up to the palace, and answer this petition of theirs.'
The warden's mind was very full--full nearly to overcharging
itself; and had it done so--had he allowed himself to speak
the thoughts which were working within him, he would indeed
have astonished the archdeacon by the reprobation he would
have expressed as to the proceeding of which he had been so
unwilling a witness. But different feelings kept him silent; he
was as yet afraid of differing from his son-in-law--he was
anxious beyond measure to avoid even a semblance of rupture
with any of his order, and was painfully fearful of having to
come to an open quarrel with any person on any subject. His
life had hitherto been so quiet, so free from strife; his little
early troubles had required nothing but passive fortitude; his
subsequent prosperity had never forced upon him any active
cares--had never brought him into disagreeable contact with
anyone. He felt that he would give almost anything--much
more than he knew he ought to do--to relieve himself from the
storm which he feared was coming. It was so hard that the
pleasant waters of his little stream should be disturbed and
muddied by rough hands; that his quiet paths should be made a
battlefield; that the unobtrusive corner of the world which had
been allotted to him, as though by Providence, should be invaded
and desecrated, and all within it made miserable and unsound.
Money he had none to give; the knack of putting guineas
together had never belonged to him; but how willingly, with
what a foolish easiness, with what happy alacrity, would he
have abandoned the half of his income for all time to come,
could he by so doing have quietly dispelled the clouds that
were gathering over him--could he have thus compromised
the matter between the reformer and the conservative, between
his possible son-in-law, Bold, and his positive son-in-law,
the archdeacon.
And this compromise would not have been made from any
prudential motive of saving what would yet remain, for Mr
Harding still felt little doubt but he should be left for life in
quiet possession of the good things he had, if he chose to retain
them. No; he would have done so from the sheer love of
quiet, and from a horror of being made the subject of public
talk. He had very often been moved to pity--to that inward
weeping of the heart for others' woes; but none had he ever
pitied more than that old lord, whose almost fabulous wealth,
drawn from his church preferments, had become the subject
of so much opprobrium, of such public scorn; that wretched
clerical octogenarian Croesus, whom men would not allow to
die in peace--whom all the world united to decry and to abhor.
Was he to suffer such a fate? Was his humble name to be
bandied in men's mouths, as the gormandiser of the resources
of the poor, as of one who had filched from the charity of other
ages wealth which had been intended to relieve the old and the
infirm? Was he to be gibbeted in the press, to become a byword
for oppression, to be named as an example of the greed of the
English church? Should it ever be said that he had robbed those
old men, whom he so truly and so tenderly loved in his heart
of hearts? As he slowly paced, hour after hour, under those noble
lime-trees, turning these sad thoughts within him, he became all
but fixed in his resolve that some great step must be taken to
relieve him from the risk of so terrible a fate.
In the meanwhile, the archdeacon, with contented mind and
unruffled spirit, went about his business. He said a word or
two to Mr Chadwick, and then finding, as he expected, the
petition lying in his father's library, he wrote a short answer to
the men, in which he told them that they had no evils to
redress, but rather great mercies for which to be thankful;
and having seen the bishop sign it, he got into his brougham
and returned home to Mrs Grantly, and Plumstead Episcopi.
CHAPTER VI
The Warden's Tea Party
After much painful doubting, on one thing only could
Mr Harding resolve. He determined that at any rate he
would take no offence, and that he would make this question
no cause of quarrel either with Bold or with the bedesmen. In
furtherance of this resolution, he himself wrote a note to Mr
Bold, the same afternoon, inviting him to meet a few friends
and hear some music on an evening named in the next week.
Had not this little party been promised to Eleanor, in his
present state of mind he would probably have avoided such
gaiety; but the promise had been given, the invitations were
to be written, and when Eleanor consulted her father on the
subject, she was not ill pleased to hear him say, 'Oh, I was
thinking of Bold, so I took it into my head to write to him
myself, but you must write to his sister.'
Mary Bold was older than her brother, and, at the time of
our story, was just over thirty. She was not an unattractive
young woman, though by no means beautiful. Her great
merit was the kindliness of her disposition. She was not very
clever, nor very animated, nor had she apparently the energy
of her brother; but she was guided by a high principle of right
and wrong; her temper was sweet, and her faults were fewer
in number than her virtues. Those who casually met Mary
Bold thought little of her; but those who knew her well loved
her well, and the longer they knew her the more they loved
her. Among those who were fondest of her was Eleanor
Harding; and though Eleanor had never openly talked to her
of her brother, each understood the other's feelings about him.
The brother and sister were sitting together when the two
notes were brought in.
'How odd,' said Mary, 'that they should send two notes.
Well, if Mr Harding becomes fashionable, the world is going
to change.'
Her brother understood immediately the nature and intention
of the peace-offering; but it was not so easy for him to
behave well in the 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 their backs to the
empty fire-place, looking by no means so comfortable as they
would have done in their own arm-chairs at home; and young
gentlemen, rather stiff about the neck, clustered near the door,
not as yet sufficiently in courage to attack the muslin frocks,
who awaited the battle, drawn up in a semicircular array.
The warden endeavoured to induce a charge, but failed signally,
not having the tact of a general; his daughter did what she
could to comfort the forces under her command, who took in
refreshing rations of cake and tea, and patiently looked for
the coming engagement: but she herself, Eleanor, had no
spirit for the work ; the only enemy whose lance she cared to
encounter was not there, and she and others were somewhat dull.
Loud above all voices was heard the clear sonorous tones of
the archdeacon as he dilated to brother parsons of the danger
of the church, of the fearful rumours of mad reforms even at
Oxford, and of the damnable heresies of Dr Whiston.
Soon, however, sweeter sounds began timidly to make themselves
audible. Little movements were made in a quarter notable for
round stools and music stands. Wax candles were arranged in
sconces, big books were brought from hidden recesses, and the
work of the evening commenced.
How often were those pegs twisted and re-twisted before
our friend found that he had twisted them enough; how many
discordant scrapes gave promise of the coming harmony.
How much the muslin fluttered and crumpled before Eleanor
and another nymph were duly seated at the piano; how
closely did that tall Apollo pack himself against the wall, with
his flute, long as himself, extending high over the heads of his
pretty neighbours; into how small a corner crept that round
and florid little minor canon, and there with skill amazing
found room to tune his accustomed fiddle!
And now the crash begins: away they go in full flow of
harmony together--up hill and down dale--now louder and
louder, then lower and lower; now loud, as though stirring
the battle; then low, as though mourning the slain. In all,
through all, and above all, is heard the violoncello. Ah, not
for nothing were those pegs so twisted and re-twisted--listen,
listen! Now alone that saddest of instruments tells its touching
tale. Silent, and in awe, stand fiddle, flute, and piano, to hear
the sorrows of their wailing brother. 'Tis but for a moment:
before the melancholy of those low notes has been fully realised,
again comes the full force of all the band--down go the
pedals, away rush twenty fingers scouring over the bass notes
with all the impetus of passion. Apollo blows till his stiff
neckcloth is no better than a rope, and the minor canon works
with both arms till he falls in a syncope of exhaustion against
the wall.
How comes it that now, when all should be silent, when
courtesy, if not taste, should make men listen--how is it at this
moment the black-coated corps leave their retreat and begin
skirmishing? One by one they creep forth, and fire off little
guns timidly, and without precision. Ah, my men, efforts such
as these will take no cities, even though the enemy should be
never so open to assault. At length a more deadly artillery is
brought to bear; slowly, but with effect, the advance is made;
the muslin ranks are broken, and fall into confusion; the
formidable array of chairs gives way; the battle is no longer
between opposing regiments, but hand to hand, and foot to
foot with single combatants, as in the glorious days of old,
when fighting was really noble. In corners, and under the
shadow of curtains, behind sofas and half hidden by doors, in
retiring windows, and sheltered by hanging tapestry, are blows
given and returned, fatal, incurable, dealing death.
Apart from this another combat arises, more sober and more
serious. The archdeacon is engaged against two prebendaries,
a pursy full-blown rector assisting him, in all the perils and all
the enjoyments of short whist. With solemn energy do they
watch the shuffled pack, and, all-expectant, eye the coming
trump. With what anxious nicety do they arrange their cards,
jealous of each other's eyes! Why is that lean doctor so slow--
cadaverous man with hollow jaw and sunken eye, ill beseeming
the richness of his mother church! Ah, why so slow, thou
meagre doctor? See how the archdeacon, speechless in his
agony, deposits on the board his cards, and looks to heaven or
to the ceiling for support. Hark, how he sighs, as with thumbs
in his waistcoat pocket he seems to signify that the end of such
torment is not yet even nigh at hand! Vain is the hope, if
hope there be, to disturb that meagre doctor. With care
precise he places every card, weighs well the value of each
mighty ace, each guarded king, and comfort-giving queen;
speculates on knave and ten, counts all his suits, and sets his
price upon the whole. At length a card is led, and quick three
others fall upon the board. The little doctor leads again, while
with lustrous eye his partner absorbs the trick. Now thrice has
this been done--thrice has constant fortune favoured the brace
of prebendaries, ere the archdeacon rouses himself to the
battle; but at the fourth assault he pins to the earth a prostrate
king, laying low his crown and sceptre, bushy beard, and
lowering brow, with a poor deuce.
'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 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,
leaving her lover in anything but a happy state of mind.
CHAPTER VII
'The Jupiter'
Though Eleanor Harding rode off from John Bold on a high horse,
it must not be supposed that her heart was so elate as her
demeanour. In the first place, she had a natural repugnance to
losing her lover; and in the next, she was not quite So sure that
she was in the right as she pretended to be. Her father had told
her, and that now repeatedly, that Bold was doing nothing unjust
or ungenerous; and why then should she rebuke him, and throw him
off, when she felt herself so ill able to bear his loss?--but
such is human nature, and young-lady-nature especially. As she
walked off from him beneath the shady elms of the close, her
look, her tone, every motion and gesture of her body, belied her
heart; she would have given the world to have taken him by the
hand, to have reasoned with him, persuaded him, cajoled him,
coaxed him out of his project; to have overcome him with all her
female artillery, and to have redeemed her father at the cost of
herself; but pride would not let her do this, and she left him
without a look of love or a word of kindness.
Had Bold been judging of another lover and of another
lady, he might have understood all this as well as we do; but
in matters of love men do not see clearly in their own affairs.
They say that faint heart never won fair lady; and it is
amazing to me how fair ladies are won, so faint are often men's
hearts! Were it not for the kindness of their nature, that
seeing the weakness of our courage they will occasionally
descend from their impregnable fortresses, and themselves aid
us in effecting their own defeat, too often would they escape
unconquered if not unscathed, and free of body if not of heart.
Poor Bold crept off quite crestfallen; he felt that as regarded
Eleanor Harding his fate was sealed, unless he could consent
to give up a task to which he had pledged himself and which
indeed it would not be easy for him to give up. Lawyers were
engaged, and the question had to a certain extent been taken
up by the public; besides, how could a high-spirited girl like
Eleanor Harding really learn to love a man for neglecting a
duty which he assumed! Could she allow her affection to be
purchased at the cost of his own self-respect?
As regarded the issue of his attempt at reformation in the
hospital, Bold had no reason hitherto to be discontented with
his success. All Barchester was by the ears about it. The
bishop, the archdeacon, the warden, the steward, and several
other clerical allies, had daily meetings, discussing their tactics,
and preparing for the great attack. Sir Abraham Haphazard
had been consulted, but his opinion was not yet received:
copies of Hiram's will, copies of wardens' journals, copies of
leases, copies of accounts, copies of everything that could be
copied, and of some that could not, had been sent to him;
and the case was assuming most creditable dimensions. But,
above all, it had been mentioned in the daily Jupiter. That all-
powerful organ of the press in one of its leading thunderbolts
launched at St Cross, had thus remarked: 'Another case,
of smaller dimensions indeed, but of similar import, is now
likely to come under public notice. We are informed that the
warden or master of an old almshouse attached to Barchester
Cathedral is in receipt of twenty-five times the annual income
appointed for him by the will of the founder, while the sum
yearly expended on the absolute purposes of the charity has
always remained fixed. In other words, the legatees under
the founder's will have received no advantage from the increase
in the value of the property during the last four centuries,
such increase having been absorbed by the so-called warden.
It is impossible to conceive a case of greater injustice.
It is no answer to say that some six or nine or twelve old men
receive as much of the goods of this world as such old men
require. On what foundation, moral or divine, traditional or
legal, is grounded the warden's claim to the large income he
receives for doing nothing? The contentment of these almsmen,
if content they be, can give him no title to this wealth!
Does he ever ask himself, when he stretches wide his clerical
palm to receive the pay of some dozen of the working clergy,
for what service he is so remunerated? Does his conscience
ever entertain the question of his right to such subsidies? Or
is it possible that the subject never so presents itself to his
mind; that he has received for many years, and intends,
should God spare him, to receive for years to come these fruits
of the industrious piety of past ages, indifferent as to any right
on his own part, or of any injustice to others! We must
express an opinion that nowhere but in the Church of England,
and only there among its priests, could such a state of moral
indifference be found.'
I must for the present leave my readers to imagine the state
of Mr Harding's mind after reading the above article. They
say that forty thousand copies of The Jupiter are daily sold, and
that each copy is read by five persons at the least. Two hundred
thousand readers then would hear this accusation against him;
two hundred thousand hearts would swell with indignation at
the griping injustice, the barefaced robbery of the warden
of Barchester Hospital! And how was he to answer this? How
was he to open his inmost heart to this multitude, to these
thousands, the educated, the polished, the picked men of
his own country; how show them that he was no robber, no
avaricious, lazy priest scrambling for gold, but a retiring,
humble-spirited man, who had innocently taken what had
innocently been offered to him?
'Write to The Jupiter,' suggested the bishop.
'Yes,' said the archdeacon, more worldly wise than his
father, 'yes, and be smothered with ridicule; tossed over and
over again with scorn; shaken this way and that, as a rat in
the mouth of a practised terrier. You will leave out some
word or letter in your answer, and the ignorance of the cathedral
clergy will be harped upon; you will make some small
mistake, which will be a falsehood, or some admission, which
will be self-condemnation; you will find yourself to have
been vulgar, ill-tempered, irreverend, and illiterate, and the
chances are ten to one, but that being a clergyman, you will
have been guilty of blasphemy! A man may have the best of
causes, the best of talents, and the best of tempers; he may write
as well as Addison, or as strongly as Junius; but even with all
this he cannot successfully answer, when attacked by The Jupiter.
In such matters it is omnipotent. What the Czar is in Russia, or
the mob in America, that The Jupiter is in England. Answer
such an article! No, warden; whatever you do, don't do that.
We were to look for this sort of thing, you know; but we need
not draw down on our heads more of it than is necessary.'
The article in The Jupiter, while it so greatly harassed our
poor warden, was an immense triumph to some of the opposite
party. Sorry as Bold was to see Mr Harding attacked so personally,
it still gave him a feeling of elation to find his cause taken up
by so powerful an advocate: and as to Finney, the attorney, he
was beside himself. What! to be engaged in the same cause and on
the same side with The Jupiter; to have the views he had
recommended seconded, and furthered, and battled for by The
Jupiter! Perhaps to have his own name mentioned as that of the
learned gentleman whose efforts had been so successful on behalf
of the poor of Barchester! He might be examined before committees
of the House of Commons, with heaven knows how much a day for his
personal expenses--he might be engaged for years on such a suit!
There was no end to the glorious golden dreams which this
leader in The Jupiter produced in the soaring mind of Finney.
And the old bedesmen, they also heard of this article, and
had a glimmering, indistinct idea of the marvellous advocate
which had now taken up their cause. Abel Handy limped
hither and thither through the rooms, repeating all that he
understood to have been printed, with some additions of his
own which he thought should have been added. He told
them how The Jupiter had declared that their warden was no
better than a robber, and that what The Jupiter said was
acknowledged by the world to be true. How The Jupiter had
affirmed that each one of them--'each one of us, Jonathan
Crumple, think of that!'--had a clear right to a hundred a
year; and that if The Jupiter had said so, it was better than a
decision of the Lord Chancellor: and then he carried about
the paper, supplied by Mr Finney, which, though none of
them could read it, still afforded in its very touch and aspect
positive corroboration of what was told them; and Jonathan
Crumple pondered deeply over his returning wealth; and
job Skulpit saw how right he had been in signing the petition,
and said so many scores of times; and Spriggs leered fearfully
with his one eye; and Moody, as he more nearly approached
the coming golden age, hated more deeply than ever those who
still kept possession of what he so coveted. Even Billy Gazy and
poor bed-ridden Bell became active and uneasy, and the great
Bunce stood apart with lowering brow, with deep grief seated
in his heart, for he perceived that evil days were coming.
It had been decided, the archdeacon advising, that no
remonstrance, explanation, or defence should be addressed from
the Barchester conclave to the editor of The Jupiter; but
hitherto that was the only decision to which they had come.
Sir Abraham Haphazard was deeply engaged in preparing
a bill for the mortification of papists, to be called the 'Convent
Custody Bill,' the purport of which was to enable any Protestant
clergyman over fifty years of age to search any nun whom he
suspected of being in possession of treasonable papers or
Jesuitical symbols; and as there were to be a hundred and
thirty-seven clauses in the bill, each clause containing a
separate thorn for the side of the papist, and as it was known
the bill would be fought inch by inch, by fifty maddened
Irishmen, the due construction and adequate dovetailing of
it did consume much of Sir Abraham's time. The bill had all
its desired effect. Of course it never passed into law; but it
so completely divided the ranks of the Irish members, who had
bound themselves together to force on the ministry a bill for
compelling all men to drink Irish whiskey, and all women to
wear Irish poplins, that for the remainder of the session the
Great Poplin and Whiskey League was utterly harmless.
Thus it happened that Sir Abraham's opinion was not at once
forthcoming, and the uncertainty, the expectation, and suffering
of the folk of Barchester was maintained at a high pitch.
CHAPTER VIII
Plumstead Episcopi
The reader must now be requested to visit the rectory of
Plumstead Episcopi; and as it is as yet still early morning,
to ascend again with us into the bedroom of the archdeacon.
The mistress of the mansion was at her toilet; on which we
will not dwell with profane eyes, but proceed into a small
inner room, where the doctor dressed and kept his boots and
sermons; and here we will take our stand, premising that the
door of the room was so open as to admit of a conversation
between our reverend Adam and his valued Eve.
'It's all your own fault, archdeacon,' said the latter. 'I
told you from the beginning how it would end, and papa has
no one to thank but you.'
'Good gracious, my dear,' said the doctor, appearing at the
door of his dressing-room, with his face and head enveloped
in the rough towel which he was violently using; 'how can
you say so? I am doing my very best.'
'I wish you had never done so much,' said the lady, interrupting
him. 'If you'd just have let John Bold come and go there, as he
and papa liked, he and Eleanor would have been married by this
time, and we should not have heard one word about all this affair.'
'But, my dear--'
'Oh, it's all very well, archdeacon; and of course you're
right; I don't for a moment think you'll ever admit that you
could be wrong; but the fact is. you've brought this young
man down upon papa by buffing him as you have done.'
'But, my love--'
'And all because you didn't like John Bold for a brother-
in-law. How is she ever to do better? Papa hasn't got a
shilling; and though Eleanor is well enough, she has not at
all a taking style of beauty. I'm sure I don't know how she's
to do better than marry John Bold; or as well indeed,' added
the anxious sister, giving the last twist to her last shoe-string.
Dr Grantly felt keenly the injustice of this attack; but what
could he say? He certainly had buffed John Bold; he certainly
had objected to him as a brother-in-law, and a very few
months ago the very idea had excited his wrath: but now
matters were changed; John Bold had shown his power, and,
though he was as odious as ever to the archdeacon, power is
always respected, and the reverend dignitary began to think
that such an alliance might not have been imprudent. Nevertheless,
his motto was still 'no surrender'; he would still fight
it out; he believed confidently in Oxford, in the bench of
bishops, in Sir Abraham Haphazard, and in himself; and it
was only when alone with his wife that doubts of defeat ever
beset him. He once more tried to communicate this confidence
to Mrs Grantly, and for the twentieth time began to tell
her of Sir Abraham.
'Oh, Sir Abraham!' said she, collecting all her house keys
into her basket before she descended; 'Sir Abraham won't
get Eleanor a husband; Sir Abraham won't get papa another
income when he has been worreted out of the hospital. Mark
what I tell you, archdeacon: while you and Sir Abraham are
fighting, papa will lose his preferment; and what will you do
then with him and Eleanor on your hands? besides, who's to
pay Sir Abraham? I suppose he won't take the case up for
nothing?' And so the lady descended to family worship
among her children and servants, the pattern of a good and
prudent wife.
Dr Grantly was blessed with a happy, thriving family.
There were, first, three boys, now at home from school for the
holidays. They were called, respectively, Charles James,
Henry, and Samuel. The two younger (there were five in all)
were girls; the elder, Florinda, bore the name of the Archbishop
of York's wife, whose godchild she was: and the younger had
been christened Grizzel, after a sister of the Archbishop
of Canterbury. The boys were all clever, and gave good promise of
being well able to meet the cares and trials of the world; and
yet they were not alike in their dispositions, and each had
his individual character, and each his separate admirers
among the doctor's friends.
Charles James was an exact and careful boy; he never
committed himself; he well knew how much was expected
from the eldest son of the Archdeacon of Barchester, and was
therefore mindful not to mix too freely with other boys. He
had not the great talents of his younger brothers, but he
exceeded them in judgment and propriety of demeanour; his fault,
if he had one, was an over-attention to words instead of things;
there was a thought too much finesse about him, and, as even his
father sometimes told him, he was too fond of a compromise.
The second was the archdeacon's favourite son, and Henry
was indeed a brilliant boy. The versatility of his genius was
surprising, and the visitors at Plumstead Episcopi were often
amazed at the marvellous manner in which he would, when
called on, adapt his capacity to apparently most uncongenial
pursuits. He appeared once before a large circle as Luther
the reformer, and delighted them with the perfect manner in
which he assumed the character; and within three days he
again astonished them by acting the part of a Capuchin friar
to the very life. For this last exploit his father gave him a
golden guinea, and his brothers said the reward had been
promised beforehand in the event of the performance being
successful. He was also sent on a tour into Devonshire; a
treat which the lad was most anxious of enjoying. His father's
friends there, however, did not appreciate his talents, and sad
accounts were sent home of the perversity of his nature. He
was a most courageous lad, game to the backbone.
It was soon known, both at home, where he lived, and within
some miles of Barchester Cathedral, and also at Westminster,
where he was at school, that young Henry could box
well and would never own himself beat; other boys would
fight while they had a leg to stand on, but he would fight with
no leg at all. Those backing him would sometimes think him
crushed by the weight of blows and faint with loss of blood,
and his friends would endeavour to withdraw him from the
contest; but no, Henry never gave in, was never weary of the
battle. The ring was the only element in which he seemed to
enjoy himself; and while other boys were happy in the
number of their friends, he rejoiced most in the multitude of
his foes.
His relations could not but admire his pluck, but they sometimes
were forced to regret that he was inclined to be a bully; and
those not so partial to him as his father was, observed with pain
that, though he could fawn to the masters and the archdeacon's
friends, he was imperious and masterful to the servants and
the poor.
But perhaps Samuel was the general favourite; and dear
little Soapy, as he was familiarly called, was as engaging a
child as ever fond mother petted. He was soft and gentle in
his manners, and attractive in his speech; the tone of his voice
was melody, and every action was a grace; unlike his brothers,
he was courteous to all, he was affable to the lowly, and meek
even to the very scullery-maid. He was a boy of great promise,
minding his books and delighting the hearts of his masters.
His brothers, however, were not particularly fond of him; they
would complain to their mother that Soapy's civility all meant
something; they thought that his voice was too often listened
to at Plumstead Episcopi, and evidently feared that, as he
grew up, he would have more weight in the house than either
of them; there was, therefore, a sort of agreement among
them to put young Soapy down. This, however, was not so
easy to be done; Samuel, though young, was sharp; he could
not assume the stiff decorum of Charles James, nor could he
fight like Henry; but he was a perfect master of his own
weapons, and contrived, in the teeth of both of them, to hold
the place which he had assumed. Henry declared that he
was a false, cunning creature; and Charles James, though he
always spoke of him as his dear brother Samuel, was not slow
to say a word against him when opportunity offered. To speak
the truth, Samuel was a cunning boy, and those even who
loved him best could not but own that for one so young he was
too adroit in choosing his words, and too skilled in modulating
his voice.
The two little girls Florinda and Grizzel were nice little girls
enough, but they did not possess the strong sterling qualities
of their brothers; their voices were not often heard at
Plumstead Episcopi; they were bashful and timid by nature,
slow to speak before company even when asked to do so; and
though they looked very nice in their clean white muslin frocks
and pink sashes, they were but little noticed by the
archdeacon's visitors.
Whatever of submissive humility may have appeared in the
gait and visage of the archdeacon during his colloquy with his
wife in the sanctum of their dressing-rooms was dispelled as
he entered his breakfast-parlour with erect head and powerful
step. In the presence of a third person he assumed the lord
and master; and that wise and talented lady too well knew
the man to whom her lot for life was bound, to stretch her
authority beyond the point at which it would be borne.
Strangers at Plumstead Episcopi, when they saw the imperious
brow with which he commanded silence from the large circle
of visitors, children, and servants who came together in the
morning to hear him read the word of God, and watched how
meekly that wife seated herself behind her basket of keys with
a little girl on each side, as she caught that commanding
glance; strangers, I say, seeing this, could little guess that some
fifteen minutes since she had stoutly held her ground against
him, hardly allowing him to open his mouth in his own defence.
But such is the tact and talent of women!
And now let us observe the well-furnished breakfast-parlour
at Plumstead Episcopi, and the comfortable air of all the
belongings of the rectory. Comfortable they certainly were,
but neither gorgeous nor even grand; indeed, considering the
money that had been spent there, the eye and taste might
have been better served; there was an air of heaviness about
the rooms which might have been avoided without any sacrifice
of propriety; colours might have been better chosen and lights
more perfectly diffused; but perhaps in doing so the thorough
clerical aspect of the whole might have been somewhat marred; at
any rate, it was not without ample consideration that those
thick, dark, costly carpets were put down; those embossed, but
sombre papers hung up; those heavy curtains draped so as to half
exclude the light of the sun: nor were these old-fashioned
chairs, bought at a price far exceeding that now given for more
modern goods, without a purpose. The breakfast-service on the
table was equally costly and equally plain; the apparent object
had been to spend money without obtaining brilliancy or splendour.
The urn was of thick and solid silver, as were also the tea-pot,
coffee-pot, cream-ewer, and sugar-bowl; the cups were old, dim
dragon china, worth about a pound a piece, but very despicable in
the eyes of the uninitiated. The silver forks were so heavy as
to be disagreeable to the hand, and the bread-basket was of a
weight really formidable to any but robust persons. The tea
consumed was the very best, the coffee the very blackest, the
cream the very thickest; there was dry toast and buttered
toast, muffins and crumpets; hot bread and cold bread, white
bread and brown bread, home-made bread and bakers'
bread, wheaten bread and oaten bread; and if there be other
breads than these, they were there; there were eggs in napkins,
and crispy bits of bacon under silver covers; and there were
little fishes in a little box, and devilled kidneys frizzling on
a hot-water dish; which, by the bye, were placed closely
contiguous to the plate of the worthy archdeacon himself.
Over and above this, on a snow-white napkin, spread upon
the sideboard, was a huge ham and a huge sirloin; the latter
having laden the dinner table on the previous evening. Such
was the ordinary fare at Plumstead Episcopi.
And yet I have never found the rectory a pleasant house.
The fact that man shall not live by bread alone seemed to be
somewhat forgotten; and noble as was the appearance of
the host, and sweet and good-natured as was the face of the
hostess, talented as were the children, and excellent as were the
viands and the wines, in spite of these attractions, I generally
found the rectory somewhat dull. After breakfast the archdeacon
would retire, of course to his clerical pursuits. Mrs
Grantly, I presume, inspected her kitchen, though she had a
first-rate housekeeper, with sixty pounds a year; and attended
to the lessons of Florinda and Grizzel, though she had an
excellent governess with thirty pounds a year: but at any rate
she disappeared: and I never could make companions of the
boys. Charles James, though he always looked as though
there was something in him, never seemed to have much to
say; and what he did say he would always unsay the next
minute. He told me once that he considered cricket, on the
whole, to be a gentlemanlike game for boys, provided they
would play without running about; and that fives, also, was a
seemly game, so that those who played it never heated themselves.
Henry once quarrelled with me for taking his sister
Grizzel's part in a contest between them as to the best mode
of using a watering-pot for the garden flowers; and from that
day to this he has not spoken to me, though he speaks at me
often enough. For half an hour or so I certainly did like
Sammy's gentle speeches; but one gets tired of honey, and I
found that he preferred the more admiring listeners whom he
met in the kitchen-garden and back precincts of the establishment;
besides, I think I once caught Sammy fibbing.
On the whole, therefore, I found the rectory a dull house,
though it must be admitted that everything there was of the
very best.
After breakfast, on the morning of which we are writing,
the archdeacon, as usual, retired to his study, intimating that
he was going to be very busy, but that he would see Mr Chadwick
if he called. On entering this sacred room he carefully
opened the paper case on which he was wont to compose his
favourite sermons, and spread on it a fair sheet of paper and
one partly written on; he then placed his inkstand, looked at
his pen, and folded his blotting paper; having done so, he got
up again from his seat, stood with his back to the fire-place,
and yawned comfortably, stretching out vastly his huge arms
and opening his burly chest. He then walked across the room
and locked the door; and having so prepared himself, he
threw himself into his easy-chair, took from a secret drawer
beneath his table a volume of Rabelais, and began to amuse
himself with the witty mischief of Panurge; and so passed the
archdeacon's morning on that day.
He was left undisturbed at his studies for an hour or two,
when a knock came to the door, and Mr Chadwick was announced.
Rabelais retired into the secret drawer, the easy-chair seemed
knowingly to betake itself off, and when the archdeacon quickly
undid his bolt, he was discovered by the steward working, as
usual, for that church of which he was so useful a pillar.
Mr Chadwick had just come from London, and was, therefore, known
to be the bearer of important news.
'We've got Sir Abraham's opinion at last,' said Mr Chadwick, as
he seated himself.
'Well, well, well!' exclaimed the archdeacon impatiently.
'Oh, it's as long as my arm,' said the other; 'it can't be told
in a word, but you can read it'; and he handed him a copy,
in heaven knows how many spun-out folios, of the opinion
which the attorney-general had managed to cram on the back
and sides of the case as originally submitted to him.
'The upshot is,' said Chadwick, 'that there's a screw loose in
their case, and we had better do nothing. They are proceeding
against Mr Harding and myself, and Sir Abraham holds
that, under the wording of the will, and subsequent arrangements
legally sanctioned, Mr Harding and I are only paid servants.
The defendants should have been either the Corporation of
Barchester, or possibly the chapter of your father.'
'W-hoo!' said the archdeacon; 'so Master Bold is on the
wrong scent, is he?'
'That's Sir Abraham's opinion; but any scent almost would
be a wrong scent. Sir Abraham thinks that if they'd taken the
corporation, or the chapter, we could have baffled them. The
bishop, he thinks, would be the surest shot; but even there we
could plead that the bishop is only a visitor, and that he has
never made himself a consenting party to the performance of
other duties.'
'That's quite clear,' said the archdeacon.
'Not quite so clear,' said the other. 'You see the will says,
"My lord, the bishop, being graciously pleased to see that due
justice be done." Now, it may be a question whether, in
accepting and administering the patronage, your father has
not accepted also the other duties assigned. It is doubtful,
however; but even if they hit that nail--and they are far off
from that yet--the point is so nice, as Sir Abraham says, that
you would force them into fifteen thousand pounds' cost before
they could bring it to an issue! and where's that sum of money
to come from?'
The archdeacon rubbed his hands with delight; he had
never doubted the justice of his case, but he had begun to have
some dread of unjust success on the part of his enemies. It was
delightful to him thus to hear that their cause was surrounded
with such rocks and shoals; such causes of shipwreck unseen
by the landsman's eye, but visible enough to the keen eyes of
practical law mariners. How wrong his wife was to wish that
Bold should marry Eleanor! Bold! why, if he should be ass
enough to persevere, he would be a beggar before he knew
whom he was at law with!
'That's excellent, Chadwick--that's excellent! I told you
Sir Abraham was the man for us'; and he put down on the
table the copy of the opinion, and patted it fondly.
'Don't you let that be seen, though, archdeacon.'
'Who?-I!-not for worlds,' said the doctor.
'People will talk, you know, archdeacon.'
'Of course, of course,' said the doctor.
'Because, if that gets abroad, it would teach them how to
fight their own battle.'
'Quite true,' said the doctor.
'No one here in Barchester ought to see that but you and I,
archdeacon.'
'No, no, certainly no one else,' said the archdeacon, pleased
with the closeness of the confidence; 'no one else shall.'
'Mrs Grantly is very interested in the matter, I know,' said
Mr Chadwick.
Did the archdeacon wink, or did he not? I am inclined to
think he did not quite wink; but that without such, perhaps,
unseemly gesture he communicated to Mr Chadwick, with the
corner of his eye, intimation that, deep as was Mrs Grantly's
interest in the matter, it should not procure for her a perusal
of that document; and at the same time he partly opened the
small drawer, above spoken of, deposited the paper on the
volume of Rabelais, and showed to Mr Chadwick the nature
of the key which guarded these hidden treasures. The careful
steward then expressed himself contented. Ah! vain man!
he could fasten up his Rabelais, and other things secret, with
all the skill of Bramah or of Chubb; but where could he fasten
up the key which solved these mechanical mysteries? It is
probable to us that the contents of no drawer in that house
were unknown to its mistress, and we think, moreover, that she
was entitled to all such knowledge.
'But,' said Mr Chadwick, 'we must, of course, tell your
father and Mr Harding so much of Sir Abraham's opinion as
will satisfy them that the matter is doing well.'
'Oh, certainly--yes, of course,' said the doctor.
'You had better let them know that Sir Abraham is of
opinion that there is no case at any rate against Mr Harding;
and that as the action is worded at present, it must fall to the
ground; they must be nonsuited, if they carry it on; you had
better tell Mr Harding, that Sir Abraham is clearly of opinion
that he is only a servant, and as such not liable--or if you like
it, I'll see Mr Harding myself.'
'Oh, I must see him tomorrow, and my father too, and I'll
explain to them exactly so much--you won't go before lunch,
Mr Chadwick: well, if you will, you must, for I know your
time is precious'; and he shook hands with the diocesan
steward, and bowed him out.
The archdeacon had again recourse to his drawer, and twice
read through the essence of Sir Abraham Haphazard's law-
enlightened and law-bewildered brains. It was very clear that
to Sir Abraham, the justice of the old men's claim or the justice
of Mr Harding's defence were ideas that had never presented
themselves. A legal victory over an opposing party was the
service for which Sir Abraham was, as he imagined, to be
paid; and that he, according to his lights, had diligently
laboured to achieve, and with probable hope of success. Of
the intense desire which Mr Harding felt to be assured on fit
authority that he was wronging no man, that he was entitled
in true equity to his income, that he might sleep at night
without pangs of conscience, that he was no robber, no spoiler of
the poor; that he and all the world might be openly convinced
that he was not the man which The Jupiter had described him
to be; of such longings on the part of Mr Harding, Sir
Abraham was entirely ignorant; nor, indeed, could it be
looked on as part of his business to gratify such desires. Such
was not the system on which his battles were fought, and
victories gained. Success was his object, and he was generally
successful. He conquered his enemies by their weakness rather
than by his own strength, and it had been found almost
impossible to make up a case in which Sir Abraham, as an
antagonist, would not find a flaw.
The archdeacon was delighted with the closeness of the
reasoning. To do him justice, it was not a selfish triumph that
he desired; he would personally lose nothing by defeat, or at
least what he might lose did not actuate him; but neither was
it love of justice which made him so anxious, nor even mainly
solicitude for his father-in-law. He was fighting a part of a
never-ending battle against a never-conquered foe--that of the
church against its enemies.
He knew Mr Harding could not pay all the expense of these
doings: for these long opinions of Sir Abraham's, these causes
to be pleaded, these speeches to be made, these various courts
through which the case was, he presumed, to be dragged. He
knew that he and his father must at least bear the heavier
portion of this tremendous cost; but to do the archdeacon
justice, he did not recoil from this. He was a man fond of
obtaining money, greedy of a large income, but open-handed
enough in expending it, and it was a triumph to him to foresee
the success of this measure, although he might be called on to
pay so dearly for it himself.
CHAPTER IX
The Conference
On the following morning the archdeacon was with his father
betimes, and a note was sent down to the warden begging his
attendance at the palace. Dr Grantly, as he cogitated on
the matter, leaning back in his brougham as he journeyed into
Barchester, felt that it would be difficult to communicate
his own satisfaction either to his father or his father-in-law.
He wanted success on his own side and discomfiture on that
of his enemies. The bishop wanted peace on the subject; a
settled peace if possible, but peace at any rate till the
short remainder of his own days had spun itself out. Mr Harding
required not only success and peace, but he also demanded that
he might stand justified before the world.
The bishop, however, was comparatively easy to deal with;
and before the arrival of the other, the dutiful son had persuaded
his father that all was going on well, and then the warden arrived.
It was Mr Harding's wont, whenever he spent a morning at
the palace, to seat himself immediately at the bishop's elbow,
the bishop occupying a huge arm-chair fitted up with candle-
sticks, a reading table, a drawer, and other paraphernalia, the
position of which chair was never moved, summer or winter;
and when, as was usual, the archdeacon was there also, he
confronted the two elders, who thus were enabled to fight the
battle against him together; and together submit to defeat,
for such was their constant fate.
Our warden now took his accustomed place, having greeted
his son-in-law as he entered, and then affectionately inquired
after his friend's health. There was a gentleness about the
bishop to which the soft womanly affection of Mr Harding
particularly endeared itself, and it was quaint to see how the
two mild old priests pressed each other's hand, and smiled and
made little signs of love.
'Sir Abraham's opinion has come at last,' began the archdeacon.
Mr Harding had heard so much, and was most anxious to know
the result.
'It is quite favourable,' said the bishop, pressing his friend's
arm. 'I am so glad.'
Mr Harding looked at the mighty bearer of the important
news for confirmation of these glad tidings.
'Yes,' said the archdeacon; 'Sir Abraham has given most
minute attention to the case; indeed, I knew he would--most
minute attention; and his opinion is--and as to his opinion
on such a subject being correct, no one who knows Sir Abraham's
character can doubt--his opinion is, that they hav'n't
got a leg to stand on.'
'But as how, archdeacon?'
'Why, in the first place:--but you're no lawyer, warden,
and I doubt you won't understand it; the gist of the matter is
this:--under Hiram's will two paid guardians have been
selected for the hospital; the law will say two paid servants,
and you and I won't quarrel with the name.'
'At any rate I will not if I am one of the servants,' said
Mr Harding. 'A rose, you know--'
'Yes, yes,' said the archdeacon, impatient of poetry at such
a time. 'Well, two paid servants, we'll say; one to look after
the men, and the other to look after the money. You and
Chadwick are these two servants, and whether either of you be
paid too much, or too little, more or less in fact than the
founder willed, it's as clear as daylight that no one can fall foul
of either of you for receiving an allotted stipend.'
'That does seem clear,' said the bishop, who had winced
visibly at the words servants and stipend, which, however,
appeared to have caused no uneasiness to the archdeacon.
'Quite clear,' said he, 'and very satisfactory. In point of
fact, it being necessary to select such servants for the use of the
hospital, the pay to be given to them must depend on the rate
of pay for such services, according to their market value at the
period in question; and those who manage the hospital must
be the only judges of this.'
'And who does manage the hospital?' asked the warden.
'Oh, let them find that out; that's another question: the
action is brought against you and Chadwick; that's your
defence, and a perfect and full defence it is. Now that I think
very satisfactory.'
'Well,' said the bishop, looking inquiringly up into his friend's
face, who sat silent awhile, and apparently not so well satisfied.
'And conclusive,' continued the archdeacon; 'if they press
it to a jury, which they won't do, no twelve men in England
will take five minutes to decide against them.'
'But according to that' said Mr Harding, 'I might as well
have sixteen hundred a year as eight, if the managers choose to
allot it to me; and as I am one of the managers, if not the chief
manager, myself, that can hardly be a just arrangement.'
'Oh, well; all that's nothing to the question. The question
is, whether this intruding fellow, and a lot of cheating attorneys
and pestilent dissenters, are to interfere with an arrangement
which everyone knows is essentially just and serviceable to the
church. Pray don't let us be splitting hairs, and that amongst
ourselves, or there'll never be an end of the cause or the cost.'
Mr Harding again sat silent for a while, during which the
bishop once and again pressed his arm, and looked in his face
to see if he could catch a gleam of a contented and eased mind;
but there was no such gleam, and the poor warden continued
playing sad dirges on invisible stringed instruments in all
manner of positions; he was ruminating in his mind on this
opinion of Sir Abraham, looking to it wearily and earnestly
for satisfaction, but finding none. At last he said, 'Did you
see the opinion, archdeacon?'
The archdeacon said he had not--that was to say, he -had-
that was, he had not seen the opinion itself; he had seen what
had been called a copy, but he could not say whether of a
whole or part; nor could he say that what he had seen were
the ipsissima verba of the great man himself; but what he had
seen contained exactly the decision which he had announced,
and which he again declared to be to his mind extremely
satisfactory.
'I should like to see the opinion,' said the warden; 'that is,
a copy of it.'
'Well, I suppose you can if you make a point of it; but I
don't see the use myself; of course it is essential that the
purport of it should not be known, and it is therefore unadvisable
to multiply copies.'
'Why should it not be known?' asked the warden.
'What a question for a man to ask!' said the archdeacon,
throwing up his hands in token of his surprise; 'but it is like
you--a child is not more innocent than you are in matters of
business. Can't you see that if we tell them that no action will
lie against you, but that one may possibly lie against some
other person or persons, that we shall be putting weapons into
their hands, and be teaching them how to cut our own throats?'
The warden again sat silent, and the bishop again looked at
him wistfully: 'The only thing we have now to do,' continued
the archdeacon, 'is to remain quiet, hold our peace, and let
them play their own game as they please.'
'We are not to make known then,' said the warden, 'that
we have consulted the attorney-general, and that we are
advised by him that the founder's will is fully and fairly
carried out.'
'God bless my soul!' said the archdeacon, 'how odd it is
that you will not see that all we are to do is to do nothing:
why should we say anything about the founder's will? We are
in possession; and we know that they are not in a position to
put us out; surely that is enough for the present.'
Mr Harding rose from his seat and paced thoughtfully up
and down the library, the bishop the while watching him painfully
at every turn, and the archdeacon continuing to pour forth
his convictions that the affair was in a state to satisfy any
prudent mind.
'And The Jupiter?' said the warden, stopping suddenly.
'Oh! The Jupiter,' answered the other. 'The Jupiter can
break no bones. You must bear with that; there is much, of
course, which it is our bounden duty to bear; it cannot be all
roses for us here,' and the archdeacon looked exceedingly
moral; 'besides, the matter is too trivial, of too little general
interest to be mentioned again in The Jupiter, unless we stir up
the subject.' And the archdeacon again looked exceedingly
knowing and worldly wise.
The warden continued his walk; the hard and stinging
words of that newspaper article, each one of which had thrust
a thorn as it were into his inmost soul, were fresh in his
memory; he had read it more than once, word by word, and
what was worse, he fancied it was as well known to everyone
as to himself. Was he to be looked on as the unjust griping
priest he had been there described? Was he to be pointed at
as the consumer of the bread of the poor, and to be allowed no
means of refuting such charges, of clearing his begrimed name,
of standing innocent in the world, as hitherto he had stood?
Was he to bear all this, to receive as usual his now hated
income, and be known as one of those greedy priests who by
their rapacity have brought disgrace on their church? And
why? Why should he bear all this? Why should he die, for he
felt that he could not live, under such a weight of obloquy?
As he paced up and down the room he resolved in his misery
and enthusiasm that he could with pleasure, if he were allowed,
give up his place, abandon his pleasant home, leave the hospital,
and live poorly, happily, and with an unsullied name, on the
small remainder of his means.
He was a man somewhat shy of speaking of himself, even
before those who knew him best, and whom he loved the most;
but at last it burst forth from him, and with a somewhat jerking
eloquence he declared that he could not, would not, bear this
misery any longer.
'If it can be proved,' said he at last, 'that I have a just and
honest right to this, as God well knows I always deemed I had;
if this salary or stipend be really my due, I am not less anxious
than another to retain it. I have the well-being of my child
to look to. I am too old to miss without some pain the comforts
to which I have been used; and I am, as others are, anxious
to prove to the world that I have been right, and to uphold
the place I have held; but I cannot do it at such a cost
as this. I cannot bear this. Could you tell me to do so?' And
he appealed, almost in tears, to the bishop, who had left his
chair, and was now leaning on the warden's arm as he stood
on the further side of the table facing the archdeacon. 'Could
you tell me to sit there at ease, indifferent, and satisfied, while
such things as these are said loudly of me in the world?'
The bishop could feel for him and sympathise with him, but
he could not advise him, he could only say, 'No, no, you shall
be asked to do nothing that is painful; you shall do just what
your heart tells you to be right; you shall do whatever you
think best yourself. Theophilus, don't advise him, pray don't
advise the warden to do anything which is painful.'
But the archdeacon, though he could not sympathise, could
advise; and he saw that the time had come when it behoved
him to do so in a somewhat peremptory manner.
'Why, my lord,' he said, speaking to his father: and when
he called his father 'my lord,' the good old bishop shook in
his shoes, for he knew that an evil time was coming. 'Why,
my lord, there are two ways of giving advice: there is advice
that may be good for the present day; and there is advice that
may be good for days to come: now I cannot bring myself to
give the former, if it be incompatible with the other.'
'No, no, no, I suppose not,' said the bishop, re-seating himself,
and shading his face with his hands. Mr Harding sat
down with his back to the further wall, playing to himself some
air fitted for so calamitous an occasion, and the archdeacon
said out his say standing, with his back to the empty fire-place.
'It is not to be supposed but that much pain will spring out
of this unnecessarily raised question. We must all have foreseen
that, and the matter has in no wise gone on worse than we
expected; but it will be weak, yes, and wicked also, to abandon
the cause and own ourselves wrong, because the inquiry is
painful. It is not only ourselves we have to look to; to a certain
extent the interest of the church is in our keeping. Should it
be found that one after another of those who hold preferment
abandoned it whenever it might be attacked, is it not plain
that such attacks would be renewed till nothing was left us?
and, that if so deserted, the Church of England must fall to the
ground altogether? If this be true of many, it is true of one.
Were you, accused as you now are, to throw up the wardenship,
and to relinquish the preferment which is your property,
with the vain object of proving yourself disinterested, you
would fail in that object, you would inflict a desperate blow on
your brother clergymen, you would encourage every cantankerous
dissenter in England to make a similar charge against some
source of clerical revenue, and you would do your best to
dishearten those who are most anxious to defend you and
uphold your position. I can fancy nothing more weak, or
more wrong. It is not that you think that there is any justice
in these charges, or that you doubt your own right to the
wardenship: you are convinced of your own honesty, and yet
would yield to them through cowardice.'
'Cowardice!' said the bishop, expostulating. Mr Harding
sat unmoved, gazing on his son-in-law.
'Well; would it not be cowardice? Would he not do so
because he is afraid to endure the evil things which will be
falsely spoken of him? Would that not be cowardice? And
now let us see the extent of the evil which you dread. The
Jupiter publishes an article which a great many, no doubt, will
read; but of those who understand the subject how many will
believe The Jupiter? Everyone knows what its object is: it has
taken up the case against Lord Guildford and against the Dean
of Rochester, and that against half a dozen bishops; and does
not everyone know that it would take up any case of the kind,
right or wrong, false or true, with known justice or known
injustice, if by doing so it could further its own views? Does
not all the world know this of The Jupiter? Who that really
knows you will think the worse of you for what The Jupiter says?
And why care for those who do not know you? I will say
nothing of your own comfort, but I do say that you could not
be justified in throwing up, in a fit of passion, for such it would
be, the only maintenance that Eleanor has; and if you did so,
if you really did vacate the wardenship, and submit to ruin,
what would that profit you? If you have no future right to
the income, you have had no past right to it; and the very fact
of your abandoning your position would create a demand for
repayment of that which you have already received and spent.'
The poor warden groaned as he sat perfectly still, looking
up at the hard-hearted orator who thus tormented him, and
the bishop echoed the sound faintly from behind his hands;
but the archdeacon cared little for such signs of weakness, and
completed his exhortation.
'But let us suppose the office to be left vacant, and that your
own troubles concerning it were over; would that satisfy you?
Are your only aspirations in the matter confined to yourself
and family? I know they are not. I know you are as anxious
as any of us for the church to which we belong; and what a
grievous blow would such an act of apostacy give her! You
owe it to the church of which you are a member and a minister,
to bear with this affliction, however severe it may be: you owe
it to my father, who instituted you, to support his rights: you
owe it to those who preceded you to assert the legality of their
position; you owe it to those who are to come after you, to
maintain uninjured for them that which you received uninjured
from others; and you owe to us all the unflinching assistance
of perfect brotherhood in this matter, so that upholding
one another we may support our great cause without blushing
and without disgrace.'
And so the archdeacon ceased, and stood self-satisfied,
watching the effect of his spoken wisdom.
The warden felt himself, to a certain extent, stifled; he
would have given the world to get himself out into the open
air without speaking to, or noticing those who were in the
room with him; but this was impossible. He could not leave
without saying something, and he felt himself confounded by
the archdeacon's eloquence. There was a heavy, unfeeling,
unanswerable truth in what he had said; there was so much
practical, but odious common sense in it, that he neither knew
how to assent or to differ. If it were necessary for him to
suffer, he felt that he could endure without complaint and
without cowardice, providing that he was self-satisfied of the
justice of his own cause. What he could not endure was, that
he should be accused by others, and not acquitted by himself.
Doubting, as he had begun to doubt, the justice of his own
position in the hospital, he knew that his own self-confidence
would not be restored because Mr Bold had been in error as
to some legal form; nor could he be satisfied to escape,
because, through some legal fiction, he who received the greatest
benefit from the hospital might be considered only as one of
its servants.
The archdeacon's speech had silenced him--stupefied him
--annihilated him; anything but satisfied him. With the
bishop it fared not much better. He did not discern clearly
how things were, but he saw enough to know that a battle was
to be prepared for; a battle that would destroy his few
remaining comforts, and bring him with sorrow to the grave.
The warden still sat, and still looked at the archdeacon, till
his thoughts fixed themselves wholly on the means of escape
from his present position, and he felt like a bird fascinated by
gazing on a snake.
'I hope you agree with me,' said the archdeacon at last,
breaking the dread silence; 'my lord, I hope you agree with me.'
Oh, what a sigh the bishop gave! 'My lord, I hope you
agree with me,' again repeated the merciless tyrant.
'Yes, I suppose so,' groaned the poor old man, slowly.
'And you, warden?'
Mr Harding was now stirred to action--he must speak and
move, so he got up and took one turn before he answered.
'Do not press me for an answer just at present; I will do
nothing lightly in the matter, and of whatever I do I will give
you and the bishop notice.' And so without another word he
took his leave, escaping quickly through the palace hall, and
down the lofty steps, nor did he breathe freely till he found
himself alone under the huge elms of the silent close. Here he
walked long and slowly, thinking on his case with a troubled
air, and trying in vain to confute the archdeacon's argument.
He then went home, resolved to bear it all--ignominy, suspense,
disgrace, self-doubt, and heart-burning--and to do as those
would have him, who he still believed were most fit and most
able to counsel him aright.
CHAPTER X
Tribulation
Mr Harding was a sadder man than he had ever yet been when
he returned to his own house. He had been wretched enough
on that well-remembered morning when he was forced to expose
before his son-in-law the publisher's account for ushering into
the world his dear book of sacred music: when after making such
payments as he could do unassisted, he found that he was a debtor of
more than three hundred pounds; but his sufferings then were as
nothing to his present misery;--then he had done wrong, and he
knew it, and was able to resolve that he would not sin in like
manner again; but now he could make no resolution, and comfort
himself by no promises of firmness. He had been forced to
think that his lot had placed him in a false position, and he
was about to maintain that position against the opinion of the
world and against his own convictions.
He had read with pity, amounting almost to horror, the
strictures which had appeared from time to time against the
Earl of Guildford as master of St Cross, and the invectives that
had been heaped on rich diocesan dignitaries and overgrown
sinecure pluralists. In judging of them, he judged leniently;
the whole bias of his profession had taught him to think that
they were more sinned against than sinning, and that the animosity
with which they had been pursued was venomous and unjust; but
he had not the less regarded their plight as most miserable.
His hair had stood on end and his flesh had crept as he read the
things which had been written; he had wondered how men could live
under such a load of disgrace; how they could face their
fellow-creatures while their names were bandied about so
injuriously and so publicly--and now this lot was to be his--he,
that shy, retiring man, who had so comforted himself in the
hidden obscurity of his lot, who had
so enjoyed the unassuming warmth of his own little corner, he
was now dragged forth into the glaring day, and gibbeted
before ferocious multitudes. He entered his own house a
crestfallen, humiliated man, without a hope of overcoming
the wretchedness which affected him.
He wandered into the drawing-room where was his daughter;
but he could not speak to her now, so he left it, and went into
the book-room. He was not quick enough to escape Eleanor's
glance, or to prevent her from seeing that he was disturbed;
and in a little while she followed him. She found him seated
in his accustomed chair with no book open before him, no
pen ready in his hand, no ill-shapen notes of blotted music
lying before him as was usual, none of those hospital accounts
with which he was so precise and yet so unmethodical: he
was doing nothing, thinking of nothing, looking at nothing;
he was merely suffering.
'Leave me, Eleanor, my dear,' he said; 'leave me, my
darling, for a few minutes, for I am busy.'
Eleanor saw well how it was, but she did leave him, and
glided silently back to her drawing-room. When he had sat
a while, thus alone and unoccupied, he got up to walk again--
he could make more of his thoughts walking than sitting, and
was creeping out into his garden, when he met Bunce on the
threshold.
'Well, Bunce,' said he, in a tone that for him was sharp,
'what is it? do you want me?'
'I was only coming to ask after your reverence,' said the
old bedesman, touching his hat; 'and to inquire about the
news from London,' he added after a pause.
The warden winced, and put his hand to his forehead and
felt bewildered.
'Attorney Finney has been there this morning,' continued
Bunce, 'and by his looks I guess he is not so well pleased as he
once was, and it has got abroad somehow that the archdeacon
has had down great news from London, and Handy and
Moody are both as black as devils. And I hope,' said the man,
trying to assume a cheery tone, 'that things are looking up,
and that there'll be an end soon to all this stuff which bothers
your reverence so sorely.'
'Well, I wish there may be, Bunce.'
'But about the news, your reverence?' said the old man,
almost whispering.
Mr Harding walked on, and shook his head impatiently.
Poor Bunce little knew how he was tormenting his patron.
'If there was anything to cheer you, I should be so glad to
know it,' said he, with a tone of affection which the warden
in all his misery could not resist.
He stopped, and took both the old man's hands in his.
'My friend,' said he, 'my dear old friend, there is nothing;
there is no news to cheer me--God's will be done': and two
small hot tears broke away from his eyes and stole down his
furrowed cheeks.
'Then God's will be done,' said the other solemnly; 'but
they told me that there was good news from London, and I
came to wish your reverence joy; but God's will be done,'
and so the warden again walked on, and the bedesman, looking
wistfully after him and receiving no encouragement to follow,
returned sadly to his own abode.
For a couple of hours the warden remained thus in the
garden, now walking, now standing motionless on the turf,
and then, as his legs got weary, sitting unconsciously on the
garden seats, and then walking again. And Eleanor, hidden
behind the muslin curtains of the window, watched him
through the trees as he now came in sight, and then again was
concealed by the turnings of the walk; and thus the time
passed away till five, when the warden crept back to the house
and prepared for dinner.
It was but a sorry meal. The demure parlour-maid, as she
handed the dishes and changed the plates, saw that all was not
right, and was more demure than ever: neither father nor
daughter could eat, and the hateful food was soon cleared
away, and the bottle of port placed upon the table.
'Would you like Bunce to come in, papa?'said Eleanor, thinking
that the company of the old man might lighten his sorrow.
'No, my dear, thank you, not today; but are not you going out,
Eleanor, this lovely afternoon? don't stay in for me, my dear.'
'I thought you seemed so sad, papa.'
'Sad,' said he, irritated; 'well, people must all have their
share of sadness here; I am not more exempt than another:
but kiss me, dearest, and go now; I will, if possible, be more
sociable when you return.'
And Eleanor was again banished from her father's sorrow.
Ah! her desire now was not to find him happy, but to be
allowed to share his sorrows; not to force him to be sociable,
but to persuade him to be trustful.
She put on her bonnet as desired, and went up to Mary
Bold; this was now her daily haunt, for John Bold was up in
London among lawyers and church reformers, diving deep
into other questions than that of the wardenship of Barchester;
supplying information to one member of Parliament, and
dining with another; subscribing to funds for the abolition of
clerical incomes, and seconding at that great national meeting
at the Crown and Anchor a resolution to the effect, that no
clergyman of the Church of England, be he who he might,
should have more than a thousand a year, and none less than
two hundred and fifty. His speech on this occasion was short,
for fifteen had to speak, and the room was hired for two hours
only, at the expiration of which the Quakers and Mr Cobden
were to make use of it for an appeal to the public in aid of the
Emperor of Russia; but it was sharp and effective; at least
he was told so by a companion with whom he now lived much,
and on whom he greatly depended--one Tom Towers, a very
leading genius, and supposed to have high employment on
the staff of The Jupiter.
So Eleanor, as was now her wont, went up to Mary Bold,
and Mary listened kindly, while the daughter spoke much of
her father, and, perhaps kinder still, found a listener in
Eleanor, while she spoke about her brother. In the meantime
the warden sat alone, leaning on the arm of his chair; he had
poured out a glass of wine, but had done so merely from habit,
for he left it untouched; there he sat gazing at the open window,
and thinking, if he can be said to have thought, of the
happiness of his past life. All manner of past delights came
before his mind, which at the time he had enjoyed without
considering them; his easy days, his absence of all kind of
hard work, his pleasant shady home, those twelve old neighbours
whose welfare till now had been the source of so much pleasant
care, the excellence of his children, the friendship of
the dear old bishop, the solemn grandeur of those vaulted
aisles, through which he loved to hear his own voice pealing;
and then that friend of friends, that choice ally that had never
deserted him, that eloquent companion that would always,
when asked, discourse such pleasant music, that violoncello of
his--ah, how happy he had been! but it was over now; his
easy days and absence of work had been the crime which
brought on him his tribulation; his shady home was pleasant
no longer; maybe it was no longer his; the old neighbours,
whose welfare had been so desired by him, were his enemies;
his daughter was as wretched as himself; and even the bishop
was made miserable by his position. He could never again
lift up his voice boldly as he had hitherto done among his
brethren, for he felt that he was disgraced; and he feared even
to touch his bow, for he knew how grievous a sound of wailing,
how piteous a lamentation, it would produce.
He was still sitting in the same chair and the same posture,
having hardly moved a limb for two hours, when Eleanor
came back to tea, and succeeded in bringing him with her
into the drawing-room.
The tea seemed as comfortless as the dinner, though the
warden, who had hitherto eaten nothing all day, devoured
the plateful of bread and butter, unconscious of what he was doing.
Eleanor had made up her mind to force him to talk to her,
but she hardly knew how to commence: she must wait till the urn
was gone, till the servant would no longer be coming in and out.
At last everything was gone, and the drawing-room door was
permanently closed; then Eleanor, getting up and going
round to her father, put her arm round his neck, and said,
'Papa, won't you tell me what it is?'
'What what is, my dear?'
'This new sorrow that torments you; I know you are
unhappy,papa.'
'New sorrow! it's no new sorrow, my dear; we have all
our cares sometimes'; and he tried to smile, but it was a
ghastly failure; 'but I shouldn't be so dull a companion;
come, we'll have some music.'
'No, papa, not tonight--it would only trouble you tonight';
and she sat upon his knee, as she sometimes would in their
gayest moods, and with her arm round his neck, she said:
'Papa, I will not leave you till you talk to me; oh, if you only
knew how much good it would do to you, to tell me of it all.'
The father kissed his daughter, and pressed her to his heart;
but still he said nothing: it was so hard to him to speak of his
own sorrows; he was so shy a man even with his own child!
'Oh, papa, do tell me what it is; I know it is about the
hospital, and what they are doing up in London, and what
that cruel newspaper has said; but if there be such cause for
sorrow, let us be sorrowful together; we are all in all to each
other now: dear, dear papa, do speak to me.'
Mr Harding could not well speak now, for the warm tears
were running down his cheeks like rain in May, but he held
his child close to his heart, and squeezed her hand as a lover
might, and she kissed his forehead and his wet cheeks, and lay
upon his bosom, and comforted him as a woman only can do.
, My own child,' he said, as soon as his tears would let him
speak, 'my own, own child, why should you too be unhappy
before it is necessary? It may come to that, that we must
leave this place, but till that time comes, why should your
young days be clouded?'
'And is that all, papa? If that be all, let us leave it, and
have light hearts elsewhere: if that be all, let us go. Oh,
papa, you and I could be happy if we had only bread to eat,
so long as our hearts were light.'
And Eleanor's face was lighted up with enthusiasm as she
told her father how he might banish all his care; and a gleam
of joy shot across his brow as this idea of escape again
presented itself, and he again fancied for a moment that he could
spurn away from him the income which the world envied
him; that he could give the lie to that wielder of the tomahawk
who had dared to write such things of him in The Jupiter;
that he could leave Sir Abraham, and the archdeacon, and
Bold, and the rest of them with their lawsuit among them, and
wipe his hands altogether of so sorrow-stirring a concern. Ah,
what happiness might there be in the distance, with Eleanor
and him in some small cottage, and nothing left of their former
grandeur but their music! Yes, they would walk forth with
their music books, and their instruments, and shaking the dust
from off their feet as they went, leave the ungrateful place.
Never did a poor clergyman sigh for a warm benefice more
anxiously than our warden did now to be rid of his.
'Give it up, papa,' she said again, jumping from his knees
and standing on her feet before him, looking boldly into his
face; 'give it up, papa.'
Oh, it was sad to see how that momentary gleam of joy
passed away; how the look of hope was dispersed from that
sorrowful face, as the remembrance of the archdeacon came
back upon our poor warden, and he reflected that he could
not stir from his now hated post. He was as a man bound with
iron, fettered with adamant: he was in no respect a free
agent; he had no choice. 'Give it up!' Oh if he only could:
what an easy way that were out of all his troubles!
'Papa, don't doubt about it,' she continued, thinking that
his hesitation arose from his unwillingness to abandon so
comfortable a home; 'is it on my account that you would stay
here? Do you think that I cannot be happy without a pony-
carriage and a fine drawing-room? Papa, I never can be
happy here, as long as there is a question as to your honour in
staying here; but I could be gay as the day is long in the
smallest tiny little cottage, if I could see you come in and go
out with a light heart. Oh! papa, your face tells so much;
though you won't speak to me with your voice, I know how
it is with you every time I look at you.'
How he pressed her to his heart again with almost a spasmodic
pressure! How he kissed her as the tears fell like rain from
his old eyes! How he blessed her, and called her by a hundred
soft sweet names which now came new to his lips! How he chid
himself for ever having been unhappy with such a treasure in his
house, such a jewel on his bosom, with so sweet a flower in
the choice garden of his heart! And then the floodgates of
his tongue were loosed, and, at length, with unsparing detail
of circumstances, he told her all that he wished, and all that
he could not do. He repeated those arguments of the archdeacon,
not agreeing in their truth, but explaining his inability to
escape from them--how it had been declared to him that he
was bound to remain where he was by the interests of his order,
by gratitude to the bishop, by the wishes of his friends, by
a sense of duty, which, though he could not understand it,
he was fain to acknowledge. He told her how he had been accused
of cowardice, and though he was not a man to make much of such
a charge before the world, now in the full candour of his heart
he explained to her that such an accusation was grievous to
him; that he did think it would be unmanly to desert his post,
merely to escape his present sufferings, and that, therefore, he
must bear as best he might the misery which was prepared for him.
And did she find these details tedious? Oh, no; she
encouraged him to dilate on every feeling he expressed, till he
laid bare the inmost corners of his heart to her. They spoke
together of the archdeacon, as two children might of a stern,
unpopular, but still respected schoolmaster, and of the bishop
as a parent kind as kind could be, but powerless against an
omnipotent pedagogue.
And then when they had discussed all this, when the father
had told all to the child, she could not be less confiding than
he had been; and as John Bold's name was mentioned between
them, she owned how well she had learned to love him--'had
loved him once,' she said, 'but she would not, could not
do so now--no, even had her troth been plighted to him,
she would have taken it back again--had she sworn to love
him as his wife, she would have discarded him, and not felt
herself forsworn, when he proved himself the enemy of her
father.'
But the warden declared that Bold was no enemy of his, and
encouraged her love; and gently rebuked, as he kissed her,
the stern resolve she had made to cast him off; and then he
spoke to her of happier days when their trials would all be
over; and declared that her young heart should not be torn
asunder to please either priest or prelate, dean or archdeacon.
No, not if all Oxford were to convocate together, and agree
as to the necessity of the sacrifice.
And so they greatly comforted each other--and in what
sorrow will not such mutual confidence give consolation!--
and with a last expression of tender love they parted, and went
comparatively happy to their rooms.
CHAPTER XI
Iphigenia
When Eleanor laid her head on her pillow that night,
her mind was anxiously intent on some plan by which
she might extricate her father from his misery; and, in her
warm-hearted enthusiasm, self-sacrifice was decided on as the
means to be adopted. Was not so good an Agamemnon
worthy of an Iphigenia? She would herself personally implore
John Bold to desist from his undertaking; she would explain
to him her father's sorrows, the cruel misery of his position;
she would tell him how her father would die if he were thus
dragged before the public and exposed to such unmerited
ignominy; she would appeal to his old friendship, to his
generosity, to his manliness, to his mercy; if need were, she
would kneel to him for the favour she would ask; but before
she did this the idea of love must be banished. There must
be no bargain in the matter. To his mercy, to his generosity,
she could appeal; but as a pure maiden, hitherto even
unsolicited, she could not appeal to his love, nor under such
circumstances could she allow him to do so. Of course, when
so provoked he would declare his passion; that was to be
expected; there had been enough between them to make such
a fact sure; but it was equally certain that he must be
rejected. She could not be understood as saying, Make my
father free and I am the reward. There would be no sacrifice
in that--not so had Jephthah's daughter saved her father--
not so could she show to that kindest, dearest of parents how
much she was able to bear for his good. No; to one resolve
must her whole soul be bound; and so resolving, she felt that
she could make her great request to Bold with as much self-
assured confidence as she could have done to his grandfather.
And now I own I have fears for my heroine; not as to the
upshot of her mission--not in the least as to that; as to the
full success of her generous scheme, and the ultimate result of
such a project, no one conversant with human nature and
novels can have a doubt; but as to the amount of sympathy
she may receive from those of her own sex. Girls below twenty and
old ladies above sixty will do her justice; for in the female heart
the soft springs of sweet romance reopen after many years, and
again gush out with waters pure as in earlier days, and greatly
refresh the path that leads downwards to the grave. But I fear
that the majority of those between these two eras will not approve
of Eleanor's plan. I fear that unmarried ladies of thirty-five
will declare that there can be no probability of so absurd a
project being carried through; that young women on their knees
before their lovers are sure to get kissed, and that they would
not put themselves in such a position did they not expect it;
that Eleanor is going to Bold only because circumstances prevent
Bold from coming to her; that she is certainly a little fool, or a
little schemer, but that in all probability she is thinking a
good deal more about herself than her father.
Dear ladies, you are right as to your appreciation of the
circumstances, but very wrong as to Miss Harding's character.
Miss Harding was much younger than you are, and could not,
therefore, know, as you may do, to what dangers such an
encounter might expose her. She may get kissed; I think it very
probable that she will; but I give my solemn word and positive
assurance, that the remotest idea of such a catastrophe never
occurred to her as she made the great resolve now alluded to.
And then she slept; and then she rose refreshed; and met
her father with her kindest embrace and most loving smiles;
and on the whole their breakfast was by no means so triste as
had been their dinner the day before; and then, making some
excuse to her father for so soon leaving him, she started on the
commencement of her operations.
She knew that John Bold was in London, and that, therefore,
the scene itself could not be enacted today; but she also
knew that he was soon to be home, probably on the next day,
and it was necessary that some little plan for meeting him
should be concerted with his sister Mary. When she got up to
the house, she went, as usual, into the morning sitting-room,
and was startled by perceiving, by a stick, a greatcoat, and
sundry parcels which were lying about, that Bold must already
have returned.
'John has come back so suddenly,' said Mary, coming into
the room; 'he has been travelling all night.'
'Then I'll come up again some other time,' said Eleanor,
about to beat a retreat in her sudden dismay.
'He's out now, and will be for the next two hours,' said the
other; 'he's with that horrid Finney; he only came to see
him, and he returns by the mail train tonight.'
Returns by the mail train tonight, thought Eleanor to herself,
as she strove to screw up her courage--away again tonight--then it
must be now or never; and she again sat down, having risen to go.
She wished the ordeal could have been postponed: she had
fully made up her mind to do the deed, but she had not made
up her mind to do it this very day; and now she felt ill at ease,
astray, and in difficulty.
'Mary,' she began, 'I must see your brother before he goes back.'
'Oh yes, of course,' said the other; 'I know he'll be delighted
to see you'; and she tried to treat it as a matter of course,
but she was not the less surprised; for Mary and Eleanor had
daily talked over John Bold and his conduct, and his love, and
Mary would insist on calling Eleanor her sister, and would scold
her for not calling Bold by his Christian name; and Eleanor
would half confess her love, but like a modest maiden would
protest against such familiarities even with the name of her
lover; and so they talked hour after hour, and Mary Bold, who
was much the elder, looked forward with happy confidence to the
day when Eleanor would not be ashamed to call her her sister.
She was, however, fully sure that just at present Eleanor would
be much more likely to avoid her brother than to seek him.
'Mary, I must see your brother, now, today, and beg from
him a great favour'; and she spoke with a solemn air, not at
all usual to her; and then she went on, and opened to her
friend all her plan, her well-weighed scheme for saving her
father from a sorrow which would, she said, if it lasted, bring
him to his grave. 'But, Mary,' she continued, 'you must now,
you know, cease any joking about me and Mr Bold; you must
now say no more about that; I am not ashamed to beg this
favour from your brother, but when I have done so, there can
never be anything further between us'; and this she said with
a staid and solemn air, quite worthy of Jephthah's daughter
or of Iphigenia either.
It was quite clear that Mary Bold did not follow the argument.
That Eleanor Harding should appeal, on behalf of her father, to
Bold's better feelings seemed to Mary quite natural; it
seemed quite natural that he should relent, overcome by
such filial tears, and by so much beauty; but, to her thinking,
it was at any rate equally natural, that having relented, John
should put his arm round his mistress's waist, and say: 'Now
having settled that, let us be man and wife, and all will end
happily!' Why his good nature should not be rewarded,
when such reward would operate to the disadvantage of none,
Mary, who had more sense than romance, could not understand;
and she said as much.
Eleanor, however, was firm, and made quite an eloquent
speech to support her own view of the question: she could not
condescend, she said, to ask such a favour on any other terms
than those proposed. Mary might, perhaps, think her high-
flown, but she had her own ideas, and she could not submit to
sacrifice her self-respect.
'But I am sure you love him--don't you?' pleaded Mary;
'and I am sure he loves you better than anything in the world.'
Eleanor was going to make another speech, but a tear came
to each eye, and she could not; so she pretended to blow her
nose, and walked to the window, and made a little inward call
on her own courage, and finding herself somewhat sustained,
said sententiously: 'Mary, this is nonsense.'
'But you do love him,' said Mary, who had followed her
friend to the window, and now spoke with her arms close
wound round the other's waist. 'You do love him with all
your heart--you know you do; I defy you to deny it.'
'I--' commenced Eleanor, turning sharply round to refute
the charge; but the intended falsehood stuck in her throat,
and never came to utterance. She could not deny her love,
so she took plentifully to tears, and leant upon her friend's
bosom and sobbed there, and protested that, love or no love,
it would make no difference in her resolve, and called Mary,
a thousand times, the most cruel of girls, and swore her to
secrecy by a hundred oaths, and ended by declaring that the
girl who could betray her friend's love, even to a brother,
would be as black a traitor as a soldier in a garrison who should
open the city gates to the enemy. While they were yet discussing
the matter, Bold returned, and Eleanor was forced into
sudden action: she had either to accomplish or abandon her
plan; and having slipped into her friend's bedroom, as the
gentleman closed the hall door, she washed the marks of tears
from her eyes, and resolved within herself to go through with
it. 'Tell him I am here,' said she, 'and coming in; and mind,
whatever you do, don't leave us.' So Mary informed her
brother, with a somewhat sombre air, that Miss Harding was
in the next room, and was coming to speak to him.
Eleanor was certainly thinking more of her father than herself,
as she arranged her hair before the glass, and removed the
traces of sorrow from her face; and yet I should be untrue if
I said that she was not anxious to appear well before her lover:
why else was she so sedulous with that stubborn curl that
would rebel against her hand, and smooth so eagerly her
ruffled ribands? why else did she damp her eyes to dispel the
redness, and bite her pretty lips to bring back the colour? Of
course she was anxious to look her best, for she was but a
mortal angel after all. But had she been immortal, had she
flitted back to the sitting-room on a cherub's wings, she could
not have had a more faithful heart, or a truer wish to save her
father at any cost to herself.
John Bold had not met her since the day when she left him
in dudgeon in the cathedral close. Since that his whole time
had been occupied in promoting the cause against her father,
and not unsuccessfully. He had often thought of her, and
turned over in his mind a hundred schemes for showing her
how disinterested was his love. He would write to her and
beseech her not to allow the performance of a public duty to
injure him in her estimation; he would write to Mr Harding,
explain all his views, and boldly claim the warden's daughter,
urging that the untoward circumstances between them need
be no bar to their ancient friendship, or to a closer tie; he
would throw himself on his knees before his mistress; he would
wait and marry the daughter when the father has lost his
home and his income; he would give up the lawsuit and go to
Australia, with her of course, leaving The Jupiter and Mr
Finney to complete the case between them. Sometimes as he
woke in the morning fevered and impatient, he would blow
out his brains and have done with all his cares--but this idea
was generally consequent on an imprudent supper enjoyed in
company with Tom Towers.
How beautiful Eleanor appeared to him as she slowly walked
into the room! Not for nothing had all those little cares been
taken. Though her sister, the archdeacon's wife, had spoken
slightingly of her charms, Eleanor was very beautiful when
seen aright. Hers was not of those impassive faces, which have
the beauty of a marble bust; finely chiselled features, perfect
in every line, true to the rules of symmetry, as lovely to a
stranger as to a friend, unvarying unless in sickness, or as age
affects them. She had no startling brilliancy of beauty, no
pearly whiteness, no radiant carnation. She had not the
majestic contour that rivets attention, demands instant wonder
and then disappoints by the coldness of its charms. You might
pass Eleanor Harding in the street without notice, but you
could hardly pass an evening with her and not lose your heart.
She had never appeared more lovely to her lover than she
now did. Her face was animated though it was serious, and
her full dark lustrous eyes shone with anxious energy; her
hand trembled as she took his, and she could hardly pronounce
his name, when she addressed him. Bold wished with all his
heart that the Australian scheme was in the act of realisation,
and that he and Eleanor were away together, never to hear
further of the lawsuit.
He began to talk, asked after her health--said something
about London being very stupid, and more about Barchester
being very pleasant; declared the weather to be very hot, and
then inquired after Mr Harding.
'My father is not very well,' said Eleanor.
John Bold was very sorry, so sorry: he hoped it was nothing
serious, and put on the unmeaningly solemn face which people
usually use on such occasions.
'I especially want to speak to you about my father, Mr Bold;
indeed, I am now here on purpose to do so. Papa is very unhappy,
very unhappy indeed, about this affair of the hospital:
you would pity him, Mr Bold, if you could see how wretched
it has made him.'
'Oh, Miss Harding!'
'Indeed you would--anyone would pity him; but a friend,
an old friend as you are--indeed you would. He is an altered
man; his cheerfulness has all gone, and his sweet temper, and
his kind happy tone of voice; you would hardly know him if
you saw him, Mr Bold, he is so much altered; and--and--if
this goes on, he will die.' Here Eleanor had recourse to her
handkerchief, and so also had her auditors; but she plucked
up her courage, and went on with her tale. 'He will break his
heart, and die. I am sure, Mr Bold, it was not you who wrote
those cruel things in the newspaper--'
John Bold eagerly protested that it was not, but his heart
smote him as to his intimate alliance with Tom Towers.
'No, I am sure it was not; and papa has not for a moment
thought so; you would not be so cruel--but it has nearly
killed him. Papa cannot bear to think that people should so
speak of him, and that everybody should hear him so spoken
of:--they have called him avaricious, and dishonest, and they
say he is robbing the old men, and taking the money of the
hospital for nothing.'
'I have never said so, Miss Harding. I--'
'No,' continued Eleanor, interrupting him, for she was now
in the full flood-tide of her eloquence; 'no, I am sure you have
not; but others have said so; and if this goes on, if such things
are written again, it will kill papa. Oh! Mr Bold, if you only
knew the state he is in! Now papa does not care much about money.'
Both her auditors, brother and sister, assented to this, and
declared on their own knowledge that no man lived less
addicted to filthy lucre than the warden.
'Oh! it's so kind of you to say so, Mary, and of you too,
Mr Bold. I couldn't bear that people should think unjustly
of papa. Do you know he would give up the hospital altogether,
only he cannot. The archdeacon says it would be cowardly,
and that he would be deserting his order, and injuring the
church. Whatever may happen, papa will not do that: he would
leave the place tomorrow willingly, and give up his house, and
the income and all if the archdeacon--'
Eleanor was going to say 'would let him,' but she stopped herself
before she had compromised her father's dignity; and giving
a long sigh, she added--'Oh, I do so wish he would.'
'No one who knows Mr Harding personally accuses him for
a moment,' said Bold.
'It is he that has to bear the punishment; it is he that
suffers,' said Eleanor; 'and what for? what has he done
wrong? how has he deserved this persecution? he that never
had an unkind thought in his life, he that never said an unkind
word!' and here she broke down, and the violence of her sobs
stopped her utterance.
Bold, for the fifth or sixth time, declared that neither he nor
any of his friends imputed any blame personally to Mr Harding.
'Then why should he be persecuted?' ejaculated Eleanor
through her tears, forgetting in her eagerness that her intention
had been to humble herself as a suppliant before John Bold--
'why should he be singled out for scorn and disgrace? why
should he be made so wretched? Oh! Mr Bold'--and she turned
towards him as though the kneeling scene were about to be
commenced--'oh! Mr Bold, why did you begin all this? You, whom
we all so--so--valued!'
To speak the truth, the reformer's punishment was certainly
come upon him, for his present plight was not enviable; he
had nothing 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 her father would
object; whether she herself had any aversion (aversion! God help
her, poor girl! the word nearly made her jump into his arms); any
other preference (this she loudly disclaimed); whether it was
impossible that she should love him (Eleanor could not say that it
was impossible): and so at last all her defences demolished, all
her maiden barriers swept away, she capitulated, or rather marched
out with the honours of war, vanquished evidently, palpably
vanquished, but still not reduced to the necessity of confessing it.
And so the altar on the shore of the modern Aulis reeked
with no sacrifice.
CHAPTER XII
Mr Bold's Visit to Plumstead
Whether or no the ill-natured prediction made by certain
ladies in the beginning of the last chapter was or was not
carried out to the letter, I am not in a position to state.
Eleanor, however, certainly did feel herself to have been
baffled as she returned home with all her news to her father.
Certainly she had been victorious, certainly she had achieved
her object, certainly she was not unhappy, and yet she did not
feel herself triumphant. Everything would run smooth now.
Eleanor was not at all addicted to the Lydian school of
romance; she by no means objected to her lover because he
came in at the door under the name of Absolute, instead of
pulling her out of a window under the name of Beverley; and
yet she felt that she had been imposed upon, and could hardly
think of Mary Bold with sisterly charity. 'I did think I could
have trusted Mary,' she said to herself over and over again.
'Oh that she should have dared to keep me in the room when
I tried to get out!' Eleanor, however, felt that the game was
up, and that she had now nothing further to do but to add to
the budget of news which was prepared for her father, that
John Bold was her accepted lover.
We will, however, now leave her on her way, and go with
John Bold to Plumstead Episcopi, merely premising that
Eleanor on reaching home will not find things so smooth as she
fondly expected; two messengers had come, one to her father
and the other to the archdeacon, and each of them much
opposed to her quiet mode of solving all their difficulties; the
one in the shape of a number of The Jupiter, and the other in
that of a further opinion from Sir Abraham Haphazard.
John Bold got on his horse and rode off to Plumstead Episcopi;
not briskly and with eager spur, as men do ride when self-
satisfied with their own intentions; but slowly, modestly,
thoughtfully, and somewhat in dread of the coming interview.
Now and again he would recur to the scene which was just
over, support himself by the remembrance of the silence that
gives consent, and exult as a happy lover. But even this feeling
was not without a shade of remorse. Had he not shown himself
childishly weak thus to yield up the resolve of many hours
of thought to the tears of a pretty girl? How was he to meet
his lawyer? How was he to back out of a matter in which his
name was already so publicly concerned? What, oh what!
was he to say to Tom Towers? While meditating these painful
things he reached the lodge leading up to the archdeacon's
glebe, and for the first time in his life found himself within the
sacred precincts.
All the doctor's children were together on the slope of the
lawn close to the road, as Bold rode up to the hall door. They
were there holding high debate on matters evidently of deep
interest at Plumstead Episcopi, and the voices of the boys had
been heard before the lodge gate was closed.
Florinda and Grizzel, frightened at the sight of so well-
known an enemy to the family, fled on the first appearance of
the horseman, and ran in terror to their mother's arms; not
for them was it, tender branches, to resent injuries, or as
members of a church militant to put on armour against its
enemies. But the boys stood their ground like heroes, and
boldly demanded the business of the intruder.
'Do you want to see anybody here, sir?' said Henry, with a
defiant eye and a hostile tone, which plainly said that at any
rate no one there wanted to see the person so addressed; and
as he spoke he brandished aloft his garden water-pot, holding
it by the spout, ready for the braining of anyone.
'Henry,' said Charles James slowly, and with a certain
dignity of diction, 'Mr Bold of course would not have come
without wanting to see someone; if Mr Bold has a proper
ground for wanting to see some person here, of course he has
a right to come.'
But Samuel stepped lightly up to the horse's head, and
offered his services. 'Oh, Mr Bold,' said he, 'papa, I'm sure,
will be glad to see you; I suppose you want to see papa. Shall
I hold your horse for you? Oh what a very pretty horse!' and
he turned his head and winked funnily at his brothers. 'Papa
has heard such good news about the old hospital today. We
know you'll be glad to hear it, because you're such a friend of
grandpapa Harding, and so much in love with Aunt Nelly!'
'How d'ye do, lads?' said Bold, dismounting. 'I want to
see your father if he's at home.'
'Lads!' said Henry, turning on his heel and addressing himself
to his brother, but loud enough to be heard by Bold; 'lads,
indeed! if we're lads, what does he call himself?'
Charles James condescended to say nothing further, but
cocked his hat with much precision, and left the visitor to the
care of his youngest brother.
Samuel stayed till the servant came, chatting and patting
the horse; but as soon as Bold had disappeared through the
front door, he stuck a switch under the animal's tail to make
him kick if possible.
The church reformer soon found himself tete-a-tete with the
archdeacon in that same room, in that sanctum sanctorum of
the rectory, to which we have already been introduced. As he
entered he heard the click of a certain patent lock, but it struck
him with no surprise; the worthy clergyman was no doubt
hiding from eyes profane his last much-studied sermon; for
the archdeacon, though he preached but seldom, was famous
for his sermons. No room, Bold thought, could have been
more becoming for a dignitary of the church; each wall was
loaded with theology; over each separate bookcase was printed
in small gold letters the names of those great divines whose
works were ranged beneath: beginning from the early fathers
in due chronological order, there were to be found the precious
labours of the chosen servants of the church down to the last
pamphlet written in opposition to the consecration of Dr
Hampden; and raised above this were to be seen the busts of
the greatest among the great: Chrysostom, St Augustine,
Thomas a Becket, Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop Laud, and
Dr Philpotts.
Every appliance that could make study pleasant and give
ease to the overtoiled brain was there; chairs made to relieve
each limb and muscle; reading-desks and writing-desks to
suit every attitude; lamps and candles mechanically contrived
to throw their light on any favoured spot, as the student might
desire; a shoal of newspapers to amuse the few leisure
moments which might be stolen from the labours of the day;
and then from the window a view right through a bosky vista
along which ran a broad green path from the rectory to the
church--at the end of which the tawny-tinted fine old tower
was seen with all its variegated pinnacles and parapets. Few
parish churches in England are in better repair, or better
worth keeping so, than that at Plumstead Episcopi; and yet
it is built in a faulty style: the body of the church is low--so
low, that the nearly flat leaden roof would be visible from the
churchyard, were it not for the carved parapet with which it
is surrounded. It is cruciform, though the transepts are
irregular, one being larger than the other; and the tower is
much too high in proportion to the church. But the colour of
the building is perfect; it is that rich yellow gray which one
finds nowhere but in the south and west of England, and
which is so strong a characteristic of most of our old houses of
Tudor architecture. The stone work also is beautiful; the
mullions of the windows and the thick tracery of the Gothic
workmanship is as rich as fancy can desire; and though in
gazing on such a structure one knows by rule that the old
priests who built it, built it wrong, one cannot bring oneself to
wish that they should have made it other than it is.
When Bold was ushered into the book-room, he found its
owner standing with his back to the empty fire-place ready to
receive him, and he could not but perceive that that expansive
brow was elated with triumph, and that those full heavy lips bore
more prominently than usual an appearance of arrogant success.
'Well, Mr Bold,' said he--'well, what can I do for you?
Very happy, I can assure you, to do anything for such a friend
of my father-in-law.'
'I hope you'll excuse my calling, Dr Grantly.'
'Certainly, certainly,' said the archdeacon; 'I can assure
you, no apology is necessary from Mr Bold; only let me know
what I can do for him.'
Dr Grantly was standing himself, and he did not ask Bold
to sit, and therefore he had to tell his tale standing, leaning on
the table, with his hat in his hand. He did, however, manage
to tell it; and as the archdeacon never once interrupted him,
or even encouraged him by a single word, he was not long in
coming to the end of it.
'And so, Mr Bold, I'm to understand, I believe, that you are
desirous of abandoning this attack upon Mr Harding.'
'Oh, Dr Grantly, there has been no attack, I can assure you--'
'Well, well, we won't quarrel about words; I should call it
an attack--most men would so call an endeavour to take away
from a man every shilling of income that he has to live upon;
but it sha'n't be an attack, if you don't like it; you wish to
abandon this--this little game of backgammon you've begun to play.'
'I intend to put an end to the legal proceedings which I have
commenced.'
'I understand,' said the archdeacon. 'You've already had
enough of it; well, I can't say that I am surprised; carrying
on a losing lawsuit where one has nothing to gain, but everything
to pay, is not pleasant.'
Bold turned very red in the face. 'You misinterpret my
motives,' said he; 'but, however, that is of little consequence.
I did not come to trouble you with my motives, but to tell you
a matter of fact. Good-morning, Dr Grantly.'
'One moment--one moment,' said the other. 'I don't
exactly appreciate the taste which induced you to make any
personal communication to me on the subject; but I dare say
I'm wrong, I dare say your judgment is the better of the two;
but as you have done me the honour--as you have, as it were,
forced me into a certain amount of conversation on a subject
which had better, perhaps, have been left to our lawyers, you will
excuse me if I ask you to hear my reply to your communication.'
'I am in no hurry, Dr Grantly.'
'Well, I am, Mr Bold; my time is not exactly leisure time, and,
therefore, if you please, we'll go to the point at once--you're
going to abandon this lawsuit?'--and he paused for a reply.
'Yes, Dr Grantly, I am.'
'Having exposed a gentleman who was one of your father's
warmest friends to all the ignominy and insolence which the
press could heap upon his name, having somewhat ostentatiously
declared that it was your duty as a man of high public
virtue to protect those poor old fools whom you have humbugged
there at the hospital, you now find that the game costs
more than it's worth, and so you make up your mind to have
done with it. A prudent resolution, Mr Bold; but it is a pity
you should have been so long coming to it. Has it struck you
that we may not now choose to give over? that we may find it
necessary to punish the injury you have done to us? Are you
aware, sir, that we have gone to enormous expense to resist
this iniquitous attempt of yours?'
Bold's face was now furiously red, and he nearly crushed his
hat between his hands; but he said nothing.
'We have found it necessary to employ the best advice that
money could procure. Are you aware, sir, what may be the
probable cost of securing the services of the attorney-general?'
'Not in the least, Dr Grantly.'
'I dare say not, sir. When you recklessly put this affair into
the hands of your friend Mr Finney, whose six-and-eightpences
and thirteen-and-fourpences may, probably, not amount to a
large sum, you were indifferent as to the cost and suffering
which such a proceeding might entail on others; but are you
aware, sir, that these crushing costs must now come out of your
own pocket?'
'Any demand of such a nature which Mr Harding's lawyer
may have to make will doubtless be made to my lawyer.'
'"Mr Harding's lawyer and my lawyer!" Did you come
here merely to refer me to the lawyers? Upon my word I
think the honour of your visit might have been spared! And
now, sir, I'll tell you what my opinion is--my opinion is, that
we shall not allow you to withdraw this matter from the courts.'
'You can do as you please, Dr Grantly; good-morning.'
'Hear me out, sir,' said the archdeacon; 'I have here in my
hands the last opinion given in this matter by Sir Abraham
Haphazard. I dare say you have already heard of this--I
dare say it has had something to do with your visit here today.'
'I know nothing whatever of Sir Abraham Haphazard or
his opinion.'
'Be that as it may, here it is; he declares most explicitly that
under no phasis of the affair whatever have you a leg to stand
upon; that Mr Harding is as safe in his hospital as I am here
in my rectory; that a more futile attempt to destroy a man
was never made, than this which you have made to ruin Mr
Harding. Here,' and he slapped the paper on the table, 'I
have this opinion from the very first lawyer in the land; and
under these circumstances you expect me to make you a low
bow for your kind offer to release Mr Harding from the toils
of your net! Sir, your net is not strong enough to hold him;
sir, your net has fallen to pieces, and you knew that well
enough before I told you--and now, sir, I'll wish you good-
morning, for I'm busy.'
Bold was now choking with passion. He had let the archdeacon
run on because he knew not with what words to
interrupt him; but now that he had been so defied and insulted,
he could not leave the room without some reply.
'Dr Grantly,' he commenced.
'I have nothing further to say or to hear,' said the archdeacon.
'I'll do myself the honour to order your horse.' And he rang
the bell.
'I came here, Dr Grantly, with the warmest, kindest feelings--'
'Oh, of course you did; nobody doubts it.'
'With the kindest feelings--and they have been most grossly
outraged by your treatment.'
'Of course they have--I have not chosen to see my father-in-law
ruined; what an outrage that has been to your feelings!'
'The time will come, Dr Grantly, when you will understand
why I called upon you today.'
'No doubt, no doubt. Is Mr Bold's horse there? That's
right; open the front door. Good-morning, Mr Bold'; and
the doctor stalked into his own drawing-room, closing the door
behind him, and making it quite impossible that John Bold
should speak another word.
As he got on his horse, which he was fain to do feeling like a dog
turned out of a kitchen, he was again greeted by little Sammy.
'Good-bye, Mr Bold; I hope we may have the pleasure of
seeing you again before long; I am sure papa will always be
glad to see you.'
That was certainly the bitterest moment in John Bold's life.
Not even the remembrance of his successful love could comfort
him; nay, when he thought of Eleanor he felt that it was that
very love which had brought him to such a pass. That he
should have been so insulted, and be unable to reply! That he
should have given up so much to the request of a girl, and then
have had his motives so misunderstood! That he should have
made so gross a mistake as this visit of his to the archdeacon's!
He bit the top of his whip, till he penetrated the horn of which
it was made: he struck the poor animal in his anger, and then
was doubly angry with himself at his futile passion. He had
been so completely checkmated, so palpably overcome! and
what was he to do? He could not continue his action after
pledging himself to abandon it; nor was there any revenge in
that--it was the very step to which his enemy had endeavoured
to goad him!
He threw the reins to the servant who came to take his horse,
and rushed upstairs into his drawing-room, where his sister
Mary was sitting.
'If there be a devil,' said he, 'a real devil here on earth, it is
Dr Grantly.' He vouchsafed her no further intelligence, but
again seizing his hat, he rushed out, and took his departure for
London without another word to anyone.
CHAPTER XIII
The Warden's Decision
The meeting between Eleanor and her father was not so
stormy as that described in the last chapter, but it was
hardly more successful. On her return from Bold's house she
found her father in a strange state. He was not sorrowful and
silent as he had been on that memorable day when his son-in-law
lectured him as to all that he owed to his order; nor was
he in his usual quiet mood. When Eleanor reached the hospital,
he was walking to and fro upon the lawn, and she soon saw
that he was much excited.
'I am going to London, my dear,' he said as soon as he
saw her.
'London,papa!'
'Yes, my dear, to London; I will have this matter settled
some way; there are some things, Eleanor, which I cannot bear.'
'Oh, papa, what is it?' said she, leading him by the arm
into the house. 'I had such good news for you, and now you
make me fear I am too late. And then, before he could let
her know what had caused this sudden resolve, or could point
to the fatal paper which lay on the table, she told him that the
lawsuit was over, that Bold had commissioned her to assure
her father in his name that it would be abandoned,--that there
was no further cause for misery, that the whole matter might
be looked on as though it had never been discussed. She did
not tell him with what determined vehemence she had obtained
this concession in his favour, nor did she mention the price
she was to pay for it.
The warden did not express himself peculiarly gratified at
this intelligence, and Eleanor, though she had not worked for
thanks, and was by no means disposed to magnify her own good
offices, felt hurt at the manner in which her news was received.
'Mr Bold can act as he thinks proper, my love,' said he; 'if
Mr Bold thinks he has been wrong, of course he will discontinue
what he is doing; but that cannot change my purpose.'
'Oh, papa!' she exclaimed, all but crying with vexation;
'I thought you would have been so happy--I thought all
would have been right now.'
'Mr Bold,' continued he, 'has set great people to work--so
great that I doubt they are now beyond his control. Read
that, my dear.' The warden, doubling up a number of The
Jupiter, pointed to the peculiar article which she was to read.
It was to the last of the three leaders, which are generally
furnished daily for the support of the nation, that Mr Harding
directed her attention. It dealt some heavy blows on various
clerical delinquents; on families who received their tens of
thousands yearly for doing nothing; on men who, as the
article stated, rolled in wealth which they had neither earned
nor inherited, and which was in fact stolen from the poorer
clergy. It named some sons of bishops, and grandsons of
archbishops; men great in their way, who had redeemed their
disgrace in the eyes of many by the enormity of their plunder;
and then, having disposed of these leviathans, it descended to
Mr Harding.
'We alluded some weeks since to an instance of similar
injustice, though in a more humble scale, in which the warden
of an almshouse at Barchester has become possessed of the
income of the greater part of the whole institution. Why an
almshouse should have a warden we cannot pretend to explain,
nor can we say what special need twelve old men can have for
the services of a separate clergyman, seeing that they have
twelve reserved seats for themselves in Barchester Cathedral.
But be this as it may, let the gentleman call himself warden
or precentor, or what he will, let him be never so scrupulous
in exacting religious duties from his twelve dependents, or
never so negligent as regards the services of the cathedral, it
appears palpably clear that he can be entitled to no portion of
the revenue of the hospital, excepting that which the founder
set apart for him; and it is equally clear that the founder did
not intend that three-fifths of his charity should be so consumed.
'The case is certainly a paltry one after the tens of thousands
with which we have been dealing, for the warden's income is
after all but a poor eight hundred a year: eight hundred a
year is not magnificent preferment of itself, and the warden
may, for anything we know, be worth much more to the
church; but if so, let the church pay him out of funds justly
at its own disposal.
'We allude to the question of the Barchester almshouse at
the present moment, because we understand that a plea has
been set up which will be peculiarly revolting to the minds
of English churchmen. An action has been taken against Mr
Warden Harding, on behalf of the almsmen, by a gentleman
acting solely on public grounds, and it is to be argued that Mr
Harding takes nothing but what he received as a servant of the
hospital, and that he is not himself responsible for the amount
of stipend given to him for his work. Such a plea would
doubtless be fair, if anyone questioned the daily wages of a
bricklayer employed on the building, or the fee of the charwoman
who cleans it; but we cannot envy the feeling of a clergyman
of the Church of England who could allow such an argument to be
put in his mouth.
'If this plea be put forward we trust Mr Harding will be
forced as a witness to state the nature of his employment; the
amount of work that he does; the income which he receives;
and the source from whence he obtained his appointment.
We do not think he will receive much public sympathy to
atone for the annoyance of such an examination.'
As Eleanor read the article her face flushed with indignation,
and when she had finished it, she almost feared to look
up at her father.
'Well, my dear,' said he, 'what do you think of that--is it
worth while to be a warden at that price?'
'Oh, papa;--dear papa!'
'Mr Bold can't un-write that, my dear--Mr Bold can't say
that that sha'n't be read by every clergyman at Oxford; nay,
by every gentleman in the land': and then he walked up and
down the room, while Eleanor in mute despair followed him
with her eyes. 'And I'll tell you what, my dear,' he continued,
speaking now very calmly, and in a forced manner very unlike
himself; 'Mr Bold can't dispute the truth of every word in
that article you have just read--nor can I.' Eleanor stared
at him, as though she scarcely understood the words he was
speaking. 'Nor can I, Eleanor: that's the worst of all, or
would be so if there were no remedy. I have thought much of
all this since we were together last night'; and he came and
sat beside her, and put his arm round her waist as he had done
then. 'I have thought much of what the archdeacon has said,
and of what this paper says; and I do believe I have no right
to be here.'
'No right to be warden of the hospital, papa?'
'No right to be warden with eight hundred a year; no
right to be warden with such a house as this; no right to spend
in luxury money that was intended for charity. Mr Bold may
do as he pleases about his suit, but I hope he will not abandon
it for my sake.'
Poor Eleanor! this was hard upon her. Was it for this she
had made her great resolve! For this that she had laid aside
her quiet demeanour, and taken upon her the rants of a
tragedy heroine! One may work and not for thanks, but yet
feel hurt at not receiving them; and so it was with Eleanor:
one may be disinterested in one's good actions, and yet feel
discontented that they are not recognised. Charity may be
given with the left hand so privily that the right hand does not
know it, and yet the left hand may regret to feel that it has no
immediate reward. Eleanor had had no wish to burden her
father with a weight of obligation, and yet she had looked
forward to much delight from the knowledge that she had
freed him from his sorrows: now such hopes were entirely over:
all that she had done was of no avail; she had humbled herself
to Bold in vain; the evil was utterly beyond her power to cure!
She had thought also how gently she would whisper to her
father all that her lover had said to her about herself, and how
impossible she had found it to reject him: and then she had
anticipated her father's kindly kiss and close embrace as he
gave his sanction to her love. Alas! she could say nothing of
this now. In speaking of Mr Bold, her father put him aside as
one whose thoughts and sayings and acts could be of no
moment. Gentle reader, did you ever feel yourself snubbed?
Did you ever, when thinking much of your own importance,
find yourself suddenly reduced to a nonentity? Such was
Eleanor's feeling now.
'They shall not put forward this plea on my behalf,' continued
the warden. 'Whatever may be the truth of the matter, that
at any rate is not true; and the man who wrote that article
is right in saying that such a plea is revolting to an honest
mind. I will go up to London, my dear, and see these lawyers
myself, and if no better excuse can be made for me than that,
I and the hospital will part.'
'But the archdeacon, papa?'
'I can't help it, my dear; there are some things which a
man cannot bear--I cannot bear that'; and he put his hand
upon the newspaper.
'But will the archdeacon go with you?'
To tell the truth, Mr Harding had made up his mind to
steal a march upon the archdeacon. He was aware that he
could take no steps without informing his dread son-in-law,
but he had resolved that he would send out a note to Plumstead
Episcopi detailing his plans, but that the messenger should
not leave Barchester till he himself had started for London;
so that he might be a day before the doctor, who, he had
no doubt, would follow him. In that day, if he had luck, he
might arrange it all; he might explain to Sir Abraham that
he, as warden, would have nothing further to do with the
defence about to be set up; he might send in his official
resignation to his friend the bishop, and so make public the whole
transaction, that even the doctor would not be able to undo
what he had done. He knew too well the doctor's strength and
his own weakness to suppose he could do this, if they both
reached London together; indeed, he would never be able to
get to London, if the doctor knew of his intended journey in
time to prevent it.
'No, I think not,' said he. 'I think I shall start before the
archdeacon could be ready--I shall go early tomorrow morning.'
'That will be best, papa,' said Eleanor, showing that her
father's ruse was appreciated.
'Why yes, my love. The fact is, I wish to do all this before
the archdeacon can--can interfere. There is a great deal of
truth in all he says--he argues very well, and I can't always
answer him; but there is an old saying, Nelly: " Everyone
knows where his own shoe pinches!" He'll say that I want
moral courage, and strength of character, and power of endurance,
and it's all true; but I'm sure I ought not to remain here, if I
have nothing better to put forward than a quibble: so, Nelly, we
shall have to leave this pretty place.'
Eleanor's face brightened up, as she assured her father how
cordially she agreed with him.
'True, my love,' said he, now again quite happy and at ease
in his manner. 'What good to us is this place or all the money,
if we are to be ill-spoken of?'
'Oh, papa, I am so glad!'
'My darling child! It did cost me a pang at first, Nelly, to
think that you should lose your pretty drawing-room, and your
ponies, and your garden: the garden will be the worst of all--
but there is a garden at Crabtree, a very pretty garden.'
Crabtree Parva was the name of the small living which Mr
Harding had held as a minor canon, and which still belonged
to him. It was only worth some eighty pounds a year, and a
small house and glebe, all of which were now handed over to
Mr Harding's curate; but it was to Crabtree glebe that Mr
Harding thought of retiring. This parish must not be mistaken
for that other living, Crabtree Canonicorum, as it is
called. Crabtree Canonicorum is a very nice thing; there are
only two hundred parishioners; there are four hundred acres
of glebe; and the great and small tithes, which both go to the
rector, are worth four hundred pounds a year more. Crabtree
Canonicorum is in the gift of the dean and chapter, and is at
this time possessed by the Honourable and Reverend Dr Vesey
Stanhope, who also fills the prebendal stall of Goosegorge in
Barchester Chapter, and holds the united rectory of Eiderdown
and Stogpingum, or Stoke Pinquium, as it should be
written. This is the same Dr Vesey Stanhope whose hospitable
villa on the Lake of Como is so well known to the elite of
English travellers, and whose collection of Lombard butterflies
is supposed to be unique.
'Yes,' said the warden, musing, 'there is a very pretty garden
at Crabtree; but I shall be sorry to disturb poor Smith.'
Smith was the curate of Crabtree, a gentleman who was maintaining
a wife and half a dozen children on the income arising
from his profession.
Eleanor assured her father that, as far as she was concerned,
she could leave her house and her ponies without a single
regret. She was only so happy that he was going--going
where he would escape all this dreadful turmoil.
'But we will take the music, my dear.'
And so they went on planning their future happiness, and
plotting how they would arrange it all without the interposition
of the archdeacon, and at last they again became confidential,
and then the warden did thank her for what she had done,
and Eleanor, lying on her father's shoulder, did find an
opportunity to tell her secret: and the father gave his blessing
to his child, and said that the man whom she loved was honest,
good, and kind-hearted, and right-thinking in the main--one
who wanted only a good wife to put him quite upright--'a
man, my love,' he ended by saying, 'to whom I firmly believe
that I can trust my treasure with safety.'
'But what will Dr Grantly say?'
'Well, my dear, it can't be helped--we shall be out at
Crabtree then.'
And Eleanor ran upstairs to prepare her father's clothes for
his journey; and the warden returned to his garden to make
his last adieux to every tree, and shrub, and shady nook that
he knew so well.
CHAPTER XIV
Mount Olympus
Wretched in spirit, groaning under the feeling of insult,
self-condemning, and ill-satisfied in every way, Bold returned
to his London lodgings. Ill as he had fared in his inter-view
with the archdeacon, he was not the less under the necessity of
carrying out his pledge to Eleanor; and he went about his
ungracious task with a heavy heart.
The attorneys whom he had employed in London received
his instructions with surprise and evident misgiving; however,
they could only obey, and mutter something of their sorrow
that such heavy costs should only fall upon their own employer
--especially as nothing was wanting but perseverance to
throw them on the opposite party. Bold left the office which
he had latterly so much frequented, shaking the dust from off
his feet; and before he was down the stairs, an edict had
already gone forth for the preparation of the bill.
He next thought of the newspapers. The case had been
taken up by more than one; and he was well aware that the
keynote had been sounded by The Jupiter. He had been very
intimate with Tom Towers, and had often discussed with him
the affairs of the hospital. Bold could not say that the articles
in that paper had been written at his own instigation. He did
not even know, as a fact, that they had been written by his
friend. Tom Towers had never said that such a view of the
case, or such a side in the dispute, would be taken by the paper
with which he was connected. Very discreet in such matters
was Tom Towers, and altogether indisposed to talk loosely of
the concerns of that mighty engine of which it was his high
privilege to move in secret some portion. Nevertheless Bold
believed that to him were owing those dreadful words which
had caused such panic at Barchester--and he conceived himself
bound to prevent their repetition. With this view he betook
himself from the attorneys' to that laboratory where, with
amazing chemistry, Tom Towers compounded thunderbolts for the
destruction of all that is evil, and for the furtherance of all
that is good, in this and other hemispheres.
Who has not heard of Mount Olympus--that high abode
of all the powers of type, that favoured seat of the great goddess
Pica, that wondrous habitation of gods and devils, from
whence, with ceaseless hum of steam and never-ending flow
of Castalian ink, issue forth fifty thousand nightly edicts for
the governance of a subject nation?
Velvet and gilding do not make a throne, nor gold and
jewels a sceptre. It is a throne because the most exalted one
sits there--and a sceptre because the most mighty one wields
it. So it is with Mount Olympus. Should a stranger make
his way thither at dull noonday, or during the sleepy hours of
the silent afternoon, he would find no acknowledged temple
of power and beauty, no fitting fane for the great Thunderer,
no proud facades and pillared roofs to support the dignity of
this greatest of earthly potentates. To the outward and
uninitiated eye, Mount Olympus is a somewhat humble spot,
undistinguished, unadorned--nay, almost mean. It stands
alone, as it were, in a mighty city, close to the densest throng
of men, but partaking neither of the noise nor the crowd; a
small secluded, dreary spot, tenanted, one would say, by quite
unambitious people at the easiest rents. 'Is this Mount
Olympus?' asks the unbelieving stranger. 'Is it from these
small, dark, dingy buildings that those infallible laws proceed
which cabinets are called upon to obey; by which bishops are
to be guided, lords and commons controlled, judges instructed
in law, generals in strategy, admirals in naval tactics, and
orange-women in the management of their barrows?' 'Yes,
my friend--from these walls. From here issue the only known
infallible bulls for the guidance of British souls and bodies.
This little court is the Vatican of England. Here reigns a
pope, self-nominated, self-consecrated--ay, and much stranger
too--self-believing!--a pope whom, if you cannot obey him,
I would advise you to disobey as silently as possible; a pope
hitherto afraid of no Luther; a pope who manages his own
inquisition, who punishes unbelievers as no most skilful
inquisitor of Spain ever dreamt of doing--one who can
excommunicate thoroughly, fearfully, radically; put you beyond the
pale of men's charity; make you odious to your dearest friends,
and turn you into a monster to be pointed at by the finger!'
Oh heavens! and this is Mount Olympus!
It is a fact amazing to ordinary mortals that The Jupiter is
never wrong. With what endless care, with what unsparing
labour, do we not strive to get together for our great national
council the men most fitting to compose it. And how we fail!
Parliament is always wrong: look at The Jupiter, and see how
futile are their meetings, how vain their council, how needless
all their trouble! With what pride do we regard our chief
ministers, the great servants of state, the oligarchs of the nation
on whose wisdom we lean, to whom we look for guidance in
our difficulties! But what are they to the writers of The Jupiter?
They hold council together and with anxious thought painfully
elaborate their country's good; but when all is done, The
Jupiter declares that all is naught. Why should we look to
Lord John Russell--why should we regard Palmerston and
Gladstone, when Tom Towers without a struggle can put us
right? Look at our generals, what faults they make; at our
admirals, how inactive they are. What money, honesty, and
science can do, is done; and yet how badly are our troops
brought together, fed, conveyed, clothed, armed, and managed.
The most excellent of our good men do their best to
man our ships, with the assistance of all possible external
appliances; but in vain. All, all is wrong--alas! alas! Tom
Towers, and he alone, knows all about it. Why, oh why, ye
earthly ministers, why have ye not followed more closely this
heaven-sent messenger that is among us?
Were it not well for us in our ignorance that we confided
all things to The Jupiter? Would it not be wise in us to abandon
useless talking, idle thinking, and profitless labour? Away
with majorities in the House of Commons, with verdicts from
judicial bench given after much delay, with doubtful laws, and
the fallible attempts of humanity! Does not The Jupiter, coming
forth daily with fifty thousand impressions full of unerring
decision on every mortal subject, set all matters sufficiently
at rest? Is not Tom Towers here, able to guide us and willing?
Yes indeed, able and willing to guide all men in all things,
so long as he is obeyed as autocrat should be obeyed--with
undoubting submission: only let not ungrateful ministers seek
other colleagues than those whom Tom Towers may approve;
let church and state, law and physic, commerce and agriculture,
the arts of war, and the arts of peace, all listen and obey,
and all will be made perfect. Has not Tom Towers an all-seeing
eye? From the diggings of Australia to those of California,
right round the habitable globe, does he not know, watch,
and chronicle the doings of everyone? From a bishopric in
New Zealand to an unfortunate director of a North-west
passage, is he not the only fit judge of capability?
From the sewers of London to the Central Railway of India--
from the palaces of St Petersburg to the cabins of Connaught,
nothing can escape him. Britons have but to read, to obey,
and be blessed. None but the fools doubt the wisdom of The
Jupiter; none but the mad dispute its facts.
No established religion has ever been without its unbelievers,
even in the country where it is the most firmly fixed; no creed
has been without scoffers; no church has so prospered as to
free itself entirely from dissent. There are those who doubt
The Jupiter! They live and breathe the upper air, walking
here unscathed, though scorned--men, born of British mothers
and nursed on English milk, who scruple not to say that Mount
Olympus has its price, that Tom Towers can be bought for gold!
Such is Mount Olympus, the mouthpiece of all the wisdom
of this great country. It may probably be said that no place
in this 19th century is more worthy of notice. No treasury
mandate armed with the signatures of all the government has
half the power of one of those broad sheets, which fly forth
from hence so abundantly, armed with no signature at all.
Some great man, some mighty peer--we'll say a noble duke
--retires to rest feared and honoured by all his countrymen--
fearless himself; if not a good man, at any rate a mighty man
--too mighty to care much what men may say about his want
of virtue. He rises in the morning degraded, mean, and
miserable; an object of men's scorn, anxious only to retire as
quickly as may be to some German obscurity, some unseen
Italian privacy, or indeed, anywhere out of sight. What has
made this awful change? what has so afflicted him? An
article has appeared in The Jupiter; some fifty lines of a narrow
column have destroyed all his grace's equanimity, and banished
him for ever from the world. No man knows who wrote
the bitter words; the clubs talk confusedly of the matter,
whispering to each other this and that name; while Tom
Towers walks quietly along Pall Mall, with his coat buttoned
close against the east wind, as though he were a mortal
man, and not a god dispensing thunderbolts from Mount Olympus.
It was not to Mount Olympus that our friend Bold betook
himself. He had before now wandered round that lonely spot,
thinking how grand a thing it was to write articles for The
Jupiter; considering within himself whether by any stretch of
the powers within him he could ever come to such distinction;
wondering how Tom Towers would take any little humble
offering of his talents; calculating that Tom Towers himself
must have once had a beginning, have once doubted as to his
own success. Towers could not have been born a writer in The
Jupiter. With such ideas, half ambitious and half awe-struck,
had Bold regarded the silent-looking workshop of the gods;
but he had never yet by word or sign attempted to influence
the slightest word of his unerring friend. On such a course
was he now intent; and not without much inward palpitation
did he betake himself to the quiet abode of wisdom, where
Tom Towers was to be found o' mornings inhaling ambrosia
and sipping nectar in the shape of toast and tea.
Not far removed from Mount Olympus, but somewhat
nearer to the blessed regions of the West, is the most favoured
abode of Themis. Washed by the rich tide which now passes
from the towers of Caesar to Barry's halls of eloquence; and
again back, with new offerings of a city's tribute, from the
palaces of peers to the mart of merchants, stand those quiet
walls which Law has delighted to honour by its presence.
What a world within a world is the Temple! how quiet are
its 'entangled walks,' as someone lately has called them, and
yet how close to the densest concourse of humanity! how
gravely respectable its sober alleys, though removed but by a
single step from the profanity of the Strand and the low
iniquity of Fleet Street! Old St Dunstan, with its bell-smiting
bludgeoners, has been removed; the ancient shops with their
faces full of pleasant history are passing away one by one;
the bar itself is to go--its doom has been pronounced
by The Jupiter; rumour tells us of some huge building
that is to appear in these latitudes dedicated to law,
subversive of the courts of Westminster, and antagonistic to
the Rolls and Lincoln's Inn; but nothing yet threatens
the silent beauty of the Temple: it is the mediaeval court
of the metropolis.
Here, on the choicest spot of this choice ground, stands a
lofty row of chambers, looking obliquely upon the sullied
Thames; before the windows, the lawn of the Temple Gardens
stretches with that dim yet delicious verdure so refreshing
to the eyes of Londoners. If doomed to live within the thickest
of London smoke you would surely say that that would be your
chosen spot. Yes, you, you whom I now address, my dear,
middle-aged bachelor friend, can nowhere be so well domiciled
as here. No one here will ask whether you are out or at home;
alone or with friends; here no Sabbatarian will investigate
your Sundays, no censorious landlady will scrutinise your
empty bottle, no valetudinarian neighbour will complain of
late hours. If you love books, to what place are books so
suitable? The whole spot is redolent of typography. Would
you worship the Paphian goddess, the groves of Cyprus are
not more taciturn than those of the Temple. Wit and wine
are always here, and always together; the revels of the Temple
are as those of polished Greece, where the wildest worshipper
of Bacchus never forgot the dignity of the god whom he adored.
Where can retirement be so complete as here? where can you
be so sure of all the pleasures of society?
It was here that Tom Towers lived, and cultivated with
eminent success the tenth Muse who now governs the periodical
press. But let it not be supposed that his chambers were
such, or so comfortless, as are frequently the gaunt abodes of
legal aspirants. Four chairs, a half-filled deal book-case with
hangings of dingy green baize, an old office table covered with
dusty papers, which are not moved once in six months, and an
older Pembroke brother with rickety legs, for all daily uses; a
despatcher for the preparation of lobsters and coffee, and an
apparatus for the cooking of toast and mutton chops; such
utensils and luxuries as these did not suffice for the well-being
of Tom Towers. He indulged in four rooms on the first floor,
each of which was furnished, if not with the splendour, with
probably more than the comfort of Stafford House. Every
addition that science and art have lately made to the luxuries
of modern life was to be found there. The room in which he
usually sat was surrounded by book-shelves carefully filled;
nor was there a volume there which was not entitled to its
place in such a collection, both by its intrinsic worth and
exterior splendour: a pretty portable set of steps in one corner
of the room showed that those even on the higher shelves were
intended for use. The chamber contained but two works of
art--the one, an admirable bust of Sir Robert Peel, by Power,
declared the individual politics of our friend; and the other,
a singularly long figure of a female devotee, by Millais, told
equally plainly the school of art to which he was addicted.
This picture was not hung, as pictures usually are, against the
wall; there was no inch of wall vacant for such a purpose:
it had a stand or desk erected for its own accommodation;
and there on her pedestal, framed and glazed, stood the devotional
lady looking intently at a lily as no lady ever looked before.
Our modern artists, whom we style Pre-Raphaelites, have
delighted to go back, not only to the finish and peculiar
manner, but also to the subjects of the early painters. It is
impossible to give them too much praise for the elaborate
perseverance with which they have equalled the minute perfections
of the masters from whom they take their inspiration: nothing
probably can exceed the painting of some of these latter-day
pictures. It is, however, singular into what faults they fall
as regards their subjects: they are not quite content to
take the old stock groups--a Sebastian with his arrows, a
Lucia with her eyes in a dish, a Lorenzo with a gridiron, or
the Virgin with two children. But they are anything but
happy in their change. As a rule, no figure should be drawn
in a position which it is impossible to suppose any figure should
maintain. The patient endurance of St Sebastian, the wild
ecstasy of St John in the Wilderness, the maternal love of the
Virgin, are feelings naturally portrayed by a fixed posture;
but the lady with the stiff back and bent neck, who looks at
her flower, and is still looking from hour to hour, gives us
an idea of pain without grace, and abstraction without a cause.
It was easy, from his rooms, to see that Tom Towers was a
Sybarite, though by no means an idle one. He was lingering
over his last cup of tea, surrounded by an ocean of newspapers,
through which he had been swimming, when John Bold's card
was brought in by his tiger. This tiger never knew that his
master was at home, though he often knew that he was not,
and thus Tom Towers was never invaded but by his own
consent. On this occasion, after twisting the card twice in his
fingers, he signified to his attendant imp that he was visible;
and the inner door was unbolted, and our friend announced.
I have before said that he of The Jupiter and John Bold were
intimate. There was no very great difference in their ages,
for Towers was still considerably under forty; and when Bold
had been attending the London hospitals, Towers, who was
not then the great man that he had since become, had been
much with him. Then they had often discussed together the
objects of their ambition and future prospects; then Tom
Towers was struggling hard to maintain himself, as a briefless
barrister, by shorthand reporting for any of the papers that
would engage him; then he had not dared to dream of writing
leaders for The Jupiter, or canvassing the conduct of Cabinet
ministers. Things had altered since that time: the briefless
barrister was still briefless, but he now despised briefs: could
he have been sure of a judge's seat, he would hardly have left
his present career. It is true he wore no ermine, bore no outward
marks of a world's respect; but with what a load of inward
importance was he charged! It is true his name appeared in
no large capitals; on no wall was chalked up 'Tom Towers
for ever'--'Freedom of the Press and Tom Towers';
but what member of Parliament had half his power? It is
true that in far-off provinces men did not talk daily of Tom
Towers but they read The Jupiter, and acknowledged that
without The Jupiter life was not worth having. This kind of
hidden but still conscious glory suited the nature of the man.
He loved to sit silent in a corner of his club and listen to the
loud chattering of politicians, and to think how they all were
in his power--how he could smite the loudest of them, were it
worth his while to raise his pen for such a purpose. He loved
to watch the great men of whom he daily wrote, and flatter
himself that he was greater than any of them. Each of them
was responsible to his country, each of them must answer if
inquired into, each of them must endure abuse with good
humour, and insolence without anger. But to whom was he,
Tom Towers, responsible? No one could insult him; no one
could inquire into him. He could speak out withering words,
and no one could answer him: ministers courted him, though
perhaps they knew not his name; bishops feared him; judges
doubted their own verdicts unless he confirmed them; and
generals, in their councils of war, did not consider more deeply
what the enemy would do, than what The Jupiter would say.
Tom Towers never boasted of The Jupiter; he scarcely ever
named the paper even to the most intimate of his friends; he
did not even wish to be spoken of as connected with it; but
he did not the less value his privileges, or think the less of his
own importance. It is probable that Tom Towers considered
himself the most powerful man in Europe; and so he walked
on from day to day, studiously striving to look a man, but
knowing within his breast that he was a god.
CHAPTER XV
Tom Towers, Dr Anticant, and Mr Sentiment
'Ah, Bold! how are you? You haven't breakfasted?'
'Oh yes, hours ago. And how are you?'
When one Esquimau meets another, do the two, as an
invariable rule, ask after each other's health? is it inherent in all
human nature to make this obliging inquiry? Did any reader
of this tale ever meet any friend or acquaintance without asking
some such question, and did anyone ever listen to the reply?
Sometimes a studiously courteous questioner will show so much
thought in the matter as to answer it himself, by declaring that
had he looked at you he needn't have asked; meaning thereby to
signify that you are an absolute personification of health: but
such persons are only those who premeditate small effects.
'I suppose you're busy?' inquired Bold.
'Why, yes, rather; or I should say rather not. I have a
leisure hour in the day, this is it.'
'I want to ask you if you can oblige me in a certain matter.'
Towers understood in a moment, from the tone of his
friend's voice, that the certain matter referred to the newspaper.
He smiled, and nodded his head, but made no promise.
'You know this lawsuit that I've been engaged in,' said Bold.
Tom Towers intimated that he was aware of the action
which was pending about the hospital.
'Well, I've abandoned it.'
Tom Towers merely raised his eyebrows, thrust his hands
into his trowsers pockets, and waited for his friend to proceed.
'Yes, I've given it up. I needn't trouble you with all the
history; but the fact is that the conduct of Mr Harding--
Mr Harding is the--'
'Oh yes, the master of the place; the man who takes all
the money and does nothing,' said Tom Towers, interrupting him.
'Well, I don't know about that; but his conduct in the
matter has been so excellent, so little selfish, so open, that I
cannot proceed in the matter to his detriment.' Bold's heart
misgave him as to Eleanor as he said this; and yet he felt that
what he said was not untrue. 'I think nothing should now be
done till the wardenship be vacant.'
'And be again filled,' said Towers, 'as it certainly would,
before anyone heard of the vacancy; and the same objection
would again exist. It's an old story that of the vested rights of
the incumbent; but suppose the incumbent has only a vested
wrong, and that the poor of the town have a vested right, if they
only knew how to get at it: is not that something the case here?'
Bold couldn't deny it, but thought it was one of those cases
which required a good deal of management before any real
good could be done. It was a pity that he had not considered
this before he crept into the lion's mouth, in the shape of an
attorney's office.
'It will cost you a good deal, I fear,' said Towers.
'A few hundreds,' said Bold--'perhaps three hundred; I
can't help that, and am prepared for it.'
'That's philosophical. It's quite refreshing to hear a man
talking of his hundreds in so purely indifferent a manner.
But I'm sorry you are giving the matter up. It injures a man
to commence a thing of this kind, and not carry it through.
Have you seen that?' and he threw a small pamphlet across
the table, which was all but damp from the press.
Bold had not seen it nor heard of it; but he was well
acquainted with the author of it--a gentleman whose pamphlets,
condemnatory of all things in these modern days, had been a
good deal talked about of late.
Dr Pessimist Anticant was a Scotchman, who had passed a
great portion of his early days in Germany; he had studied
there with much effect, and had learnt to look with German
subtilty into the root of things, and to examine for himself
their intrinsic worth and worthlessness. No man ever resolved
more bravely than he to accept as good nothing that was
evil; to banish from him as evil nothing that was good.
'Tis a pity that he should not have recognised the fact, that in
this world no good is unalloyed, and that there is but little evil
that has not in it some seed of what is goodly.
Returning from Germany, he had astonished the reading
public by the vigour of his thoughts, put forth in the quaintest
language. He cannot write English, said the critics. No
matter, said the public; we can read what he does write, and
that without yawning. And so Dr Pessimist Anticant became
Popular. Popularity spoilt him for all further real use, as it
has done many another. While, with some diffidence, he
confined his objurgations to the occasional follies or
shortcomings of mankind; while he ridiculed the energy of the
squire devoted to the slaughter of partridges, or the mistake
of some noble patron who turned a poet into a gauger of beer-
barrels, it was all well; we were glad to be told our faults and
to look forward to the coming millennium, when all men,
having sufficiently studied the works of Dr Anticant, would
become truthful and energetic. But the doctor mistook the
signs of the times and the minds of men, instituted himself
censor of things in general, and began the great task of
reprobating everything and everybody, without further promise of
any millennium at all. This was not so well; and, to tell the
truth, our author did not succeed in his undertaking. His
theories were all beautiful, and the code of morals that he
taught us certainly an improvement on the practices of the
age. We all of us could, and many of us did, learn much from
the doctor while he chose to remain vague, mysterious, and
cloudy: but when he became practical, the charm was gone.
His allusion to the poet and the partridges was received
very well. 'Oh, my poor brother,' said he, 'slaughtered
partridges a score of brace to each gun, and poets gauging ale-
barrels, with sixty pounds a year, at Dumfries, are not the
signs of a great era!--perhaps of the smallest possible era yet
written of. Whatever economies we pursue, political or other,
let us see at once that this is the maddest of the uneconomic:
partridges killed by our land magnates at, shall we say, a
guinea a head, to be retailed in Leadenhall at one shilling and
ninepence, with one poacher in limbo for every fifty birds!
our poet, maker, creator, gauging ale, and that badly, with no
leisure for making or creating, only a little leisure for drinking,
and such like beer-barrel avocations! Truly, a cutting of
blocks with fine razors while we scrape our chins so uncomfortably
with rusty knives! Oh, my political economist,
master of supply and demand, division of labour and high
pressure--oh, my loud-speaking friend, tell me, if so much be
in you, what is the demand for poets in these kingdoms of
Queen Victoria, and what the vouchsafed supply?'
This was all very well: this gave us some hope. We might
do better with our next poet, when we got one; and though
the partridges might not be abandoned, something could perhaps
be done as to the poachers. We were unwilling, however,
to take lessons in politics from so misty a professor; and
when he came to tell us that the heroes of Westminster were
naught, we began to think that he had written enough. His
attack upon despatch boxes was not thought to have much in
it; but as it is short, the doctor shall again be allowed to speak
his sentiments.
'Could utmost ingenuity in the management of red tape
avail anything to men lying gasping--we may say, all but
dead; could despatch boxes with never-so-much velvet lining
and Chubb's patent be of comfort to a people in extremes, I
also, with so many others, would, with parched tongue, call
on the name of Lord John Russell; or, my brother, at your
advice, on Lord Aberdeen; or, my cousin, on Lord Derby, at
yours; being, with my parched tongue, indifferent to such
matters. 'Tis all one. Oh, Derby! Oh, Gladstone! Oh,
Palmerston! Oh, Lord John! Each comes running with
serene face and despatch box. Vain physicians! though there
were hosts of such, no despatch box will cure this disorder!
What! are there other doctors' new names, disciples who have
not burdened their souls with tape? Well, let us call again.
Oh, Disraeli, great oppositionist, man of the bitter brow! or,
Oh, Molesworth, great reformer, thou who promisest Utopia.
They come; each with that serene face, and each--alas, me!
alas, my country!--each with a despatch box!
'Oh, the serenity of Downing Street!
'My brothers, when hope was over on the battle-field, when
no dimmest chance of victory remained, the ancient Roman
could hide his face within his toga, and die gracefully. Can
you and I do so now? If so, 'twere best for us; if not, oh my
brothers, we must die disgracefully, for hope of life and victory
I see none left to us in this world below. I for one cannot trust
much to serene face and despatch box!'
There might be truth in this, there might be depth of reasoning;
but Englishmen did not see enough in the argument to
induce them to withdraw their confidence from the present
arrangements of the government, and Dr Anticant's monthly
pamphlet on the decay of the world did not receive so much
attention as his earlier works. He did not confine himself to
politics in these publications, but roamed at large over all
matters of public interest, and found everything bad. According
to him nobody was true, and not only nobody, but nothing;
a man could not take off his hat to a lady without telling
a lie--the lady would lie again in smiling. The ruffles of the
gentleman's shirt would be fraught with deceit, and the lady's
flounces full of falsehood. Was ever anything more severe than
that attack of his on chip bonnets, or the anathemas with which
he endeavoured to dust the powder out of the bishops' wigs?
The pamphlet which Tom Towers now pushed across the
table was entitled Modern Charity, and was written with the
view of proving how much in the way of charity was done by
our predecessors--how little by the present age; and it ended
by a comparison between ancient and modern times, very
little to the credit of the latter.
'Look at this,' said Towers, getting up and turning over the
pages of the pamphlet, and pointing to a passage near the end.
'Your friend the warden, who is so little selfish, won't like that,
I fear.' Bold read as follows--
'Heavens, what a sight! Let us with eyes wide open see the
godly man of four centuries since, the man of the dark ages;
let us see how he does his godlike work, and, again, how the
godly man of these latter days does his.
'Shall we say that the former is one walking painfully
through the world, regarding, as a prudent man, his worldly
work, prospering in it as a diligent man will prosper, but
always with an eye to that better treasure to which thieves do
not creep in? Is there not much nobility in that old man, as,
leaning on his oaken staff, he walks down the High Street of his
native town, and receives from all courteous salutation and
acknowledgment of his worth? A noble old man, my august
inhabitants of Belgrave Square and such like vicinity--a very
noble old man, though employed no better than in the wholesale
carding of wool.
'This carding of wool, however, did in those days bring with
it much profit, so that our ancient friend, when dying, was
declared, in whatever slang then prevailed, to cut up exceeding
well. For sons and daughters there was ample sustenance with
assistance of due industry; for friends and relatives some relief
for grief at this great loss; for aged dependents comfort in
declining years. This was much for one old man to get done
in that dark fifteenth century. But this was not all: coming
generations of poor wool-carders should bless the name of this
rich one; and a hospital should be founded and endowed with
his wealth for the feeding of such of the trade as could not, by
diligent carding, any longer duly feed themselves.
''Twas thus that an old man in the fifteenth century did his
godlike work to the best of his power, and not ignobly, as
appears to me.
'We will now take our godly man of latter days. He shall
no longer be a wool-carder, for such are not now men of mark.
We will suppose him to be one of the best of the good, one who
has lacked no opportunities. Our old friend was, after all, but
illiterate; our modern friend shall be a man educated in all
seemly knowledge; he shall, in short, be that blessed being--
a clergyman of the Church of England!
'And now, in what perfectest manner does he in this
lower world get his godlike work done and put out of hand?
Heavens! in the strangest of manners. Oh, my brother! in
a manner not at all to be believed, but by the most minute
testimony of eyesight. He does it by the magnitude of his
appetite--by the power of his gorge; his only occupation is
to swallow the bread prepared with so much anxious care for
these impoverished carders of wool--that, and to sing
indifferently through his nose once in the week some psalm more
or less long--the shorter the better, we should be inclined to say.
'Oh, my civilised friends!--great Britons that never will be
slaves, men advanced to infinite state of freedom and knowledge
of good and evil--tell me, will you, what becoming
monument you will erect to an highly-educated clergyman of
the Church of England?'
Bold certainly thought that his friend would not like that:
he could not conceive anything that he would like less than
this. To what a world of toil and trouble had he, Bold, given
rise by his indiscreet attack upon the hospital!
'You see,' said Towers, 'that this affair has been much
talked of, and the public are with you. I am sorry you should
give the matter up. Have you seen the first number of The
Almshouse?'
No; Bold had not seen The Almshouse. He had seen advertisements
of Mr Popular Sentiment's new novel of that name, but had
in no way connected it with Barchester Hospital, and had never
thought a moment on the subject.
'It's a direct attack on the whole system,' said Towers.
'It'll go a long way to put down Rochester, and Barchester,
and Dulwich, and St Cross, and all such hotbeds of peculation.
It's very clear that Sentiment has been down to Barchester,
and got up the whole story there; indeed, I thought he must
have had it all from you, it's very well done, as you'll see: his
first numbers always are.'
Bold declared that Mr Sentiment had got nothing from
him, and that he was deeply grieved to find that the case had
become so notorious.
'The fire has gone too far to be quenched,' said Towers;
'the building must go now; and as the timbers are all rotten,
why, I should be inclined to say, the sooner the better. I
expected to see you get some eclat in the matter.'
This was all wormwood to Bold. He had done enough to
make his friend the warden miserable for life, and had then
backed out just when the success of his project was sufficient
to make the question one of real interest. How weakly he had
managed his business! he had already done the harm, and
then stayed his hand when the good which he had in view was
to be commenced. How delightful would it have been to have
employed all his energy in such a cause--to have been backed
by The Jupiter, and written up to by two of the most popular
authors of the day! The idea opened a view into the very
world in which he wished to live. To what might it not have
given rise? what delightful intimacies--what public praise--
to what Athenian banquets and rich flavour of Attic salt?
This, however, was now past hope. He had pledged himself
to abandon the cause; and could he have forgotten the pledge
he had gone too far to retreat. He was now, this moment,
sitting in Tom Towers' room with the object of deprecating
any further articles in The Jupiter, and, greatly as he disliked
the job, his petition to that effect must be made.
'I couldn't continue it,' said he, 'because I found I was in
the wrong.'
Tom Towers shrugged his shoulders. How could a successful
man be in the wrong! 'In that case,' said he, 'of course
you must abandon it.'
'And I called this morning to ask you also to abandon it,'
said Bold.
'To ask me,' said Tom Towers, with the most placid of
smiles, and a consummate look of gentle surprise, as though
Tom Towers was well aware that he of all men was the last
to meddle in such matters.
'Yes,' said Bold, almost trembling with hesitation. 'The
Jupiter, you know, has taken the matter up very strongly.
Mr Harding has felt what it has said deeply; and I thought
that if I could explain to you that he personally has not been
to blame, these articles might be discontinued.'
How calmly impassive was Tom Towers' face, as this
innocent little proposition was made! Had Bold addressed
himself to the doorposts in Mount Olympus, they would have
shown as much outward sign of assent or dissent. His quiescence
was quite admirable; his discretion certainly more than human.
'My dear fellow,' said he, when Bold had quite done
speaking, 'I really cannot answer for The Jupiter.'
'But if you saw that these articles were unjust, I think that
You Would endeavour to put a stop to them. Of course nobody
doubts that you could, if you chose.'
'Nobody and everybody are always very kind, but unfortunately
are generally very wrong.'
'Come, come, Towers,' said Bold, plucking up his courage,
and remembering that for Eleanor's sake he was bound to
make his best exertion; 'I have no doubt in my own mind but
that you wrote the articles yourself, and very well written they
were: it will be a great favour if you will in future abstain
from any personal allusion to poor Harding.'
'My dear Bold,' said Tom Towers, 'I have a sincere regard
for you. I have known you for many years, and value your
friendship; I hope you will let me explain to you, without
offence, that none who are connected with the public press
can with propriety listen to interference.'
'Interference!' said Bold, 'I don't want to interfere.'
'Ah, but, my dear fellow, you do; what else is it? You
think that I am able to keep certain remarks out of a newspaper.
Your information is probably incorrect, as most public gossip
on such subjects is; but, at any rate, you think I have such
power, and you ask me to use it: now that is interference.'
'Well, if you choose to call it so.'
'And now suppose for a moment that I had this power, and
used it as you wish: isn't it clear that it would be a great
abuse? Certain men are employed in writing for the public
press; and if they are induced either to write or to abstain
from writing by private motives, surely the public press would
soon be of little value. Look at the recognised worth of different
newspapers, and see if it does not mainly depend on the
assurance which the public feel that such a paper is, or is not,
independent. You alluded to The Jupiter: surely you cannot
but see that the weight of The Jupiter is too great to be moved
by any private request, even though it should be made to a
much more influential person than myself: you've only to
think of this, and you'll see that I am right.'
The discretion of Tom Towers was boundless: there was no
contradicting what he said, no arguing against such propositions.
He took such high ground that there was no getting on
it. 'The public is defrauded,' said he, 'whenever private
considerations are allowed to have weight.' Quite true, thou
greatest oracle of the middle of the nineteenth century, thou
sententious proclaimer of the purity of the press--the public
is defrauded when it is purposely misled. Poor public! how
often is it misled! against what a world of fraud has it to
contend!
Bold took his leave, and got out of the room as quickly as he
could, inwardly denouncing his friend Tom Towers as a prig
and a humbug. 'I know he wrote those articles,' said Bold to
himself. 'I know he got his information from me. He was
ready enough to take my word for gospel when it suited his
own views, and to set Mr Harding up before the public as an
impostor on no other testimony than my chance conversation;
but when I offer him real evidence opposed to his own views,
he tells me that private motives are detrimental to public
justice! Confound his arrogance! What is any public question
but a conglomeration of private interests? What is any
newspaper article but an expression of the views taken by one
side? Truth! it takes an age to ascertain the truth of any
question! The idea of Tom Towers talking of public motives and
purity of purpose! Why, it wouldn't give him a moment's uneasiness
to change his politics tomorrow, if the paper required it.'
Such were John Bold's inward exclamations as he made his
way out of the quiet labyrinth of the Temple; and yet there
was no position of worldly power so coveted in Bold's ambition
as that held by the man of whom he was thinking. It was the
impregnability of the place which made Bold so angry with
the possessor of it, and it was the same quality which made it
appear so desirable.
Passing into the Strand, he saw in a bookseller's window an
announcement of the first number of The Almshouse; so he
purchased a copy, and hurrying back to his lodgings, proceeded
to ascertain what Mr Popular Sentiment had to say to the
public on the subject which had lately occupied so much
of his own attention.
In former times great objects were attained by great work.
When evils were to be reformed, reformers set about their
heavy task with grave decorum and laborious argument. An
age was occupied in proving a grievance, and philosophical
researches were printed in folio pages, which it took a life to
write, and an eternity to read. We get on now with a lighter
step, and quicker: ridicule is found to be more convincing
than argument, imaginary agonies touch more than true
sorrows, and monthly novels convince, when learned quartos
fail to do so. If the world is to be set right, the work will be
done by shilling numbers.
Of all such reformers Mr Sentiment is the most powerful.
It is incredible the number of evil practices he has put down:
it is to be feared he will soon lack subjects, and that when he
has made the working classes comfortable, and got bitter beer
put into proper-sized pint bottles, there will be nothing further
for him left to do. Mr Sentiment is certainly a very powerful
man, and perhaps not the less so that his good poor people are
so very good; his hard rich people so very hard; and the
genuinely honest so very honest. Namby-pamby in these days
is not thrown away if it be introduced in the proper quarters.
Divine peeresses are no longer interesting, though possessed of
every virtue; but a pattern peasant or an immaculate manufacturing
hero may talk as much twaddle as one of Mrs Ratcliffe's
heroines, and still be listened to. Perhaps, however, Mr
Sentiment's great attraction is in his second-rate characters.
If his heroes and heroines walk upon stilts, as heroes
and heroines, I fear, ever must, their attendant satellites are
as natural as though one met them in the street: they walk
and talk like men and women, and live among our friends a
rattling, lively life; yes, live, and will live till the names of
their calling shall be forgotten in their own, and Buckett and
Mrs Gamp will be the only words left to us to signify a detective
police officer or a monthly nurse.
The Almshouse opened with a scene in a clergyman's house.
Every luxury to be purchased by wealth was described as being
there: all the appearances of household indulgence generally
found amongst the most self-indulgent of the rich were crowded
into this abode. Here the reader was introduced to the demon
of the book, the Mephistopheles of the drama. What story
was ever written without a demon? What novel, what history,
what work of any sort, what world, would be perfect without
existing principles both of good and evil? The demon of The
Almshouse was the clerical owner of this comfortable abode.
He was a man well stricken in years, but still strong to do evil:
he was one who looked cruelly out of a hot, passionate, bloodshot
eye; who had a huge red nose with a carbuncle, thick lips,
and a great double, flabby chin, which swelled out into
solid substance, like a turkey-cock's comb, when sudden anger
inspired him: he had a hot, furrowed, low brow, from which
a few grizzled hairs were not yet rubbed off by the friction of
his handkerchief: he wore a loose unstarched white handkerchief,
black loose ill-made clothes, and huge loose shoes,
adapted to many corns and various bunions: his husky voice
told tales of much daily port wine, and his language was not
so decorous as became a clergyman. Such was the master of
Mr Sentiment's Almshouse. He was a widower, but at present
accompanied by two daughters, and a thin and somewhat
insipid curate. One of the young ladies was devoted to her
father and the fashionable world, and she of course was the
favourite; the other was equally addicted to Puseyism and
the curate.
The second chapter of course introduced the reader to the
more especial inmates of the hospital. Here were discovered
eight old men; and it was given to be understood that four
vacancies remained unfilled, through the perverse ill-nature
of the clerical gentleman with the double chin. The state of
these eight paupers was touchingly dreadful: sixpence-farthing
a day had been sufficient for their diet when the almshouse was
founded; and on sixpence-farthing a day were they still
doomed to starve, though food was four times as dear, and
money four times as plentiful. It was shocking to find how the
conversation of these eight starved old men in their dormitory
shamed that of the clergyman's family in his rich drawing-
room. The absolute words they uttered were not perhaps
spoken in the purest English, and it might be difficult to
distinguish from their dialect to what part of the country they
belonged; the beauty of the sentiment, however, amply
atoned for the imperfection of the language; and it was really
a pity that these eight old men could not be sent through the
country as moral missionaries, instead of being immured and
starved in that wretched almshouse.
Bold finished the number; and as he threw it aside, he
thought that that at least had no direct appliance to Mr Harding,
and that the absurdly strong colouring of the picture would
disenable the work from doing either good or harm. He was
wrong. The artist who paints for the million must use glaring
colours, as no one knew better than Mr Sentiment when he
described the inhabitants of his almshouse; and the radical
reform which has now swept over such establishments has
owed more to the twenty numbers of Mr Sentiment's novel,
than to all the true complaints which have escaped from the
public for the last half century.
CHAPTER XVI
A Long Day in London
The warden had to make use of all his very moderate
powers of intrigue to give his son-in-law the slip, and get
out of Barchester without being stopped on his road. No
schoolboy ever ran away from school with more precaution
and more dread of detection; no convict, slipping down from
a prison wall, ever feared to see the gaoler more entirely than
Mr Harding did to see his son-in-law as he drove up in the
pony carriage to the railway station, on the morning of his
escape to London.
The evening before he went he wrote a note to the archdeacon,
explaining that he should start on the morrow on his
journey; that it was his intention to see the attorney-general
if possible, and to decide on his future plans in accordance with
what he heard from that gentleman; he excused himself for
giving Dr Grantly no earlier notice, by stating that his resolve
was very sudden; and having entrusted this note to Eleanor,
with the perfect, though not expressed, understanding that it
was to be sent over to Plumstead Episcopi without haste, he
took his departure.
He also prepared and carried with him a note for Sir
Abraham Haphazard, in which he stated his name, explaining
that he was the defendant in the case of 'The Queen on
behalf of the Wool-carders of Barchester v. Trustees under the
will of the late John Hiram,' for so was the suit denominated,
and begged the illustrious and learned gentleman to vouchsafe
to him ten minutes' audience at any hour on the next day.
Mr Harding calculated that for that one day he was safe; his
son-in-law, he had no doubt, would arrive in town by an early
train, but not early enough to reach the truant till he should
have escaped from his hotel after breakfast; and could he thus
manage to see the lawyer on that very day, the deed might be
done before the archdeacon could interfere.
On his arrival in town the warden drove, as was his wont.
to the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House, near St Paul's. His
visits to London of late had not been frequent; but in those
happy days when Harding's Church Music was going through
the press, he had been often there; and as the publisher's
house was in Paternoster Row, and the printer's press in Fleet
Street, the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House had been convenient.
It was a quiet, sombre, clerical house, beseeming such
a man as the warden, and thus he afterwards frequented
it. Had he dared, he would on this occasion have gone elsewhere
to throw the archdeacon further off the scent; but he did not
know what violent steps his son-in-law might take for his
recovery if he were not found at his usual haunt, and he
deemed it not prudent to make himself the object of a hunt
through London.
Arrived at his inn, he ordered dinner, and went forth to
the attorney-general's chambers. There he learnt that Sir
Abraham was in Court, and would not probably return that
day. He would go direct from Court to the House; all
appointments were, as a rule, made at the chambers; the
clerk could by no means promise an interview for the next
day; was able, on the other hand, to say that such interview
was, he thought, impossible; but that Sir Abraham would
certainly be at the House in the course of the night, where an
answer from himself might possibly be elicited.
To the House Mr Harding went, and left his note, not finding
Sir Abraham there. He added a most piteous entreaty that
he might be favoured with an answer that evening, for
which he would return. He then journeyed back sadly to the
Chapter Coffee House, digesting his great thoughts, as best he
might, in a clattering omnibus, wedged in between a wet old
lady and a journeyman glazier returning from his work with
his tools in his lap. In melancholy solitude he discussed his
mutton chop and pint of port. What is there in this world
more melancholy than such a dinner? A dinner, though eaten
alone, in a country hotel may be worthy of some energy; the
waiter, if you are known, will make much of you; the landlord
will make you a bow and perhaps put the fish on the table;
if you ring you are attended to, and there is some life about it.
A dinner at a London eating-house is also lively enough, if it
have no other attraction. There is plenty of noise and stir
about it, and the rapid whirl of voices and rattle of dishes
disperses sadness. But a solitary dinner in an old, respectable,
sombre, solid London inn, where nothing makes any noise but
the old waiter's creaking shoes; where one plate slowly goes
and another slowly comes without a sound; where the two or
three guests would as soon think of knocking each other down
as of speaking; where the servants whisper, and the whole
household is disturbed if an order be given above the voice--
what can be more melancholy than a mutton chop and a pint
of port in such a place?
Having gone through this Mr Harding got into another
omnibus, and again returned to the House. Yes, Sir Abraham
was there, and was that moment on his legs, fighting eagerly
for the hundred and seventh clause of the Convent Custody
Bill. Mr Harding's note had been delivered to him; and if
Mr Harding would wait some two or three hours, Sir Abraham
could be asked whether there was any answer. The House
was not full, and perhaps Mr Harding might get admittance
into the Strangers' Gallery, which admission, with the help of
five shillings, Mr Harding was able to effect.
This bill of Sir Abraham's had been read a second time and
passed into committee. A hundred and six clauses had already
been discussed and had occupied only four mornings and five
evening sittings; nine of the hundred and six clauses were
passed, fifty-five were withdrawn by consent, fourteen had
been altered so as to mean the reverse of the original proposition,
eleven had been postponed for further consideration, and
seventeen had been directly negatived. The hundred and
seventh ordered the bodily searching of nuns for jesuitical
symbols by aged clergymen, and was considered to be the real
mainstay of the whole bill. No intention had ever existed to
pass such a law as that proposed, but the government did not
intend to abandon it till their object was fully attained by the
discussion of this clause. It was known that it would be
insisted on with terrible vehemence by Protestant Irish members,
and as vehemently denounced by the Roman Catholic; and
it was justly considered that no further union between the
parties would be possible after such a battle. The innocent
Irish fell into the trap as they always do, and whiskey and
poplins became a drug in the market.
A florid-faced gentleman with a nice head of hair, from the
south of Ireland, had succeeded in catching the speaker's eye
by the time that Mr Harding had got into the gallery, and was
denouncing the proposed sacrilege, his whole face glowing
with a fine theatrical frenzy.
'And this is a Christian country?' said he. (Loud cheers;
counter cheers from the ministerial benches. 'Some doubt as
to that,' from a voice below the gangway.) 'No, it can be no
Christian country, in which the head of the bar, the lagal
adviser (loud laughter and cheers) -yes, I say the lagal adviser
of the crown (great cheers and laughter)--can stand up in his
seat in this house (prolonged cheers and laughter), and
attempt to lagalise indacent assaults on the bodies of religious
ladies.' (Deafening cheers and laughter, which were prolonged
till the honourable member resumed his seat.)
When Mr Harding had listened to this and much more of
the same kind for about three hours, he returned to the door of
the House, and received back from the messenger his own note,
with the following words scrawled in pencil on the back of it:
'To-morrow, 10 P.M.--my chambers.--A. H.'
He was so far successful--but 10 P.M.: what an hour Sir
Abraham had named for a legal interview! Mr Harding felt
perfectly sure that long before that Dr Grantly would be in
London. Dr Grantly could not, however, know that this interview
had been arranged, nor could he learn it unless he managed
to get hold of Sir Abraham before that hour; and as this
was very improbable, Mr Harding determined to start from
his hotel early, merely leaving word that he should dine out,
and unless luck were much against him, he might still escape the
archdeacon till his return from the attorney-general's chambers.
He was at breakfast at nine, and for the twentieth time
consulted his Bradshaw, to see at what earliest hour Dr Grantly
could arrive from Barchester. As he examined the columns,
he was nearly petrified by the reflection that perhaps the
archdeacon might come up by the night-mail train! His heart
sank within him at the horrid idea, and for a moment he felt
himself dragged back to Barchester without accomplishing any
portion of his object. Then he remembered that had Dr
Grantly done so, he would have been in the hotel, looking
for him long since.
'Waiter,' said he, timidly.
The waiter approached, creaking in his shoes, but voiceless.
'Did any gentleman--a clergyman, arrive here by the night-
mail train ?'
'No, sir, not one,' whispered the waiter, putting his mouth
nearly close to the warden's ear.
Mr Harding was reassured.
'Waiter,' said he again, and the waiter again creaked up.
'If anyone calls for me, I am going to dine out, and shall
return about eleven o'clock.'
The waiter nodded, but did not this time vouchsafe any
reply; and Mr Harding, taking up his hat, proceeded out to
pass a long day in the best way he could, somewhere out of
sight of the archdeacon.
Bradshaw had told him twenty times that Dr Grantly could
not be at Paddington station till 2 P.M., and our poor friend
might therefore have trusted to the shelter of the hotel for some
hours longer with perfect safety; but he was nervous. There
was no knowing what steps the archdeacon might take for his
apprehension: a message by electric telegraph might desire
the landlord of the hotel to set a watch upon him; some letter
might come which he might find himself unable to disobey;
at any rate, he could not feel himself secure in any place at
which the archdeacon could expect to find him; and at
10 A.M. he started forth to spend twelve hours in London.
Mr Harding had friends in town had he chosen to seek
them; but he felt that he was in no humour for ordinary calls,
and he did not now wish to consult with anyone as to the great
step which he had determined to take. As he had said to his
daughter, no one knows where the shoe pinches but the wearer.
There are some points on which no man can be contented to
follow the advice of another--some subjects on which a man
can consult his own conscience only. Our warden had made
up his mind that it was good for him at any cost to get rid of
this grievance; his daughter was the only person whose
concurrence appeared necessary to him, and she did concur with
him most heartily. Under such circumstances he would not,
if he could help it, consult anyone further, till advice would be
useless. Should the archdeacon catch him, indeed, there
would be much advice, and much consultation of a kind not
to be avoided; but he hoped better things; and as he felt that
he could not now converse on indifferent subjects, he resolved
to see no one till after his interview with the attorney-general.
He determined to take sanctuary in Westminster Abbey, so
he again went thither in an omnibus, and finding that the
doors were not open for morning service, he paid his twopence,
and went in as a sightseer. It occurred to him that he had no
definite place of rest for the day, and that he should be
absolutely worn out before his interview if he attempted to walk
about from 10 A.M. to 10 P.M., so he sat himself down on a
stone step, and gazed up at the figure of William Pitt, who
looks as though he had just entered the church for the first
time in his life and was anything but pleased at finding
himself there.
He had been sitting unmolested about twenty minutes when
the verger asked him whether he wouldn't like to walk round.
Mr Harding didn't want to walk anywhere, and declined,
merely observing that he was waiting for the morning service.
The verger, seeing that he was a clergyman, told him that the
doors of the choir were now open, and showed him into a seat.
This was a great point gained; the archdeacon would certainly
not come to morning service at Westminster Abbey, even
though he were in London; and here the warden could rest
quietly, and, when the time came, duly say his prayers.
He longed to get up from his seat, and examine the music-
books of the choristers, and the copy of the litany from which
the service was chanted, to see how far the little details at
Westminster corresponded with those at Barchester, and
whether he thought his own voice would fill the church well
from the Westminster precentor's seat. There would, however,
be impropriety in such meddling, and he sat perfectly
still, looking up at the noble roof, and guarding against the
coming fatigues of the day.
By degrees two or three people entered; the very same
damp old woman who had nearly obliterated him in the
omnibus, or some other just like her; a couple of young ladies
with their veils down, and gilt crosses conspicuous on their
prayer-books; an old man on crutches; a party who were
seeing the abbey, and thought they might as well hear the
service for their twopence, as opportunity served; and a young
woman with her prayer-book done up in her handkerchief,
who rushed in late, and, in her hurried entry, tumbled over
one of the forms, and made such a noise that everyone, even
the officiating minor canon, was startled, and she herself was
so frightened by the echo of her own catastrophe that she was
nearly thrown into fits by the panic.
Mr Harding was not much edified by the manner of the
service. The minor canon in question hurried in, somewhat
late, in a surplice not in the neatest order, and was followed by
a dozen choristers, who were also not as trim as they might
have been: they all jostled into their places with a quick
hurried step, and the service was soon commenced. Soon
commenced and soon over--for there was no music, and time
was not unnecessarily lost in the chanting. On the whole
Mr Harding was of opinion that things were managed better
at Barchester, though even there he knew that there was room
for improvement.
It appears to us a question whether any clergyman can go
through our church service with decorum, morning after morning,
in an immense building, surrounded by not more than a
dozen listeners. The best actors cannot act well before empty
benches, and though there is, of course, a higher motive in one
case than the other, still even the best of clergymen cannot but
be influenced by their audience; and to expect that a duty
should be well done under such circumstances, would be to
require from human nature more than human power.
When the two ladies with the gilt crosses, the old man with
his crutch, and the still palpitating housemaid were going,
Mr Harding found himself obliged to go too. The verger
stood in his way, and looked at him and looked at the door,
and so he went. But he returned again in a few minutes, and
re-entered with another twopence. There was no other
sanctuary so good for him.
As he walked slowly down the nave, and then up one aisle,
and then again down the nave and up the other aisle, he tried
to think gravely of the step he was about to take. He was
going to give up eight hundred a year voluntarily; and doom
himself to live for the rest of his life on about a hundred and
fifty. He knew that he had hitherto failed to realise this fact
as he ought to do. Could he maintain his own independence
and support his daughter on a hundred and fifty pounds a
year without being a burden on anyone? His son-in-law was
rich, but nothing could induce him to lean on his son-in-law
after acting, as he intended to do, in direct opposition to his
son-in-law's counsel. The bishop was rich, but he was about
to throw away the bishop's best gift, and that in a manner to
injure materially the patronage of the giver: he could neither
expect nor accept anything further from the bishop. There
would be not only no merit, but positive disgrace, in giving up
his wardenship, if he were not prepared to meet the world
without it. Yes, he must from this time forward bound all his
human wishes for himself and his daughter to the poor extent
of so limited an income. He knew he had not thought sufficiently
of this, that he had been carried away by enthusiasm,
and had hitherto not brought home to himself the full reality
of his position.
He thought most about his daughter, naturally. It was true
that she was engaged, and he knew enough of his proposed
son-in-law to be sure that his own altered circumstances would
make no obstacle to such a marriage; nay, he was sure that
the very fact of his poverty would induce Bold more anxiously
to press the matter; but he disliked counting on Bold in this
emergency, brought on, as it had been, by his doing. He did
not like saying to himself, Bold has turned me out of my house
and income, and, therefore, he must relieve me of my daughter;
he preferred reckoning on Eleanor as the companion of his
poverty and exile--as the sharer of his small income.
Some modest provision for his daughter had been long since
made. His life was insured for three thousand pounds, and
this sum was to go to Eleanor. The archdeacon, for some
years past, had paid the premium, and had secured himself by
the immediate possession of a small property which was to have
gone to Mrs Grantly after her father's death. This matter,
therefore, had been taken out of the warden's hands long since,
as, indeed, had all the business transactions of his family, and
his anxiety was, therefore, confined to his own life income.
Yes. A hundred and fifty per annum was very small, but
still it might suffice; but how was he to chant the litany at the
cathedral on Sunday mornings, and get the service done at
Crabtree Parva? True, Crabtree Church was not quite a mile
and a half from the cathedral; but he could not be in two
places at once. Crabtree was a small village, and afternoon
service might suffice, but still this went against his conscience;
it was not right that his parishioners should be robbed of any
of their privileges on account of his poverty. He might, to be
sure, make some arrangements for doing week-day service at
the cathedral; but he had chanted the litany at Barchester so
long, and had a conscious feeling that he did it so well, that he
was unwilling to give up the duty.
Thinking of such things, turning over in his own mind
together small desires and grave duties, but never hesitating
for a moment as to the necessity of leaving the hospital, Mr
Harding walked up and down the abbey, or sat still meditating
on the same stone step, hour after hour. One verger went
and another came, but they did not disturb him; every now
and then they crept up and looked at him, but they did
so with a reverential stare, and, on the whole, Mr Harding
found his retreat well chosen. About four o'clock his comfort
was disturbed by an enemy in the shape of hunger. It was
necessary that he should dine, and it was clear that he could
not dine in the abbey: so he left his sanctuary not willingly,
and betook himself to the neighbourhood of the Strand to
look for food.
His eyes had become so accustomed to the gloom of the
church, that they were dazed when he got out into the full light
of day, and he felt confused and ashamed of himself, as though
people were staring at him. He hurried along, still in dread
of the archdeacon, till he came to Charing Cross, and then
remembered that in one of his passages through the Strand he
had seen the words 'Chops and Steaks' on a placard in a shop
window. He remembered the shop distinctly; it was next
door to a trunk-seller's, and there was a cigar shop on the
other side. He couldn't go to his hotel for dinner, which to
him hitherto was the only known mode of dining in London at
his own expense; and, therefore, he would get a steak at the
shop in the Strand. Archdeacon Grantly would certainly not
come to such a place for his dinner.
He found the house easily--just as he had observed it, between
the trunks and the cigars. He was rather daunted by the
huge quantity of fish which he saw in the window. There
were barrels of oysters, hecatombs of lobsters, a few tremendous-
looking crabs, and a tub full of pickled salmon; not, however,
being aware of any connection between shell-fish and
iniquity, he entered, and modestly asked a slatternly woman,
who was picking oysters out of a great watery reservoir,
whether he could have a mutton chop and a potato.
The woman looked somewhat surprised, but answered in
the affirmative, and a slipshod girl ushered him into a long
back room, filled with boxes for the accommodation of parties,
in one of which he took his seat. In a more miserably forlorn
place he could not have found himself: the room smelt of fish,
and sawdust, and stale tobacco smoke, with a slight taint of
escaped gas; everything was rough and dirty, and disreputable;
the cloth which they put before him was abominable;
the knives and forks were bruised, and hacked, and filthy; and
everything was impregnated with fish. He had one comfort,
however: he was quite alone; there was no one there to look
on his dismay; nor was it probable that anyone would come
to do so. It was a London supper-house. About one o'clock
at night the place would be lively enough, but at the present
time his seclusion was as deep as it had been in the abbey.
In about half an hour the untidy girl, not yet dressed for her
evening labours, brought him his chop and potatoes, and Mr
Harding begged for a pint of sherry. He was impressed with
an idea, which was generally prevalent a few years since, and
is not yet wholly removed from the minds of men, that to order
a dinner at any kind of inn, without also ordering a pint of
wine for the benefit of the landlord, was a kind of fraud--not
punishable, indeed, by law, but not the less abominable on
that account. Mr Harding remembered his coming poverty,
and would willingly have saved his half-crown, but he thought
he had no alternative; and he was soon put in possession of some
horrid mixture procured from the neighbouring public-house.
His chop and potatoes, however, were eatable, and having
got over as best he might the disgust created by the knives and
forks, he contrived to swallow his dinner. He was not much
disturbed: one young man, with pale face and watery fishlike
eyes, wearing his hat ominously on one side, did come in and
stare at him, and ask the girl, audibly enough, 'Who that old
cock was'; but the annoyance went no further, and the
warden was left seated on his wooden bench in peace,
endeavouring to distinguish the different scents arising from
lobsters, oysters, and salmon.
Unknowing as Mr Harding was in the ways of London, he
felt that he had somehow selected an ineligible dining-house,
and that he had better leave it. It was hardly five o'clock--
how was he to pass the time till ten? Five miserable hours!
He was already tired, and it was impossible that he should
continue walking so long. He thought of getting into an
omnibus, and going out to Fulham for the sake of coming back
in another: this, however, would be weary work, and as he
paid his bill to the woman in the shop, he asked her if there
were any place near where he could get a cup of coffee.
Though she did keep a shellfish supper-house, she was very
civil, and directed him to the cigar divan on the other side of
the street.
Mr Harding had not a much correcter notion of a cigar
divan than he had of a London dinner-house, but he was
desperately in want of rest, and went as he was directed. He
thought he must have made some mistake when he found himself
in a cigar shop, but the man behind the counter saw immediately
that he was a stranger, and understood what he wanted.
'One shilling, sir--thank ye, sir--cigar, sir?--ticket
for coffee, sir--you'll only have to call the waiter. Up those
stairs, if you please, sir. Better take the cigar, sir--you can
always give it to a friend, you know. Well, sir, thank ye, sir--as
you are so good, I'll smoke it myself.' And so Mr Harding ascended
to the divan, with his ticket for coffee, but minus the cigar.
The place seemed much more suitable to his requirements
than the room in which he had dined: there was, to be sure,
a strong smell of tobacco, to which he was not accustomed;
but after the shell-fish, the tobacco did not seem disagreeable.
There were quantities of books, and long rows of sofas. What
on earth could be more luxurious than a sofa, a book, and a
cup of coffee? An old waiter came up to him, with a couple
of magazines and an evening paper. Was ever anything so
civil? Would he have a cup of coffee, or would he prefer
sherbet? Sherbet! Was he absolutely in an Eastern divan,
with the slight addition of all the London periodicals? He
had, however, an idea that sherbet should be drunk sitting
cross-legged, and as he was not quite up to this, he ordered
the coffee.
The coffee came, and was unexceptionable. Why, this
divan was a paradise! The civil old waiter suggested to him
a game of chess: though a chess player he was not equal to
this, so he declined, and, putting up his weary legs on the
sofa, leisurely sipped his coffee, and turned over the pages of
his Blackwood. He might have been so engaged for about an
hour, for the old waiter enticed him to a second cup of coffee,
when a musical clock began to play. Mr Harding then closed
his magazine, keeping his place with his finger, and lay,
listening with closed eyes to the clock. Soon the clock seemed
to turn into a violoncello, with piano accompaniments, and
Mr Harding began to fancy the old waiter was the Bishop of
Barchester; he was inexpressibly shocked that the bishop
should have brought him his coffee with his own hands; then
Dr Grantly came in, with a basket full of lobsters, which he
would not be induced to leave downstairs in the kitchen; and
then the warden couldn't quite understand why so many
people would smoke in the bishop's drawing-room; and so
he fell fast asleep, and his dreams wandered away to his
accustomed stall in Barchester Cathedral, and the twelve old men
he was so soon about to leave for ever.
He was fatigued, and slept soundly for some time. Some
sudden stop in the musical clock woke him at length, and he
jumped up with a start, surprised to find the room quite full:
it had been nearly empty when his nap began. With nervous
anxiety he pulled out his watch, and found that it was half-
past nine. He seized his hat, and, hurrying downstairs,
started at a rapid pace for Lincoln's Inn.
It still wanted twenty minutes to ten when the warden
found himself at the bottom of Sir Abraham's stairs, so he
walked leisurely up and down the quiet inn to cool himself.
It was a beautiful evening at the end of August. He had
recovered from his fatigue; his sleep and the coffee had
refreshed him, and he was surprised to find that he was absolutely
enjoying himself, when the inn clock struck ten. The sound
was hardly over before he knocked at Sir Abraham's door, and
was informed by the clerk who received him that the great
man would be with him immediately.
CHAPTER XVII
Sir Abraham Haphazard
Mr Harding was shown into a comfortable inner
sitting-room, looking more like a gentleman's book-room
than a lawyer's chambers, and there waited for Sir Abraham.
Nor was he kept waiting long: in ten or fifteen minutes he
heard a clatter of voices speaking quickly in the passage, and
then the attorney-general entered.
'Very sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Warden,' said Sir
Abraham, shaking hands with him; 'and sorry, too, to name
so disagreeable an hour; but your notice was short, and as
you said today, I named the very earliest hour that was not
disposed of.'
Mr Harding assured him that he was aware that it was he
that should apologise.
Sir Abraham was a tall thin man, with hair prematurely
gray, but bearing no other sign of age; he had a slight stoop,
in his neck rather than his back, acquired by his constant habit
of leaning forward as he addressed his various audiences. He
might be fifty years old, and would have looked young for his
age, had not constant work hardened his features, and given
him the appearance of a machine with a mind. His face was
full of intellect, but devoid of natural expression. You would
say he was a man to use, and then have done with; a man to
be sought for on great emergencies, but ill-adapted for ordinary
services; a man whom you would ask to defend your property,
but to whom you would be sorry to confide your love. He was
bright as a diamond, and as cutting, and also as unimpressionable.
He knew everyone whom to know was an honour, but he was without
a friend; he wanted none, however, and knew not the meaning
of the word in other than its parliamentary sense. A friend! Had
he not always been sufficient to himself, and now, at fifty, was
it likely that he should trust another? He was married, indeed,
and had children, but what time had he for the soft idleness of
conjugal felicity? His working days or term times were occupied
from his time of rising to the late hour at which he went to rest,
and even his vacations were more full of labour than the busiest
days of other men. He never quarrelled with his wife, but he
never talked to her--he never had time to talk, he was so
taken up with speaking. She, poor lady, was not unhappy;
she had all that money could give her, she would probably
live to be a peeress, and she really thought Sir Abraham the
best of husbands.
Sir Abraham was a man of wit, and sparkled among the
brightest at the dinner-tables of political grandees: indeed, he
always sparkled; whether in society, in the House of Commons,
or the courts of law, coruscations flew from him; glittering
sparkles, as from hot steel, but no heat; no cold heart
was ever cheered by warmth from him, no unhappy soul ever
dropped a portion of its burden at his door.
With him success alone was praiseworthy, and he knew none
so successful as himself. No one had thrust him forward; no
powerful friends had pushed him along on his road to power.
No; he was attorney-general, and would, in all human probability,
be lord chancellor by sheer dint of his own industry and his own
talent. Who else in all the world rose so high with so little help?
A premier, indeed! Who had ever been premier without mighty
friends? An archbishop! Yes, the son or
grandson of a great noble, or else, probably, his tutor. But
he, Sir Abraham, had had no mighty lord at his back; his
father had been a country apothecary, his mother a farmer's
daughter. Why should he respect any but himself? And so
he glitters along through the world, the brightest among the
bright; and when his glitter is gone, and he is gathered to his
fathers, no eye will be dim with a tear, no heart will mourn
for its lost friend.
'And so, Mr Warden,' said Sir Abraham, 'all our trouble
about this lawsuit is at an end.'
Mr Harding said he hoped so, but he didn't at all understand
what Sir Abraham meant. Sir Abraham, with all his sharpness,
could not have looked into his heart and read his intentions.
'All over. You need trouble yourself no further about it;
of course they must pay the costs, and the absolute expense to
you and Dr Grantly will be trifling--that is, compared with
what it might have been if it had been continued.'
'I fear I don't quite understand you, Sir Abraham.'
'Don't you know that their attorneys have noticed us that
they have withdrawn the suit?'
Mr Harding explained to the lawyer that he knew nothing
of this, although he had heard in a roundabout way that such
an intention had been talked of; and he also at length
succeeded in making Sir Abraham understand that even this did
not satisfy him. The attorney-general stood up, put his hands
into his breeches' pockets, and raised his eyebrows, as Mr
Harding proceeded to detail the grievance from which he now
wished to rid himself.
'I know I have no right to trouble you personally with this
matter, but as it is of most vital importance to me, as all my
happiness is concerned in it, I thought I might venture to seek
your advice.'
Sir Abraham bowed, and declared his clients were entitled
to the best advice he could give them; particularly a client so
respectable in every way as the Warden of Barchester Hospital.
'A spoken word, Sir Abraham, is often of more value than
volumes of written advice. The truth is, I am ill-satisfied with
this matter as it stands at present. I do see--I cannot help
seeing, that the affairs of the hospital are not arranged
according to the will of the founder.'
'None of such institutions are, Mr Harding, nor can they be;
the altered circumstances in which we live do not admit of it.'
'Quite true--that is quite true; but I can't see that those
altered circumstances give me a right to eight hundred a year.
I don't know whether I ever read John Hiram's will, but were
I to read it now I could not understand it. What I want you,
Sir Abraham, to tell me, is this--am I, as warden, legally and
distinctly entitled to the proceeds of the property, after the due
maintenance of the twelve bedesmen?'
Sir Abraham declared that he couldn't exactly say in so
many words that Mr Harding was legally entitled to, &c., &c.,
&c., and ended in expressing a strong opinion that it would
be madness to raise any further question on the matter, as the
suit was to be--nay, was, abandoned.
Mr Harding, seated in his chair, began to play a slow tune
on an imaginary violoncello.
'Nay, my dear sir,' continued the attorney-general, 'there
is no further ground for any question; I don't see that you
have the power of raising it.'
'I can resign,' said Mr Harding, slowly playing away with
his right hand, as though the bow were beneath the chair in
which he was sitting.
'What! throw it up altogether?' said the attorney-general,
gazing with utter astonishment at his client.
'Did you see those articles in The Jupiter?' said Mr Harding,
piteously, appealing to the sympathy of the lawyer.
Sir Abraham said he had seen them. This poor little clergyman,
cowed into such an act of extreme weakness by a newspaper
article, was to Sir Abraham so contemptible an object, that
he hardly knew how to talk to him as to a rational being.
'Hadn't you better wait,' said he, 'till Dr Grantly is in
town with you? Wouldn't it be better to postpone any serious
step till you can consult with him?'
Mr Harding declared vehemently that he could not wait,
and Sir Abraham began seriously to doubt his sanity.
'Of course,' said the latter, 'if you have private means
sufficient for your wants, and if this--'
'I haven't a sixpence, Sir Abraham,' said the warden.
'God bless me! Why, Mr Harding, how do you mean to live?'
Mr Harding proceeded to explain to the man of law that
he meant to keep his precentorship--that was eighty pounds
a year; and, also, that he meant to fall back upon his own
little living of Crabtree, which was another eighty pounds.
That, to be sure, the duties of the two were hardly compatible;
but perhaps he might effect an exchange. And then, recollecting
that the attorney-general would hardly care to hear how
the service of a cathedral church is divided among the
minor canons, stopped short in his explanations.
Sir Abraham listened in pitying wonder. 'I really think,
Mr Harding, you had better wait for the archdeacon. This is
a most serious step--one for which, in my opinion, there is not
the slightest necessity; and, as you have done me the honour
of asking my advice, I must implore you to do nothing without
the approval of your friends. A man is never the best
judge of his own position.'
'A man is the best judge of what he feels himself. I'd
sooner beg my bread till my death than read such another
article as those two that have appeared, and feel, as I do, that
the writer has truth on his side.'
'Have you not a daughter, Mr Harding--an unmarried daughter?'
'I have,' said he, now standing also, but still playing away
on his fiddle with his hand behind his back. 'I have, Sir
Abraham; and she and I are completely agreed on this subject.'
'Pray excuse me, Mr Harding, if what I say seems impertinent;
but surely it is you that should be prudent on her
behalf. She is young, and does not know the meaning of
living on an income of a hundred and sixty pounds a year. On her
account give up this idea. Believe me, it is sheer Quixotism.'
The warden walked away to the window, and then back to
his chair; and then, irresolute what to say, took another turn
to the window. The attorney-general was really extremely
patient, but he was beginning to think that the interview had
been long enough.
'But if this income be not justly mine, what if she and I
have both to beg?' said the warden at last, sharply, and in a
voice so different from that he had hitherto used, that Sir
Abraham was startled. 'If so, it would be better to beg.'
'My dear sir, nobody now questions its justness.'
'Yes, Sir Abraham, one does question it--the most important
of all witnesses against me--I question it myself. My God
knows whether or no I love my daughter; but I would sooner that
she and I should both beg, than that she should live in
comfort on money which is truly the property of the poor.
It may seem strange to you, Sir Abraham, it is strange to
myself, that I should have been ten years in that happy
home, and not have thought of these things till they were so
roughly dinned into my ears. I cannot boast of my conscience,
when it required the violence of a public newspaper to awaken
it; but, now that it is awake, I must obey it. When I came
here, I did not know that the suit was withdrawn by Mr Bold,
and my object was to beg you to abandon my defence. As
there is no action, there can be no defence; but it is, at any
rate, as well that you should know that from tomorrow I shall
cease to be the warden of the hospital. My friends and I differ
on this subject, Sir Abraham, and that adds much to my
sorrow; but it cannot be helped.' And, as he finished what
he had to say, he played up such a tune as never before had
graced the chambers of any attorney-general. He was standing
up, gallantly fronting Sir Abraham, and his right arm
passed with bold and rapid sweeps before him, as though he
were embracing some huge instrument, which allowed him
to stand thus erect; and with the fingers of his left hand he
stopped, with preternatural velocity, a multitude of strings,
which ranged from the top of his collar to the bottom of the
lappet of his coat. Sir Abraham listened and looked in wonder.
As he had never before seen Mr Harding, the meaning of
these wild gesticulations was lost upon him; but he perceived
that the gentleman who had a few minutes since been so
subdued as to be unable to speak without hesitation, was now
impassioned--nay, almost violent.
'You'll sleep on this, Mr Harding, and tomorrow--'
'I have done more than sleep upon it,' said the warden;
'I have lain awake upon it, and that night after night. I
found I could not sleep upon it: now I hope to do so.'
The attorney-general had no answer to make to this; so he
expressed a quiet hope that whatever settlement was finally
made would be satisfactory; and Mr Harding withdrew,
thanking the great man for his kind attention.
Mr Harding was sufficiently satisfied with the interview to
feel a glow of comfort as he descended into the small old square
of Lincoln's Inn. It was a calm, bright, beautiful night, and
by the light of the moon, even the chapel of Lincoln's Inn, and
the sombre row of chambers, which surround the quadrangle,
looked well. He stood still a moment to collect his thoughts,
and reflect on what he had done, and was about to do. He
knew that the attorney-general regarded him as little better
than a fool, but that he did not mind; he and the attorney-
general had not much in common between them; he knew
also that others, whom he did care about, would think so too;
but Eleanor, he was sure, would exult in what he had done,
and the bishop, he trusted, would sympathise with him.
In the meantime he had to meet the archdeacon, and so he
walked slowly down Chancery Lane and along Fleet Street,
feeling sure that his work for the night was not yet over.
When he reached the hotel he rang the bell quietly, and with
a palpitating heart; he almost longed to escape round the
corner, and delay the coming storm by a further walk round
St Paul's Churchyard, but he heard the slow creaking shoes
of the old waiter approaching, and he stood his ground manfully.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Warden is Very Obstinate
'Dr Grantly is here, sir,' greeted his ears before the
door was well open, 'and Mrs Grantly. They have a
sitting-room above, and are waiting up for you.'
There was something in the tone of the man's voice which
seemed to indicate that even he looked upon the warden as a
runaway schoolboy, just recaptured by his guardian, and that
he pitied the culprit, though he could not but be horrified at
the crime.
The warden endeavoured to appear unconcerned, as he
said, 'Oh, indeed! I'll go upstairs at once'; but he failed
signally. There was, perhaps, a ray of comfort in the presence
of his married daughter; that is to say, of comparative comfort,
seeing that his son-in-law was there; but how much
would he have preferred that they should both have been safe
at Plumstead Episcopi! However, upstairs he went, the
waiter slowly preceding him; and on the door being opened
the archdeacon was discovered standing in the middle of the
room, erect, indeed, as usual, but oh! how sorrowful! and
on the dingy sofa behind him reclined his patient wife.
'Papa, I thought you were never coming back,' said the
lady; 'it's twelve o'clock.'
'Yes, my dear,' said the warden. 'The attorney-general
named ten for my meeting; to be sure ten is late, but what
could I do, you know? Great men will have their own way.'
And he gave his daughter a kiss, and shook hands with the
doctor, and again tried to look unconcerned.
'And you have absolutely been with the attorney-general?'
asked the archdeacon.
Mr Harding signified that he had.
'Good heavens, how unfortunate!' And the archdeacon
raised his huge hands in the manner in which his friends are
so accustomed to see him express disapprobation and astonishment.
'What will Sir Abraham think of it? Did you not know that
it is not customary for clients to go direct to their counsel?'
'Isn't it?' asked the warden, innocently. 'Well, at any rate, I've
done it now. Sir Abraham didn't seem to think it so very strange.'
The archdeacon gave a sigh that would have moved a man-of-war.
'But, papa, what did you say to Sir Abraham?' asked the lady.
'I asked him, my dear, to explain John Hiram's will to me.
He couldn't explain it in the only way which would have
satisfied me, and so I resigned the wardenship.'
'Resigned it!' said the archdeacon, in a solemn voice, sad
and low, but yet sufficiently audible--a sort of whisper that
Macready would have envied, and the galleries have applauded
with a couple of rounds. 'Resigned it! Good heavens!'
And the dignitary of the church sank back horrified into a
horsehair arm-chair.
'At least I told Sir Abraham that I would resign; and of
course I must now do so.'
'Not at all,' said the archdeacon, catching a ray of hope.
'Nothing that you say in such a way to your own counsel can
be in any way binding on you; of course you were there to
ask his advice. I'm sure Sir Abraham did not advise any such step.'
Mr Harding could not say that he had.
'I am sure he disadvised you from it,' continued the
reverend cross-examiner.
Mr Harding could not deny this.
'I'm sure Sir Abraham must have advised you to consult
your friends.'
To this proposition also Mr Harding was obliged to assent.
'Then your threat of resignation amounts to nothing, and
we are just where we were before.'
Mr Harding was now standing on the rug, moving uneasily
from one foot to the other. He made no distinct answer to
the archdeacon's last proposition, for his mind was chiefly
engaged on thinking how he could escape to bed. That his
resignation was a thing finally fixed on, a fact all but completed,
was not in his mind a matter of any doubt; he knew his own
weakness; he knew how prone he was to be led; but he was not
weak enough to give way now, to go back from the position to
which his conscience had driven him, after having purposely come
to London to declare his determination: he did not in the least
doubt his resolution, but he greatly doubted his power of
defending it against his son-in-law.
'You must be very tired, Susan,' said he: 'wouldn't you
like to go to bed?'
But Susan didn't want to go till her husband went.--She
had an idea that her papa might be bullied if she were away:
she wasn't tired at all, or at least she said so.
The archdeacon was pacing the room, expressing, by certain noddles
of his head, his opinion of the utter fatuity of his father-in-law.
'Why,' at last he said--and angels might have blushed at
the rebuke expressed in his tone and emphasis--'Why did you go off
from Barchester so suddenly? Why did you take such a step without
giving us notice, after what had passed at the palace?'
The warden hung his head, and made no reply: he could
not condescend to say that he had not intended to give his
son-in-law the slip; and as he had not the courage to avow it,
he said nothing.
'Papa has been too much for you,' said the lady.
The archdeacon took another turn, and again ejaculated,
'Good heavens!' this time in a very low whisper, but still audible.
'I think I'll go to bed,' said the warden, taking up a side candle.
'At any rate, you'll promise me to take no further step
without consultation,' said the archdeacon. Mr Harding
made no answer, but slowly proceeded to light his candle.
'Of course,' continued the other, 'such a declaration as that
you made to Sir Abraham means nothing. Come, warden,
promise me this. The whole affair, you see, is already settled,
and that with very little trouble or expense. Bold has been
compelled to abandon his action, and all you have to do is to
remain quiet at the hospital.' Mr Harding still made no reply,
but looked meekly into his son-in-law's face. The archdeacon
thought he knew his father-in-law, but he was mistaken; he
thought that he had already talked over a vacillating man to
resign his promise. 'Come,' said he, 'promise Susan to give
up this idea of resigning the wardenship.'
The warden looked at his daughter, thinking probably at
the moment that if Eleanor were contented with him, he need
not so much regard his other child, and said, 'I am sure Susan will
not ask me to break my word, or to do what I know to be wrong.'
'Papa,' said she, 'it would be madness in you to throw up
your preferment. What are you to live on?'
'God, that feeds the young ravens, will take care of me
also,' said Mr Harding, with a smile, as though afraid of giving
offence by making his reference to scripture too solemn.
'Pish!' said the archdeacon, turning away rapidly. 'If the
ravens persisted in refusing the food prepared for them, they
wouldn't be fed.' A clergyman generally dislikes to be met in
argument by any scriptural quotation; he feels as affronted
as a doctor does, when recommended by an old woman to take
some favourite dose, or as a lawyer when an unprofessional
man attempts to put him down by a quibble.
'I shall have the living of Crabtree,' modestly suggested
the warden.
'Eighty pounds a year!' sneered the archdeacon.
'And the precentorship,' said the father-in-law.
'It goes with the wardenship,' said the son-in-law. Mr
Harding was prepared to argue this point, and began to do so,
but Dr Grantly stopped him. 'My dear warden,' said he,
'this is all nonsense. Eighty pounds or a hundred and sixty
makes very little difference. You can't live on it--you can't
ruin Eleanor's prospects for ever. In point of fact, you can't
resign; the bishop wouldn't accept it; the whole thing is
settled. What I now want to do is to prevent any inconvenient
tittle-tattle--any more newspaper articles.'
'That's what I want, too,' said the warden.
'And to prevent that,' continued the other, 'we mustn't let
any talk of resignation get abroad.'
'But I shall resign,' said the warden, very, very meekly.
'Good heavens! Susan, my dear, what can I say to him?'
'But, papa,' said Mrs Grantly, getting up, and putting her
arm through that of her father, 'what is Eleanor to do if you
throw away your income?'
A hot tear stood in each of the warden's eyes as he looked
round upon his married daughter. Why should one sister who
was so rich predict poverty for another? Some such idea as
this was on his mind, but he gave no utterance to it. Then he
thought of the pelican feeding its young with blood from its
own breast, but he gave no utterance to that either; and then
of Eleanor waiting for him at home, waiting to congratulate
him on the end of all his trouble.
'Think of Eleanor, papa,' said Mrs Grantly.
'I do think of her,' said her father.
'And you will not do this rash thing?' The lady was really
moved beyond her usual calm composure.
'It can never be rash to do right,' said he. 'I shall certainly
resign this wardenship.'
'Then, Mr Harding, there is nothing before you but ruin,'
said the archdeacon, now moved beyond all endurance. 'Ruin
both for you and Eleanor. How do you mean to pay the
monstrous expenses of this action?'
Mrs Grantly suggested that, as the action was abandoned,
the costs would not be heavy.
'Indeed they will, my dear,' continued he. 'One cannot
have the attorney-general up at twelve o'clock at night for
nothing--but of course your father has not thought of this.'
'I will sell my furniture,' said the warden.
'Furniture!' ejaculated the other, with a most powerful sneer.
Come, archdeacon,' said the lady, 'we needn't mind that
at present. You know you never expected papa to pay the costs.'
'Such absurdity is enough to provoke job,' said the archdeacon,
marching quickly up and down the room. 'Your
father is like a child. Eight hundred pounds a year!--eight
hundred and eighty with the house--with nothing to do. The
very place for him. And to throw that up because some
scoundrel writes an article in a newspaper! Well--I have
done my duty. If he chooses to ruin his child I cannot help
it'; and he stood still at the fire-place, and looked at himself
in a dingy mirror which stood on the chimney-piece.
There was a pause for about a minute, and then the warden,
finding that nothing else was coming, lighted his candle, and
quietly said, 'Good-night.'
'Good-night, papa,' said the lady.
And so the warden retired; but, as he closed the door
behind him, he heard the well-known ejaculation--slower,
lower, more solemn, more ponderous than ever--'Good heavens!'
CHAPTER XIX
The Warden Resigns
The party met the next morning at breakfast; and a very sombre
affair it was--very unlike the breakfasts at Plumstead Episcopi.
There were three thin, small, dry bits of bacon, each an inch
long, served up under a huge old plated cover; there were
four three-cornered bits of dry toast, and four square bits of
buttered toast; there was a loaf of bread, and some oily-
looking butter; and on the sideboard there were the remains
of a cold shoulder of mutton. The archdeacon, however, had
not come up from his rectory to St Paul's Churchyard to
enjoy himself and therefore nothing was said of the scanty fare.
The guests were as sorry as the viands--hardly anything
was said over the breakfast-table. The archdeacon munched
his toast in ominous silence, turning over bitter thoughts in his
deep mind. The warden tried to talk to his daughter, and she
tried to answer him; but they both failed. There were no
feelings at present in common between them. The warden
was thinking only of getting back to Barchester, and calculating
whether the archdeacon would expect him to wait for him;
and Mrs Grantly was preparing herself for a grand attack
which she was to make on her father, as agreed upon between
herself and her husband during their curtain confabulation of
that morning.
When the waiter had creaked out of the room with the last
of the teacups, the archdeacon got up and went to the window
as though to admire the view. The room looked out on a
narrow passage which runs from St Paul's Churchyard to
Paternoster Row; and Dr Grantly patiently perused the
names of the three shopkeepers whose doors were in view.
The warden still kept his seat at the table, and examined the
pattern of the tablecloth; and Mrs Grantly, seating herself
on the sofa, began to knit.
After a while the warden pulled his Bradshaw out of his
pocket, and began laboriously to consult it. There was a train
for Barchester at 10 A.M. That was out of the question, for it
was nearly ten already. Another at 3 P.M.; another, the
night-mail train, at 9 P.M. The three o'clock train would take
him home to tea, and would suit very well.
'My dear,' said he, 'I think I shall go back home at three
o'clock today. I shall get home at half-past eight. I don't
think there's anything to keep me in London.'
'The archdeacon and I return by the early train tomorrow,
papa; won't you wait and go back with us?'
'Why, Eleanor will expect me tonight; and I've so much
to do; and--'
'Much to do!' said the archdeacon sotto voce; but the
warden heard him.
'You'd better wait for us, papa.'
'Thank ye, my dear! I think I'll go this afternoon.' The
tamest animal will turn when driven too hard, and even
Mr Harding was beginning to fight for his own way.
I suppose you won't be back before three?' said the lady,
addressing her husband.
'I must leave this at two,' said the warden.
'Quite out of the question,' said the archdeacon, answering
his wife, and still reading the shopkeepers' names; 'I don't
suppose I shall be back till five.'
There was another long pause, during which Mr Harding
continued to study his Bradshaw.
'I must go to Cox and Cummins,' said the archdeacon at last.
'Oh, to Cox and Cummins,' said the warden. It was quite
a matter of indifference to him where his son-in-law went.
The names of Cox and Cummins had now no interest in his
ears. What had he to do with Cox and Cummins further,
having already had his suit finally adjudicated upon in a
court of conscience, a judgment without power of appeal fully
registered, and the matter settled so that all the lawyers in
London could not disturb it. The archdeacon could go to
Cox and Cummins, could remain there all day in anxious
discussion; but what might be said there was no longer matter
of interest to him, who was so soon to lay aside the name of
warden of Barchester Hospital.
The archdeacon took up his shining new clerical hat, and
put on his black new clerical gloves, and looked heavy,
respectable, decorous, and opulent, a decided clergyman of the
Church of England, every inch of him. 'I suppose I shall see
you at Barchester the day after tomorrow,' said he.
The warden supposed he would.
'I must once more beseech you to take no further steps till
you see my father; if you owe me nothing,' and the archdeacon
looked as though he thought a great deal were due to him,
'at least you owe so much to my father'; and, without
waiting for a reply, Dr Grantly wended his way to Cox and
Cummins.
Mrs Grantly waited till the last fall of her husband's foot
was heard, as he turned out of the court into St Paul's Churchyard,
and then commenced her task of talking her father over.
'Papa,' she began, 'this is a most serious business.'
'Indeed it is,' said the warden, ringing the bell.
'I greatly feel the distress of mind you must have endured.'
'I am sure you do, my dear'; and he ordered the waiter to
bring him pen, ink, and paper.
'Are you going to write, papa?'
'Yes, my dear--I am going to write my resignation to the bishop.'
'Pray, pray, papa, put it off till our return--pray put it off
till you have seen the bishop--dear papa! for my sake, for
Eleanor's!--'
'It is for your sake and Eleanor's that I do this. I hope, at least,
that my children may never have to be ashamed of their father.'
'How can you talk about shame, papa?' and she stopped
while the waiter creaked in with the paper, and then slowly
creaked out again; 'how can you talk about shame? you
know what all your friends think about this question.'
The warden spread his paper on the table, placing it on the
meagre blotting-book which the hotel afforded, and sat himself
down to write.
'You won't refuse me one request, papa?' continued his
daughter; 'you won't refuse to delay your letter for two short
days? Two days can make no possible difference.'
'My dear,' said he naively, 'if I waited till I got to
Barchester, I might, perhaps, be prevented.'
'But surely you would not wish to offend the bishop?'
said she.
'God forbid! The bishop is not apt to take offence, and
knows me too well to take in bad part anything that I may be
called on to do.'
'But, papa--'
'Susan,' said he, 'my mind on this subject is made up; it is
not without much repugnance that I act in opposition to the
advice of such men as Sir Abraham Haphazard and the archdeacon;
but in this matter I can take no advice, I cannot alter
the resolution to which I have come.'
'But two days, papa--'
'No--nor can I delay it. You may add to my present unhappiness
by pressing me, but you cannot change my purpose; it will be a
comfort to me if you will let the matter rest': and,
dipping his pen into the inkstand, he fixed his eyes intently
on the paper.
There was something in his manner which taught his
daughter to perceive that he was in earnest; she had at one
time ruled supreme in her father's house, but she knew that
there were moments when, mild and meek as he was, he would
have his way, and the present was an occasion of the sort.
She returned, therefore, to her knitting, and very shortly after
left the room.
The warden was now at liberty to compose his letter, and,
as it was characteristic of the man, it shall be given at full
length. The official letter, which, when written, seemed to
him to be too formally cold to be sent alone to so dear a friend,
was accompanied by a private note; and both are here inserted.
The letter of resignation ran as follows:
'CHAPTER HOTEL, ST. PAUL'S, LONDON,
'August, 18--
'My LORD BISHOP,
'It is with the greatest pain that I feel myself constrained to
resign into your Lordship's hands the wardenship of the hospital
at Barchester, which you so kindly conferred upon me, now
nearly twelve years since.
'I need not explain the circumstances which have made this
step appear necessary to me. You are aware that a question
has arisen as to the right of the warden to the income which has
been allotted to the wardenship; it has seemed to me that this
right is not well made out, and I hesitate to incur the risk of
taking an income to which my legal claim appears doubtful.
'The office of precentor of the cathedral is, as your Lordship
is aware, joined to that of the warden; that is to say, the
precentor has for many years been the warden of the hospital;
there is, however, nothing to make the junction of the two
offices necessary, and, unless you or the dean and chapter
object to such an arrangement, I would wish to keep the
precentorship. The income of this office will now be necessary to
me; indeed, I do not know why I should be ashamed to say
that I should have difficulty in supporting myself without it.
'Your Lordship, and such others as you may please to
consult on the matter, will at once see that my resignation of the
wardenship need offer not the slightest bar to its occupation
by another person. I am thought in the wrong by all those
whom I have consulted in the matter; I have very little but
an inward and an unguided conviction of my own to bring me
to this step, and I shall, indeed, be hurt to find that any slur
is thrown on the preferment which your kindness bestowed
on me, by my resignation of it. I, at any rate for one, shall
look on any successor whom you may appoint as enjoying a
clerical situation of the highest respectability, and one to
which your Lordship's nomination gives an indefeasible right.
'I cannot finish this official letter without again thanking
your Lordship for all your great kindness, and I beg to
subscribe myself- -Your Lordship's most obedient servant
'SEPTIMUS HARDING,
'Warden of Barchester Hospital,
and Precentor of the Cathedral.'
He then wrote the following private note:
'My DEAR BISHOP,
'I cannot send you the accompanying official letter without
a warmer expression of thanks for all your kindness than would
befit a document which may to a certain degree be made
public. You, I know, will understand the feeling, and, perhaps,
pity the weakness which makes me resign the hospital. I am not
made of calibre strong enough to withstand public attack. Were
I convinced that I stood on ground perfectly firm, that I was
certainly justified in taking eight hundred a year under Hiram's
will, I should feel bound by duty to retain the position, however
unendurable might be the nature of the assault; but, as I do
not feel this conviction, I cannot believe that you will think me
wrong in what I am doing.
'I had at one time an idea of keeping only some moderate
portion of the income; perhaps three hundred a year, and of
remitting the remainder to the trustees; but it occurred to
me, and I think with reason, that by so doing I should place
my successors in an invidious position, and greatly damage
your patronage.
'My dear friend, let me have a line from you to say that you
do not blame me for what I am doing, and that the officiating
vicar of Crabtree Parva will be the same to you as the warden
of the hospital.
'I am very anxious about the precentorship: the archdeacon
thinks it must go with the wardenship; I think not, and, that,
having it, I cannot be ousted. I will, however, be guided
by you and the dean. No other duty will suit me so well,
or come so much within my power of adequate performance.
'I thank you from my heart for the preferment which I am
now giving up, and for all your kindness, and am, dear bishop,
now as always-- Yours most sincerely,
'SEPTIMUS HARDING
'LONDON, - AUGUST, 18--'
Having written these letters and made a copy of the former
one for the benefit of the archdeacon, Mr Harding, whom we
must now cease to call the warden, he having designated himself
so for the last time, found that it was nearly two o'clock,
and that he must prepare for his journey. Yes, from this time
he never again admitted the name by which he had been so
familiarly known, and in which, to tell the truth, he had
rejoiced. The love of titles is common to all men, and a vicar
or fellow is as pleased at becoming Mr Archdeacon or Mr
Provost, as a lieutenant at getting his captaincy, or a city
tallow-chandler in becoming Sir John on the occasion of a
Queen's visit to a new bridge. But warden he was no longer,
and the name of precentor, though the office was to him so
dear, confers in itself no sufficient distinction; our friend,
therefore, again became Mr Harding.
Mrs Grantly had gone out; he had, therefore, no one to
delay him by further entreaties to postpone his journey; he
had soon arranged his bag, and paid his bill, and, leaving a
note for his daughter, in which he put the copy of his official
letter, he got into a cab and drove away to the station with
something of triumph in his heart.
Had he not cause for triumph? Had he not been supremely
successful? Had he not for the first time in his life held his
own purpose against that of his son-in-law, and manfully combated
against great odds--against the archdeacon's wife as well
as the archdeacon? Had he not gained a great victory, and
was it not fit that he should step into his cab with triumph?
He had not told Eleanor when he would return, but she was
on the look-out for him by every train by which he could
arrive, and the pony-carriage was at the Barchester station
when the train drew up at the platform.
'My dear,' said he, sitting beside her, as she steered her
little vessel to one side of the road to make room for the
clattering omnibus as they passed from the station into the town,
'I hope you'll be able to feel a proper degree of respect for the
vicar of Crabtree.'
'Dear papa,' said she, 'I am so glad.'
There was great comfort in returning home to that pleasant
house, though he was to leave it so soon, and in discussing with
his daughter all that he had done, and all that he had to do.
It must take some time to get out of one house into another;
the curate at Crabtree could not be abolished under six
months, that is, unless other provision could be made for him;
and then the furniture--the most of that must be sold to pay
Sir Abraham Haphazard for sitting up till twelve at night.
Mr Harding was strangely ignorant as to lawyers' bills; he
had no idea, from twenty pounds to two thousand, as to the
sum in which he was indebted for legal assistance. True, he
had called in no lawyer himself; true, he had been no consenting
party to the employment of either Cox and Cummins,
or Sir Abraham; he had never been consulted on such
matters;--the archdeacon had managed all this himself, never
for a moment suspecting that Mr Harding would take upon
him to end the matter in a way of his own. Had the lawyers'
bills been ten thousand pounds, Mr Harding could not have
helped it; but he was not on that account disposed to dispute
his own liability. The question never occurred to him; but it
did occur to him that he had very little money at his banker's,
that he could receive nothing further from the hospital, and
that the sale of the furniture was his only resource.
'Not all, papa,' said Eleanor pleadingly.
'Not quite all, my dear,' said he; 'that is, if we can help it.
We must have a little at Crabtree--but it can only be a little;
we must put a bold front on it, Nelly; it isn't easy to come
down from affluence to poverty.'
And so they planned their future mode of life; the father
taking comfort from the reflection that his daughter would
soon be freed from it, and she resolving that her father would
soon have in her own house a ready means of escape from the
solitude of the Crabtree vicarage.
When the archdeacon left his wife and father-in-law at the
Chapter Coffee House to go to Messrs Cox and Cummins, he
had no very defined idea of what he had to do when he got
there. Gentlemen when at law, or in any way engaged in
matters requiring legal assistance, are very apt to go to their
lawyers without much absolute necessity;--gentlemen when
doing so, are apt to describe such attendance as quite
compulsory, and very disagreeable. The lawyers, on the other
hand, do not at all see the necessity, though they quite agree as
to the disagreeable nature of the visit;--gentlemen when so
engaged are usually somewhat gravelled at finding nothing to
say to their learned friends; they generally talk a little politics,
a little weather, ask some few foolish questions about their suit,
and then withdraw, having passed half an hour in a small
dingy waiting-room, in company with some junior assistant-
clerk, and ten minutes with the members of the firm; the
business is then over for which the gentleman has come up to
London, probably a distance of a hundred and fifty miles.
To be sure he goes to the play, and dines at his friend's club,
and has a bachelor's liberty and bachelor's recreation for three
or four days; and he could not probably plead the desire of such
gratifications as a reason to his wife for a trip to London.
Married ladies, when your husbands find they are positively
obliged to attend their legal advisers, the nature of the duty
to be performed is generally of this description.
The archdeacon would not have dreamt of leaving London
without going to Cox and Cummins; and yet he had nothing
to say to them. The game was up; he plainly saw that Mr
Harding in this matter was not to be moved; his only remaining
business on this head was to pay the bill and have done
with it; and I think it may be taken for granted, that whatever
the cause may be that takes a gentleman to a lawyer's chambers,
he never goes there to pay his bill.
Dr Grantly, however, in the eyes of Messrs Cox and Cummins,
represented the spiritualities of the diocese of Barchester,
as Mr Chadwick did the temporalities, and was, therefore, too
great a man to undergo the half-hour in the clerk's room. It
will not be necessary that we should listen to the notes of
sorrow in which the archdeacon bewailed to Mr Cox the weakness
of his father-in-law, and the end of all their hopes of
triumph; nor need we repeat the various exclamations of
surprise with which the mournful intelligence was received.
No tragedy occurred, though Mr Cox, a short and somewhat
bull-necked man, was very near a fit of apoplexy when he first
attempted to ejaculate that fatal word--resign!
Over and over again did Mr Cox attempt to enforce on the
archdeacon the propriety of urging on Mr Warden the madness
of the deed he was about to do.
'Eight hundred a year!' said Mr Cox.
'And nothing whatever to do!' said Mr Cummins, who had
joined the conference.
'No private fortune, I believe,' said Mr Cox.
'Not a shilling,' said Mr Cummins, in a very low voice,
shaking his head.
'I never heard of such a case in all my experience,' said
Mr Cox.
'Eight hundred a year, and as nice a house as any gentleman
could wish to hang up his hat in,' said Mr Cummins.
'And an unmarried daughter, I believe,' said Mr Cox, with
much moral seriousness in his tone. The archdeacon only
sighed as each separate wail was uttered, and shook his head,
signifying that the fatuity of some people was past belief.
'I'll tell you what he might do,' said Mr Cummins, brightening
up. 'I'll tell you how you might save it--let him exchange.'
'Exchange where?' said the archdeacon.
'Exchange for a living. There's Quiverful, of Puddingdale
--he has twelve children, and would be delighted to get the
hospital. To be sure Puddingdale is only four hundred, but
that would be saving something out of the fire: Mr Harding
would have a curate, and still keep three hundred or three
hundred and fifty.'
The archdeacon opened his ears and listened; he really
thought the scheme might do.
'The newspapers,' continued Mr Cummins, 'might hammer
away at Quiverful every day for the next six months without
his minding them.'
The archdeacon took up his hat, and returned to his hotel,
thinking the matter over deeply. At any rate he would sound
Quiverful. A man with twelve children would do much to
double his income.
CHAPTER XX
Farewell
On the morning after Mr Harding's return home he received
a note from the bishop full of affection, condolence,
and praise. 'Pray come to me at once,' wrote the bishop,
'that we may see what had better be done; as to the hospital,
I will not say a word to dissuade you; but I don't like your
going to Crabtree: at any rate, come to me at once.'
Mr Harding did go to him at once; and long and confidential
was the consultation between the two old friends. There
they sat together the whole long day, plotting to get the better
of the archdeacon, and to carry out little schemes of their own,
which they knew would be opposed by the whole weight of
his authority.
The bishop's first idea was, that Mr Harding, if left to himself,
would certainly starve--not in the figurative sense in which
so many of our ladies and gentlemen do starve on incomes from
one to five hundred a year; not that he would be starved as
regarded dress coats, port wine, and pocket-money; but that he
would positively perish of inanition for want of bread.
'How is a man to live, when he gives up all his income?'
said the bishop to himself. And then the good-natured little
man began to consider how his friend might be best rescued
from a death so horrid and painful.
His first proposition to Mr Harding was, that they should
live together at the palace. He, the bishop, positively assured
Mr Harding that he wanted another resident chaplain--not
a young working chaplain, but a steady, middle-aged chaplain;
one who would dine and drink a glass of wine with him,
talk about the archdeacon, and poke the fire. The bishop did
not positively name all these duties, but he gave Mr Harding to
understand that such would be the nature of the service required.
It was not without much difficulty that Mr Harding made
his friend see that this would not suit him; that he could not
throw up the bishop's preferment, and then come and hang
on at the bishop's table; that he could not allow people to
say of him that it was an easy matter to abandon his own
income, as he was able to sponge on that of another person.
He succeeded, however, in explaining that the plan would not
do, and then the bishop brought forward another which he
had in his sleeve. He, the bishop, had in his will left certain
moneys to Mr Harding's two daughters, imagining that Mr
Harding would himself want no such assistance during his own
lifetime. This legacy amounted to three thousand pounds
each, duty free; and he now pressed it as a gift on his friend.
'The girls, you know,' said he, 'will have it just the same
when you're gone--and they won't want it sooner--and as for
the interest during my lifetime, it isn't worth talking about.
I have more than enough.'
With much difficulty and heartfelt sorrow, Mr Harding
refused also this offer. No; his wish was to support himself,
however poorly--not to be supported on the charity of anyone.
It was hard to make the bishop understand this; it was
hard to make him comprehend that the only real favour he
could confer was the continuation of his independent friendship;
but at last even this was done. At any rate, thought the
bishop, he will come and dine with me from time to time, and
if he be absolutely starving I shall see it.
Touching the precentorship, the bishop was clearly of
opinion that it could be held without the other situation--an
opinion from which no one differed; and it was therefore soon
settled among all the parties concerned, that Mr Harding
should still be the precentor of the cathedral.
On the day following Mr Harding's return, the archdeacon
reached Plumstead full of Mr Cummins's scheme regarding
Puddingdale and Mr Quiverful. On the very next morning
he drove over to Puddingdale, and obtained the full consent of
the wretched clerical Priam, who was endeavouring to feed his
poor Hecuba and a dozen of Hectors on the small proceeds of his
ecclesiastical kingdom. Mr Quiverful had no doubts as to the
legal rights of the warden; his conscience would be quite clear
as to accepting the income; and as to The Jupiter, he begged
to assure the archdeacon that he was quite indifferent to any
emanations from the profane portion of the periodical press.
Having so far succeeded, he next sounded the bishop; but
here he was astonished by most unexpected resistance. The
bishop did not think it would do. 'Not do, why not?' and
seeing that his father was not shaken, he repeated the question
in a severer form: 'Why not do, my lord?'
His lordship looked very unhappy, and shuffled about in
his chair, but still didn't give way; he thought Puddingdale
wouldn't do for Mr Harding; it was too far from Barchester.
'Oh! of course he'll have a curate.'
The bishop also thought that Mr Quiverful wouldn't do for
the hospital; such an exchange wouldn't look well at such a
time; and, when pressed harder, he declared he didn't think
Mr Harding would accept of Puddingdale under any circumstances.
'How is he to live?' demanded the archdeacon.
The bishop, with tears in his eyes, declared that he had not
the slightest conception how life was to be sustained within
him at all.
The archdeacon then left his father, and went down to the
hospital; but Mr Harding wouldn't listen at all to the Puddingdale
scheme. To his eyes it had no attraction; it savoured of simony,
and was likely to bring down upon him harder and more deserved
strictures than any he had yet received: he positively declined to
become vicar of Puddingdale under any circumstances.
The archdeacon waxed wroth, talked big, and looked
bigger; he said something about dependence and beggary,
spoke of the duty every man was under to earn his bread,
made passing allusions to the follies of youth and waywardness
of age, as though Mr Harding were afflicted by both, and
ended by declaring that he had done. He felt that he had left
no stone unturned to arrange matters on the best and easiest
footing; that he had, in fact, so arranged them, that he had so
managed that there was no further need of any anxiety in the
matter. And how had he been paid? His advice had been
systematically rejected; he had been not only slighted, but
distrusted and avoided; he and his measures had been utterly
thrown over, as had been Sir Abraham, who, he had reason to
know, was much pained at what had occurred. He now found
it was useless to interfere any further, and he should retire. If
any further assistance were required from him, he would probably
be called on, and should be again happy to come forward.
And so he left the hospital, and has not since entered it from
that day to this.
And here we must take leave of Archdeacon Grantly. We
fear that he is represented in these pages as being worse than
he is; but we have had to do with his foibles, and not with his
virtues. We have seen only the weak side of the man, and
have lacked the opportunity of bringing him forward on his
strong ground. That he is a man somewhat too fond of his
own way, and not sufficiently scrupulous in his manner of
achieving it, his best friends cannot deny. That he is bigoted
in favour, not so much of his doctrines as of his cloth, is also
true: and it is true that the possession of a large income is a
desire that sits near his heart. Nevertheless, the archdeacon is
a gentleman and a man of conscience; he spends his money
liberally, and does the work he has to do with the best of his
ability; he improves the tone of society of those among whom
he lives. His aspirations are of a healthy, if not of the highest,
kind. Though never an austere man, he upholds propriety
of conduct both by example and precept. He is generous to
the poor, and hospitable to the rich; in matters of religion he
is sincere, and yet no Pharisee; he is in earnest, and yet no
fanatic. On the whole, the Archdeacon of Barchester is a man
doing more good than harm--a man to be furthered and
supported, though perhaps also to be controlled; and it is
matter of regret to us that the course of our narrative has
required that we should see more of his weakness than his strength.
Mr Harding allowed himself no rest till everything was
prepared for his departure from the hospital. It may be as
well to mention that he was not driven to the stern necessity of
selling all his furniture: he had been quite in earnest in his
intention to do so, but it was soon made known to him that
the claims of Messrs Cox and Cummins made no such step
obligatory. The archdeacon had thought it wise to make use
of the threat of the lawyer's bill, to frighten his father-in-law
into compliance; but he had no intention to saddle Mr Harding
with costs, which had been incurred by no means exclusively
for his benefit. The amount of the bill was added to the
diocesan account, and was, in fact, paid out of the bishop's
pocket, without any consciousness on the part of his lordship.
A great part of his furniture he did resolve to sell, having no
other means to dispose of it; and the ponies and carriage were
transferred, by private contract, to the use of an old maiden
lady in the city.
For his present use Mr Harding took a lodging in Barchester,
and thither were conveyed such articles as he wanted for daily
use--his music, books, and instruments, his own arm-chair,
and Eleanor's pet sofa; her teapoy and his cellaret, and also
the slender but still sufficient contents of his wine-cellar. Mrs
Grantly had much wished that her sister would reside at
Plumstead, till her father's house at Crabtree should be ready
for her; but Eleanor herself strongly resisted this proposal. It
was in vain urged upon her, that a lady in lodgings cost more than
a gentleman; and that, under her father's present circumstances,
such an expense should be avoided. Eleanor had not pressed
her father to give up the hospital in order that she might
live at Plumstead Rectory and he alone in his Barchester
lodgings; nor did Eleanor think that she would be treating a
certain gentleman very fairly, if she betook herself to the house
which he would be the least desirous of entering of any in the
county. So she got a little bedroom for herself behind the
sitting-room, and just over the little back parlour of the
chemist, with whom they were to lodge. There was somewhat
of a savour of senna softened by peppermint about the place;
but, on the whole, the lodgings were clean and comfortable.
The day had been fixed for the migration of the ex-warden,
and all Barchester were in a state of excitement on the subject.
Opinion was much divided as to the propriety of Mr Harding's
conduct. The mercantile part of the community, the mayor
and corporation, and council, also most of the ladies, were
loud in his praise. Nothing could be more noble, nothing more
generous, nothing more upright. But the gentry were of a
different way of thinking--especially the lawyers and the
clergymen. They said such conduct was very weak and undignified;
that Mr Harding evinced a lamentable want of esprit de corps,
as well as courage; and that such an abdication must do much
harm, and could do but little good.
On the evening before he left, he summoned all the bedesmen
into his parlour to wish them good-bye. With Bunce he had
been in frequent communication since his return from London,
and had been at much pains to explain to the old man the
cause of his resignation, without in any way prejudicing
the position of his successor. The others, also, he had seen
more or less frequently; and had heard from most of them
separately some expression of regret at his departure; but he
had postponed his farewell till the last evening.
He now bade the maid put wine and glasses on the table;
and had the chairs arranged around the room; and sent Bunce to
each of the men to request they would come and say farewell to
their late warden. Soon the noise of aged scuffling feet was
heard upon the gravel and in the little hall, and the eleven men
who were enabled to leave their rooms were assembled.
'Come in, my friends, come in,' said the warden--he was
still warden then. 'Come in, and sit down'; and he took the
hand of Abel Handy, who was the nearest to him, and led the
limping grumbler to a chair. The others followed slowly and
bashfully; the infirm, the lame, and the blind: poor wretches!
who had been so happy, had they but known it! Now their
aged faces were covered with shame, and every kind word
from their master was a coal of fire burning on their heads.
When first the news had reached them that Mr Harding
was going to leave the hospital, it had been received with a
kind of triumph--his departure was, as it were, a prelude to
success. He had admitted his want of right to the money
about which they were disputing; and as it did not belong to
him, of course, it did to them. The one hundred a year to
each of them was actually becoming a reality; and Abel
Handy was a hero, and Bunce a faint-hearted sycophant,
worthy neither honour nor fellowship. But other tidings soon
made their way into the old men's rooms. It was first notified
to them that the income abandoned by Mr Harding would not
come to them; and these accounts were confirmed by attorney
Finney. They were then informed that Mr Harding's place
would be at once filled by another. That the new warden
could not be a kinder man they all knew; that he would be a
less friendly one most suspected; and then came the bitter
information that, from the moment of Mr Harding's departure,
the twopence a day, his own peculiar gift, must of necessity
be withdrawn.
And this was to be the end of all their mighty struggle--of
their fight for their rights--of their petition, and their debates,
and their hopes! They were to change the best of masters
for a possible bad one, and to lose twopence a day each man!
No; unfortunate as this was, it was not the worst, or nearly
the worst, as will just now be seen.
'Sit down, sit down, my friends,' said the warden; 'I want
to say a word to you and to drink your healths, before I leave
you. Come up here, Moody, here is a chair for you; come,
Jonathan Crumple'--and by degrees he got the men to be
seated. It was not surprising that they should hang back with
faint hearts, having returned so much kindness with such deep
ingratitude. Last of all of them came Bunce, and with sorrowful mien
and slow step got into his accustomed seat near the fire-place.
When they were all in their places, Mr Harding rose to
address them; and then finding himself not quite at home on
his legs, he sat down again. 'My dear old friends,' said he,
'you all know that I am going to leave you.'
There was a sort of murmur ran round the room, intended,
perhaps, to express regret at his departure; but it was but a
murmur, and might have meant that or anything else.
'There has been lately some misunderstanding between us.
You have thought, I believe, that you did not get all that you
were entitled to, and that the funds of the hospital have not
been properly disposed of. As for me, I cannot say what
should be the disposition of these moneys, or how they should
be managed, and I have therefore thought it best to go.'
'We never wanted to drive your reverence out of it,' said Handy.
'No, indeed, your reverence,' said Skulpit. 'We never
thought it would come to this. When I signed the petition--
that is I didn't sign it, because--'
'Let his reverence speak, can't you?' said Moody.
'No,' continued Mr Harding; 'I am sure you did not wish
to turn me out; but I thought it best to leave you. I am not
a very good hand at a lawsuit, as you may all guess; and when
it seemed necessary that our ordinary quiet mode of living
should be disturbed, I thought it better to go. I am neither
angry nor offended with any man in the hospital.'
Here Bunce uttered a kind of groan, very clearly expressive
of disagreement.
'I am neither angry nor displeased with any man in the
hospital,' repeated Mr Harding, emphatically. 'If any man
has been wrong--and I don't say any man has--he has erred
through wrong advice. In this country all are entitled to look
for their own rights, and you have done no more. As long as
your interests and my interests were at variance, I could give
you no counsel on this subject; but the connection between
us has ceased; my income can no longer depend on your
doings, and therefore, as I leave you, I venture to offer to you
my advice.'
The men all declared that they would from henceforth be
entirely guided by Mr Harding's opinion in their affairs.
'Some gentleman will probably take my place here very
soon, and I strongly advise you to be prepared to receive him in
a kindly spirit and to raise no further question among yourselves
as to the amount of his income. Were you to succeed
in lessening what he has to receive, you would not increase
your own allowance. The surplus would not go to you; your
wants are adequately provided for, and your position could
hardly be improved.'
'God bless your reverence, we knows it,' said Spriggs.
'It's all true, your reverence,' said Skulpit. 'We sees it all now.'
'Yes, Mr Harding,' said Bunce, opening his mouth for the
first time; 'I believe they do understand it now, now that
they've driven from under the same roof with them such a
master as not one of them will ever know again--now that
they're like to be in sore want of a friend.'
'Come, come, Bunce,' said Mr Harding, blowing his nose
and manoeuvring to wipe his eyes at the same time.
'Oh, as to that,' said Handy, 'we none of us never wanted
to do Mr Harding no harm; if he's going now, it's not along
of us; and I don't see for what Mr Bunce speaks up agen us
that way.'
'You've ruined yourselves, and you've ruined me too, and
that's why,' said Bunce.
'Nonsense, Bunce,' said Mr Harding; 'there's nobody
ruined at all. I hope you'll let me leave you all friends, I hope
you'll all drink a glass of wine in friendly feeling with me and
with one another. You'll have a good friend, I don't doubt,
in your new warden; and if ever you want any other, why
after all I'm not going so far off but that I shall sometimes see
you'; and then, having finished his speech, Mr Harding filled
all the glasses, and himself handed each a glass to the men
round him, and raising his own said:
'God bless you all! you have my heartfelt wishes for your
welfare. I hope you may live contented, and die trusting in
the Lord jesus Christ, and thankful to Almighty God For the
good things he has given you. God bless you, my friends!'
and Mr Harding drank his wine.
Another murmur, somewhat more articulate than the first,
passed round the circle, and this time it was intended to imply
a blessing on Mr Harding. It had, however, but little cordiality
in it. Poor old men! how could they be cordial with their
sore consciences and shamed faces? how could they bid God
bless him with hearty voices and a true benison, knowing, as
they did, that their vile cabal had driven him from his happy
home, and sent him in his old age to seek shelter under a
strange roof-tree? They did their best, however; they drank
their wine, and withdrew.
As they left the hall-door, Mr Harding shook hands with
each of the men, and spoke a kind word to them about their
individual cases and ailments; and so they departed, answering
his questions in the fewest words, and retreated to their
dens, a sorrowful repentant crew.
All but Bunce, who still remained to make his own farewell.
'There's poor old Bell,' said Mr Harding; 'I mustn't go
without saying a word to him; come through with me, Bunce,
and bring the wine with you'; and so they went through to
the men's cottages, and found the old man propped up as usual
in his bed.
'I've come to say good-bye to you, Bell,' said Mr Harding,
speaking loud, for the old man was deaf.
'And are you going away, then, really?' asked Bell.
'Indeed I am, and I've brought you a glass of wine; so that
we may part friends, as we lived, you know.'
The old man took the proffered glass in his shaking hands,
and drank it eagerly. 'God bless you, Bell!' said Mr
Harding; 'good-bye, my old friend.'
'And so you're really going?' the man again asked.
'Indeed I am, Bell.'
The poor old bed-ridden creature still kept Mr Harding's
hand in his own, and the warden thought that he had met
with something like warmth of feeling in the one of all his
subjects from whom it was the least likely to be expected; for
poor old Bell had nearly outlived all human feelings. 'And
your reverence,' said he, and then he paused, while his old
palsied head shook horribly, and his shrivelled cheeks sank
lower within his jaws, and his glazy eye gleamed with a
momentary light; 'and your reverence, shall we get the
hundred a year, then?'
How gently did Mr Harding try to extinguish the false hope
of money which had been so wretchedly raised to disturb the
quiet of the dying man! One other week and his mortal coil
would be shuffled off; in one short week would God resume
his soul, and set it apart for its irrevocable doom; seven more
tedious days and nights of senseless inactivity, and all would
be over for poor Bell in this world; and yet, with his last
audible words, he was demanding his moneyed rights, and
asserting himself to be the proper heir of John Hiram's bounty!
Not on him, poor sinner as he was, be the load of such sin!
Mr Harding returned to his parlour, meditating with a sick
heart on what he had seen, and Bunce with him. We will not
describe the parting of these two good men, for good men they
were. It was in vain that the late warden endeavoured to
comfort the heart of the old bedesman; poor old Bunce felt
that his days of comfort were gone. The hospital had to him
been a happy home, but it could be so no longer. He had
had honour there, and friendship; he had recognised his
master, and been recognised; all his wants, both of soul and
body, had been supplied, and he had been a happy man. He
wept grievously as he parted from his friend, and the tears of
an old man are bitter. 'It is all over for me in this world,'
said he, as he gave the last squeeze to Mr Harding's hand;
'I have now to forgive those who have injured me--and to die.'
And so the old man went out, and then Mr Harding gave
way to his grief and he too wept aloud.
CHAPTER XXI
Conclusion
Our tale is now done, and it only remains to us to collect
the scattered threads of our little story, and to tie them
into a seemly knot. This will not be a work of labour, either
to the author or to his readers; we have not to deal with many
personages, or with stirring events, and were it not for the custom
of the thing, we might leave it to the imagination of all concerned
to conceive how affairs at Barchester arranged themselves.
On the morning after the day last alluded to, Mr Harding,
at an early hour, walked out of the hospital, with his daughter
under his arm, and sat down quietly to breakfast at his lodgings
over the chemist's shop. There was no parade about his
departure; no one, not even Bunce, was there to witness it;
had he walked to the apothecary's thus early to get a piece of
court plaster, or a box of lozenges, he could not have done it
with less appearance of an important movement. There was
a tear in Eleanor's eye as she passed through the big gateway
and over the bridge; but Mr Harding walked with an elastic
step, and entered his new abode with a pleasant face.
'Now, my dear,' said he, 'you have everything ready, and
you can make tea here just as nicely as in the parlour at the
hospital.' So Eleanor took off her bonnet and made the tea.
After this manner did the late Warden of Barchester Hospital
accomplish his flitting, and change his residence.
It was not long before the archdeacon brought his father
to discuss the subject of a new warden. Of course he looked
upon the nomination as his own, and he had in his eye three
or four fitting candidates, seeing that Mr Cummins's plan as
to the living of Puddingdale could not be brought to bear.
How can I describe the astonishment which confounded him,
when his father declared that he would appoint no successor
to Mr Harding? 'If we can get the matter set to rights, Mr
Harding will return,' said the bishop; 'and if we cannot, it will
be wrong to put any other gentleman into so cruel a position.'
It was in vain that the archdeacon argued and lectured,
and even threatened; in vain he my-lorded his poor father in
his sternest manner; in vain his 'good heavens!' were ejaculated
in a tone that might have moved a whole synod, let alone
one weak and aged bishop. Nothing could induce his father
to fill up the vacancy caused by Mr Harding's retirement.
Even John Bold would have pitied the feelings with which
the archdeacon returned to Plumstead: the church was
falling, nay, already in ruins; its dignitaries were yielding
without a struggle before the blows of its antagonists; and
one of its most respected bishops, his own father--the man
considered by all the world as being in such matters under
his, Dr Grantly's, control--had positively resolved to capitulate,
and own himself vanquished!
And how fared the hospital under this resolve of its visitor?
Badly indeed. It is now some years since Mr Harding left it,
and the warden's house is still tenantless. Old Bell has died,
and Billy Gazy; the one-eyed Spriggs has drunk himself to
death, and three others of the twelve have been gathered into
the churchyard mould. Six have gone, and the six vacancies
remain unfilled! Yes, six have died, with no kind friend to
solace their last moments, with no wealthy neighbour to
administer comforts and ease the stings of death. Mr Harding,
indeed, did not desert them; from him they had such consolation
as a dying man may receive from his Christian pastor; but
it was the occasional kindness of a stranger which ministered
to them, and not the constant presence of a master, a
neighbour, and a friend.
Nor were those who remained better off than those who
died. Dissensions rose among them, and contests for pre-
eminence; and then they began to understand that soon one
among them would be the last--some one wretched being
would be alone there in that now comfortless hospital--the
miserable relic of what had once been so good and so comfortable.
The building of the hospital itself has not been allowed to
go to ruins. Mr Chadwick, who still holds his stewardship,
and pays the accruing rents into an account opened at a bank
for the purpose, sees to that; but the whole place has become
disordered and ugly. The warden's garden is a wretched
wilderness, the drive and paths are covered with weeds, the
flower-beds are bare, and the unshorn lawn is now a mass of
long damp grass and unwholesome moss. The beauty of the
place is gone; its attractions have withered. Alas! a very
few years since it was the prettiest spot in Barchester, and now
it is a disgrace to the city.
Mr Harding did not go out to Crabtree Parva. An
arrangement was made which respected the homestead of Mr
Smith and his happy family, and put Mr Harding into possession
of a small living within the walls of the city. It is the smallest
possible parish, containing a part of the Cathedral Close
and a few old houses adjoining. The church is a singular
little Gothic building, perched over a gateway, through which
the Close is entered, and is approached by a flight of stone steps
which leads down under the archway of the gate. It is no bigger
than an ordinary room--perhaps twenty-seven feet long by eighteen
wide--but still it is a perfect church. It contains an old carved
pulpit and reading-desk, a tiny altar under a window filled with
dark old-coloured glass, a font, some half-dozen pews, and
perhaps a dozen seats for the poor; and also a vestry.
The roof is high pitched, and of black old oak, and the three
large beams which support it run down to the side walls, and
terminate in grotesquely carved faces--two devils and an angel on
one side, two angels and a devil on the other. Such is the church
of St Cuthbert at Barchester, of which Mr Harding became rector,
with a clear income of seventy-five pounds a year.
Here he performs afternoon service every Sunday, and administers
the Sacrament once in every three months. His audience is not
large; and, had they been so, he could not have accommodated them:
but enough come to fill his six pews, and on the front seat of
those devoted to the poor is always to be seen our old friend Mr
Bunce, decently arrayed in his bedesman's gown.
Mr Harding is still precentor of Barchester; and it is very
rarely the case that those who attend the Sunday morning
service miss the gratification of hearing him chant the Litany,
as no other man in England can do it. He is neither a discontented
nor an unhappy man; he still inhabits the lodgings to which he
went on leaving the hospital, but he now has them to himself.
Three months after that time Eleanor became Mrs Bold, and of
course removed to her husband's house.
There were some difficulties to be got over on the occasion
of the marriage. The archdeacon, who could not so soon
overcome his grief, would not be persuaded to grace the ceremony
with his presence, but he allowed his wife and children to
be there. The marriage took place in the cathedral, and
the bishop himself officiated. It was the last occasion on
which he ever did so; and, though he still lives, it is not
probable that he will ever do so again.
Not long after the marriage, perhaps six months, when
Eleanor's bridal-honours were fading, and persons were beginning
to call her Mrs Bold without twittering, the archdeacon
consented to meet John Bold at a dinner-party, and since that
time they have become almost friends. The archdeacon
firmly believes that his brother-in-law was, as a bachelor, an
infidel, an unbeliever in the great truths of our religion; but
that matrimony has opened his eyes, as it has those of others.
And Bold is equally inclined to think that time has softened
the asperities of the archdeacon's character. Friends though
they are, they do not often revert to the feud of the hospital.
Mr Harding, we say, is not an unhappy man: he keeps his
lodgings, but they are of little use to him, except as being the
one spot on earth which he calls his own. His time is spent
chiefly at his daughter's or at the palace; he is never left alone,
even should he wish to be so; and within a twelvemonth of
Eleanor's marriage his determination to live at his own lodging
had been so far broken through and abandoned, that he
consented to have his violoncello permanently removed to his
daughter's house.
Every other day a message is brought to him from the bishop.
'The bishop's compliments, and his lordship is not very well
to-day, and he hopes Mr Harding will dine with him.' This
bulletin as to the old man's health is a myth; for though he
is over eighty he is never ill, and will probably die some day,
as a spark goes out, gradually and without a struggle. Mr
Harding does dine with him very often, which means going to
the palace at three and remaining till ten; and whenever he
does not the bishop whines, and says that the port wine is
corked, and complains that nobody attends to him, and frets
himself off to bed an hour before his time.
It was long before the people of Barchester forgot to call
Mr Harding by his long well-known name of Warden. It had
become so customary to say Mr Warden, that it was not easily
dropped. 'No, no,' he always says when so addressed, 'not
warden now, only precentor.'
End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of The Warden, by Anthony Trollope