THE WARDEN

by

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 beneficedclergyman residing in the cathedral town of ----; let us call itBarchester. Were we to name Wells or Salisbury, Exeter, Hereford, orGloucester, it might be presumed that something personal was intended;and as this tale will refer mainly to the cathedral dignitaries of thetown 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 ofits monuments than for any commercial prosperity; that the west endof Barchester is the cathedral close, and that the aristocracy ofBarchester are the bishop, dean, and canons, with their respectivewives and daughters. 

Early in life Mr Harding found himself located at Barchester. A finevoice and a taste for sacred music had decided the position in whichhe was to exercise his calling, and for many years he performed theeasy but not highly paid duties of a minor canon. At the age of fortya small living in the close vicinity of the town increased both hiswork and his income, and at the age of fifty he became precentor ofthe cathedral. 

Mr Harding had married early in life, and was the father of twodaughters. The eldest, Susan, was born soon after his marriage; theother, Eleanor, not till ten years later. 

At the time at which we introduce him to our readers he was living asprecentor at Barchester with his youngest daughter, then twenty-fouryears of age; having been many years a widower, and having married hiseldest daughter to a son of the bishop a very short time before hisinstallation to the office of precentor. 

Scandal at Barchester affirmed that had it not been for the beauty ofhis daughter, Mr Harding would have remained a minor canon; but hereprobably Scandal lied, as she so often does; for even as a minor canonno one had been more popular among his reverend brethren in the closethan Mr Harding; and Scandal, before she had reprobated Mr Harding forbeing made precentor by his friend the bishop, had loudly blamed thebishop for having so long omitted to do something for his friend MrHarding. 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 herfather became, a few months later, precentor of Barchester Cathedral, that office being, as is not unusual, in the bishop's gift. 

Now there are peculiar circumstances connected with the precentorshipwhich must be explained. In the year 1434 there died at Barchesterone John Hiram, who had made money in the town as a wool-stapler, andin his will he left the house in which he died and certain meadows andcloses near the town, still called Hiram's Butts, and Hiram's Patch, for the support of twelve superannuated wool-carders, all of whomshould have been born and bred and spent their days in Barchester; healso appointed that an alms-house should be built for their abode, with a fitting residence for a warden, which warden was also toreceive a certain sum annually out of the rents of the said butts andpatches. He, moreover, willed, having had a soul alive to harmony, that the precentor of the cathedral should have the option of beingalso 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-cardingin Barchester there was no longer any; so the bishop, dean, andwarden, who took it in turn to put in the old men, generallyappointed some hangers-on of their own; worn-out gardeners, decrepitgrave-diggers, or octogenarian sextons, who thankfully received acomfortable lodging and one shilling and fourpence a day, such beingthe stipend to which, under the will of John Hiram, they were declaredto be entitled. Formerly, indeed, --that is, till within some fiftyyears of the present time, --they received but sixpence a day, andtheir breakfast and dinner was found them at a common table by thewarden, such an arrangement being in stricter conformity with theabsolute wording of old Hiram's will: but this was thought to beinconvenient, and to suit the tastes of neither warden nor bedesmen, and the daily one shilling and fourpence was substituted with thecommon consent of all parties, including the bishop and thecorporation of Barchester. 

Such was the condition of Hiram's twelve old men when Mr Harding wasappointed warden; but if they may be considered as well-to-do in theworld according to their condition, the happy warden was much more so. The patches and butts which, in John Hiram's time, produced hay or fedcows, were now covered with rows of houses; the value of the propertyhad gradually increased from year to year and century to century, andwas now presumed by those who knew anything about it, to bring ina very nice income; and by some who knew nothing about it, to haveincreased to an almost fabulous extent. 

The property was farmed by a gentleman in Barchester, who also actedas the bishop's steward, --a man whose father and grandfather had beenstewards to the bishops of Barchester, and farmers of John Hiram'sestate. The Chadwicks had earned a good name in Barchester; theyhad lived respected by bishops, deans, canons, and precentors; theyhad been buried in the precincts of the cathedral; they had neverbeen known as griping, hard men, but had always lived comfortably, maintained a good house, and held a high position in Barchestersociety. The present Mr Chadwick was a worthy scion of a worthystock, and the tenants living on the butts and patches, as well asthose on the wide episcopal domains of the see, were well pleased tohave to do with so worthy and liberal a steward. 

For many, many years, --records hardly tell how many, probably fromthe time when Hiram's wishes had been first fully carried out, --theproceeds of the estate had been paid by the steward or farmer to thewarden, and by him divided among the bedesmen; after which divisionhe paid himself such sums as became his due. Times had been when thepoor warden got nothing but his bare house, for the patches had beensubject to floods, and the land of Barchester butts was said to beunproductive; and in these hard times the warden was hardly able tomake out the daily dole for his twelve dependents. But by degreesthings mended; the patches were drained, and cottages began torise upon the butts, and the wardens, with fairness enough, repaidthemselves for the evil days gone by. In bad times the poor men hadhad their due, and therefore in good times they could expect no more. In this manner the income of the warden had increased; the picturesquehouse attached to the hospital had been enlarged and adorned, andthe office had become one of the most coveted of the snug clericalsinecures attached to our church. It was now wholly in the bishop'sgift, and though the dean and chapter, in former days, made a standon the subject, they had thought it more conducive to their honourto have a rich precentor appointed by the bishop, than a poor oneappointed by themselves. The stipend of the precentor of Barchesterwas eighty pounds a year. The income arising from the wardenship ofthe hospital was eight hundred, besides the value of the house. 

Murmurs, very slight murmurs, had been heard in Barchester, --fewindeed, and far between, --that the proceeds of John Hiram's propertyhad not been fairly divided: but they can hardly be said to have beenof such a nature as to have caused uneasiness to anyone: still thething had been whispered, and Mr Harding had heard it. Such was hischaracter in Barchester, so universal was his popularity, that thevery fact of his appointment would have quieted louder whispersthan those which had been heard; but Mr Harding was an open-handed, just-minded man, and feeling that there might be truth in what hadbeen said, he had, on his instalment, declared his intention of addingtwopence a day to each man's pittance, making a sum of sixty-twopounds eleven shillings and fourpence, which he was to pay out ofhis own pocket. In doing so, however, he distinctly and repeatedlyobserved to the men, that though he promised for himself, he could notpromise for his successors, and that the extra twopence could onlybe looked on as a gift from himself, and not from the trust. Thebedesmen, however, were most of them older than Mr Harding, and werequite satisfied with the security on which their extra income wasbased. 

This munificence on the part of Mr Harding had not been unopposed. Mr Chadwick had mildly but seriously dissuaded him from it; and hisstrong-minded son-in-law, the archdeacon, the man of whom alone MrHarding stood in awe, had urgently, nay, vehemently, opposed soimpolitic a concession: but the warden had made known his intentionto 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 buildingenough, and shows the correct taste with which the ecclesiasticalarchitects of those days were imbued. It stands on the banks of thelittle river, which flows nearly round the cathedral close, being onthe side furthest from the town. The London road crosses the riverby a pretty one-arched bridge, and, looking from this bridge, thestranger will see the windows of the old men's rooms, each pair ofwindows separated by a small buttress. A broad gravel walk runsbetween the building and the river, which is always trim and caredfor; and at the end of the walk, under the parapet of the approach tothe 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. Beyondthis row of buttresses, and further from the bridge, and also furtherfrom the water which here suddenly bends, are the pretty oriel windowsof Mr Harding's house, and his well-mown lawn. The entrance to thehospital is from the London road, and is made through a ponderousgateway under a heavy stone arch, unnecessary, one would suppose, atany time, for the protection of twelve old men, but greatly conduciveto the good appearance of Hiram's charity. On passing through thisportal, never closed to anyone from 6 A. M. Till 10 P. M. , and neveropen afterwards, except on application to a huge, intricately hungmediæval bell, the handle of which no uninitiated intruder canpossibly find, the six doors of the old men's abodes are seen, andbeyond them is a slight iron screen, through which the more happyportion of the Barchester elite pass into the Elysium of Mr Harding'sdwelling. 

Mr Harding is a small man, now verging on sixty years, but bearing fewof the signs of age; his hair is rather grizzled, though not gray;his eye is very mild, but clear and bright, though the double glasseswhich are held swinging from his hand, unless when fixed upon hisnose, show that time has told upon his sight; his hands are delicatelywhite, and both hands and feet are small; he always wears a blackfrock coat, black knee-breeches, and black gaiters, and somewhatscandalises some of his more hyperclerical brethren by a blackneck-handkerchief. 

Mr Harding's warmest admirers cannot say that he was ever anindustrious man; the circumstances of his life have not called onhim to be so; and yet he can hardly be called an idler. Since hisappointment to his precentorship, he has published, with all possibleadditions of vellum, typography, and gilding, a collection of ourancient 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 inEngland. He has taken something more than his fair share in thecathedral services, and has played the violoncello daily to suchaudiences as he could collect, or, _faute de mieux_, to no audienceat all. 

We must mention one other peculiarity of Mr Harding. As we havebefore stated, he has an income of eight hundred a year, and has nofamily but his one daughter; and yet he is never quite at ease inmoney matters. The vellum and gilding of "Harding's Church Music"cost more than any one knows, except the author, the publisher, andthe Rev. Theophilus Grantly, who allows none of his father-in-law'sextravagances to escape him. Then he is generous to his daughter, forwhose service he keeps a small carriage and pair of ponies. He is, indeed, generous to all, but especially to the twelve old men who arein a peculiar manner under his care. No doubt with such an income MrHarding should be above the world, as the saying is; but, at any rate, he is not above Archdeacon Theophilus Grantly, for he is always moreor 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 againbecoming audible. It is not that any one begrudges to Mr Hardingthe income which he enjoys, and the comfortable place which so wellbecomes him; but such matters have begun to be talked of in variousparts of England. Eager pushing politicians have asserted in theHouse of Commons, with very telling indignation, that the graspingpriests of the Church of England are gorged with the wealth which thecharity of former times has left for the solace of the aged, or theeducation of the young. The well-known case of the Hospital of StCross has even come before the law courts of the country, and thestruggles of Mr Whiston, at Rochester, have met with sympathy andsupport. Men are beginning to say that these things must be lookedinto. 

Mr Harding, whose conscience in the matter is clear, and who has neverfelt that he had received a pound from Hiram's will to which he wasnot entitled, has naturally taken the part of the church in talkingover these matters with his friend, the bishop, and his son-in-law, the archdeacon. The archdeacon, indeed, Dr Grantly, has been somewhatloud in the matter. He is a personal friend of the dignitaries of theRochester Chapter, and has written letters in the public press on thesubject of that turbulent Dr Whiston, which, his admirers think, mustwell nigh set the question at rest. It is also known at Oxford thathe is the author of the pamphlet signed "Sacerdos" on the subject ofthe Earl of Guildford and St Cross, in which it is so clearly arguedthat the manners of the present times do not admit of a literaladhesion to the very words of the founder's will, but that theinterests of the church for which the founder was so deeply concernedare best consulted in enabling its bishops to reward those shininglights whose services have been most signally serviceable toChristianity. In answer to this, it is asserted that Henry de Blois, founder of St Cross, was not greatly interested in the welfare of thereformed church, and that the masters of St Cross, for many yearspast, cannot be called shining lights in the service of Christianity;it is, however, stoutly maintained, and no doubt felt, by all thearchdeacon's friends, that his logic is conclusive, and has not, infact, been answered. 

With such a tower of strength to back both his arguments and hisconscience, it may be imagined that Mr Harding has never felt anycompunction as to receiving his quarterly sum of two hundred pounds. Indeed, the subject has never presented itself to his mind in thatshape. He has talked not unfrequently, and heard very much about thewills of old founders and the incomes arising from their estates, during the last year or two; he did even, at one moment, feel adoubt (since expelled by his son-in-law's logic) as to whether LordGuildford was clearly entitled to receive so enormous an incomeas he does from the revenues of St Cross; but that he himself wasoverpaid with his modest eight hundred pounds, --he who, out of that, voluntarily gave up sixty-two pounds eleven shillings and fourpence ayear to his twelve old neighbours, --he who, for the money, does hisprecentor's work as no precentor has done it before, since BarchesterCathedral was built, --such an idea has never sullied his quiet, ordisturbed his conscience. 

Nevertheless, Mr Harding is becoming uneasy at the rumour which heknows to prevail in Barchester on the subject. He is aware that, atany rate, two of his old men have been heard to say, that if everyonehad his own, they might each have their hundred pounds a year, andlive like gentlemen, instead of a beggarly one shilling and sixpencea day; and that they had slender cause to be thankful for a miserabledole of twopence, when Mr Harding and Mr Chadwick, between them, ranaway with thousands of pounds which good old John Hiram never intendedfor the like of them. It is the ingratitude of this which stings MrHarding. One of this discontented pair, Abel Handy, was put into thehospital by himself; he had been a stone-mason in Barchester, and hadbroken his thigh by a fall from a scaffolding, while employed aboutthe cathedral; and Mr Harding had given him the first vacancy in thehospital after the occurrence, although Dr Grantly had been veryanxious to put into it an insufferable clerk of his at PlumsteadEpiscopi, who had lost all his teeth, and whom the archdeacon hardlyknew how to get rid of by other means. Dr Grantly has not forgottento remind Mr Harding how well satisfied with his one-and-sixpence aday old Joe Mutters would have been, and how injudicious it was on thepart of Mr Harding to allow a radical from the town to get into theconcern. Probably Dr Grantly forgot, at the moment, that the charitywas intended for broken-down journeymen of Barchester. 

There is living at Barchester, a young man, a surgeon, named JohnBold, and both Mr Harding and Dr Grantly are well aware that to himis owing the pestilent rebellious feeling which has shown itself inthe hospital; yes, and the renewal, too, of that disagreeable talkabout 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 theiryears. Dr Grantly, however, has a holy horror of the impiousdemagogue, as on one occasion he called Bold, when speaking of himto the precentor; and being a more prudent far-seeing man than MrHarding, and possessed of a stronger head, he already perceives thatthis John Bold will work great trouble in Barchester. He considersthat he is to be regarded as an enemy, and thinks that he should notbe admitted into the camp on anything like friendly terms. As JohnBold will occupy much of our attention, we must endeavour to explainwho 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 atBarchester. His father was a physician in the city of London, wherehe made a moderate fortune, which he invested in houses in that city. The Dragon of Wantly inn and posting-house belonged to him, also fourshops in the High Street, and a moiety of the new row of genteelvillas (so called in the advertisements), built outside the town justbeyond Hiram's Hospital. To one of these Dr Bold retired to spendthe evening of his life, and to die; and here his son John spent hisholidays, and afterwards his Christmas vacation when he went fromschool to study surgery in the London hospitals. Just as John Boldwas entitled to write himself surgeon and apothecary, old Dr Bolddied, leaving his Barchester property to his son, and a certain sum inthe three per cents. To his daughter Mary, who is some four or fiveyears older than her brother. 

John Bold determined to settle himself at Barchester, and look afterhis own property, as well as the bones and bodies of such of hisneighbours as would call upon him for assistance in their troubles. He therefore put up a large brass plate with "John Bold, Surgeon" onit, to the great disgust of the nine practitioners who were alreadytrying to get a living out of the bishop, dean, and canons; and beganhouse-keeping with the aid of his sister. At this time he was notmore than twenty-four years old; and though he has now been threeyears in Barchester, we have not heard that he has done much harm tothe nine worthy practitioners. Indeed, their dread of him has diedaway; 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 ofthe profession, by which, I believe, he means the general work of apractising surgeon; and has found other employment. He frequentlybinds up the bruises and sets the limbs of such of the poorer classesas profess his way of thinking, --but this he does for love. Now Iwill not say that the archdeacon is strictly correct in stigmatisingJohn Bold as a demagogue, for I hardly know how extreme must be aman's opinions before he can be justly so called; but Bold is a strongreformer. His passion is the reform of all abuses; state abuses, church abuses, corporation abuses (he has got himself elected a towncouncillor of Barchester, and has so worried three consecutive mayors, that it became somewhat difficult to find a fourth), abuses inmedical practice, and general abuses in the world at large. Bold isthoroughly sincere in his patriotic endeavours to mend mankind, andthere is something to be admired in the energy with which he devoteshimself to remedying evil and stopping injustice; but I fear thathe is too much imbued with the idea that he has a special missionfor reforming. It would be well if one so young had a littlemore diffidence himself, and more trust in the honest purposes ofothers, --if he could be brought to believe that old customs need notnecessarily be evil, and that changes may possibly be dangerous; butno, Bold has all the ardour and all the self-assurance of a Danton, and hurls his anathemas against time-honoured practices with theviolence 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 ofBarchester Cathedral. Dr Grantly would have him avoided as theplague; but the old Doctor and Mr Harding were fast friends. YoungJohnny Bold used to play as a boy on Mr Harding's lawn; he has many atime won the precentor's heart by listening with rapt attention to hissacred strains; and since those days, to tell the truth at once, hehas 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; butshe cannot endure that anyone should speak harshly of him. She doesnot 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 isbeginning greatly to dislike the archdeacon. She persuades her fatherthat it would be both unjust and injudicious to banish his youngfriend because of his politics; she cares little to go to houses whereshe will not meet him, and, in fact, she is in love. 

Nor is there any good reason why Eleanor Harding should not love JohnBold. He has all those qualities which are likely to touch a girl'sheart. He is brave, eager, and amusing; well-made and good-looking;young and enterprising; his character is in all respects good; he hassufficient 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 Hardingbe attached to John Bold?

Dr Grantly, who has as many eyes as Argus, and has long seen how thewind blows in that direction, thinks there are various strong reasonswhy this should not be so. He has not thought it wise as yet tospeak to his father-in-law on the subject, for he knows how foolishlyindulgent is Mr Harding in everything that concerns his daughter; buthe has discussed the matter with his all-trusted helpmate, withinthat sacred recess formed by the clerical bed-curtains at PlumsteadEpiscopi. 

How much sweet solace, how much valued counsel has our archdeaconreceived within that sainted enclosure! 'Tis there alone that heunbends, and comes down from his high church pedestal to the level ofa mortal man. In the world Dr Grantly never lays aside that demeanourwhich so well becomes him. He has all the dignity of an ancient saintwith the sleekness of a modern bishop; he is always the same; he isalways the archdeacon; unlike Homer, he never nods. Even with hisfather-in-law, even with the bishop and dean, he maintains thatsonorous tone and lofty deportment which strikes awe into theyoung hearts of Barchester, and absolutely cows the whole parish ofPlumstead Episcopi. 'Tis only when he has exchanged that ever-newshovel hat for a tasselled nightcap, and those shining blackhabiliments 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 thisbe to the wives of our great church dignitaries. To us these men arepersonifications 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 ourreverence, 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 seethe bishops without their aprons, and the archdeacons even in a lowerstate of dishabille?

Do we not all know some reverend, all but sacred, personage beforewhom our tongue ceases to be loud and our step to be elastic? Butwere we once to see him stretch himself beneath the bed-clothes, yawnwidely, and bury his face upon his pillow, we could chatter beforehim as glibly as before a doctor or a lawyer. From some such cause, doubtless, it arose that our archdeacon listened to the counsels ofhis wife, though he considered himself entitled to give counsel toevery 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 to-day. I must sayyour father is very imprudent. "

"He is imprudent;--he always was, " replied Mrs Grantly, speaking fromunder the comfortable bed-clothes. "There's nothing new in that. "

"No, my dear, there's nothing new;--I know that; but, at the presentjuncture of affairs, such imprudence is--is--I'll tell you what, mydear, if he does not take care what he's about, John Bold will be offwith 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 athis nightcap as almost to bring it over his nose; "why not!--thatpestilent, interfering upstart, John Bold;--the most vulgar youngperson I ever met! Do you know that he is meddling with your father'saffairs in a most uncalled-for--most--" And being at a loss for anepithet sufficiently injurious, he finished his expressions of horrorby muttering, "Good heavens!" in a manner that had been found veryefficacious in clerical meetings of the diocese. He must for themoment have forgotten where he was. 

"As to his vulgarity, archdeacon" (Mrs Grantly had never assumed amore familiar term than this in addressing her husband), "I don'tagree with you. Not that I like Mr Bold;--he is a great deal tooconceited for me; but then Eleanor does, and it would be the bestthing in the world for papa if they were to marry. Bold would nevertrouble 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 mannerto which the doctor was well accustomed, and which told him, asplainly as words, that as far as she was concerned the subject wasover for that night. 

"Good heavens!" murmured the doctor again;--he was evidently much putbeside himself. 

Dr Grantly is by no means a bad man; he is exactly the man which suchan education as his was most likely to form; his intellect beingsufficient for such a place in the world, but not sufficient to puthim in advance of it. He performs with a rigid constancy such of theduties of a parish clergyman as are, to his thinking, above the sphereof his curate, but it is as an archdeacon that he shines. 

We believe, as a general rule, that either a bishop or his archdeaconshave sinecures: where a bishop works, archdeacons have but little todo, and _vice versa_. In the diocese of Barchester the Archdeaconof Barchester does the work. In that capacity he is diligent, authoritative, and, as his friends particularly boast, judicious. Hisgreat fault is an overbearing assurance of the virtues and claims ofhis order, and his great foible is an equally strong confidence in thedignity of his own manner and the eloquence of his own words. He is amoral man, believing the precepts which he teaches, and believing alsothat he acts up to them; though we cannot say that he would give hiscoat to the man who took his cloak, or that he is prepared to forgivehis brother even seven times. He is severe enough in exacting hisdues, considering that any laxity in this respect would endanger thesecurity of the church; and, could he have his way, he would consignto darkness and perdition, not only every individual reformer, butevery committee and every commission that would even dare to ask aquestion respecting the appropriation of church revenues. 

"They are church revenues: the laity admit it. Surely the church isable to administer her own revenues. " 'Twas thus he was accustomed toargue, when the sacrilegious doings of Lord John Russell and otherswere discussed either at Barchester or at Oxford. 

It was no wonder that Dr Grantly did not like John Bold, and that hiswife's suggestion that he should become closely connected with such aman dismayed him. To give him his due, the archdeacon never wantedcourage; he was quite willing to meet his enemy on any field and withany weapon. He had that belief in his own arguments that he felt sureof success, could he only be sure of a fair fight on the part of hisadversary. He had no idea that John Bold could really prove that theincome of the hospital was malappropriated; why, then, should peace besought for on such base terms? What! bribe an unbelieving enemy ofthe church with the sister-in-law of one dignitary and the daughterof another--with a young lady whose connections with the diocese andchapter of Barchester were so close as to give her an undeniable claimto a husband endowed with some of its sacred wealth! When Dr Grantlytalks of unbelieving enemies, he does not mean to imply want of beliefin the doctrines of the church, but an equally dangerous scepticism asto its purity in money matters. 

Mrs Grantly is not usually deaf to the claims of the high order towhich she belongs. She and her husband rarely disagree as to the tonewith which the church should be defended; how singular, then, that insuch a case as this she should be willing to succumb! The archdeaconagain murmurs "Good heavens!" as he lays himself beside her, but hedoes so in a voice audible only to himself, and he repeats it tillsleep relieves him from deep thought. 

Mr Harding himself has seen no reason why his daughter should not loveJohn Bold. He has not been unobservant of her feelings, and perhapshis deepest regret at the part which he fears Bold is about to takeregarding the hospital arises from the dread that he may be separatedfrom his daughter, or that she may be separated from the man sheloves. He has never spoken to Eleanor about her lover; he is thelast man in the world to allude to such a subject unconsulted, evenwith his own daughter; and had he considered that he had ground todisapprove of Bold, he would have removed her, or forbidden him hishouse; but he saw no such ground. He would probably have preferred asecond clerical son-in-law, for Mr Harding, also, is attached to hisorder; and, failing in that, he would at any rate have wished thatso near a connection should have thought alike with him on churchmatters. He would not, however, reject the man his daughter lovedbecause he differed on such subjects with himself. 

Hitherto Bold had taken no steps in the matter in any way annoyingto Mr Harding personally. Some months since, after a severe battle, which cost him not a little money, he gained a victory over a certainold turnpike woman in the neighbourhood, of whose charges another oldwoman had complained to him. He got the Act of Parliament relatingto the trust, found that his _protégée_ had been wrongly taxed, rode through the gate himself, paying the toll, then brought anaction against the gate-keeper, and proved that all people comingup a certain by-lane, and going down a certain other by-lane, weretoll-free. The fame of his success spread widely abroad, and hebegan to be looked on as the upholder of the rights of the poor ofBarchester. Not long after this success, he heard from differentquarters that Hiram's bedesmen were treated as paupers, whereas theproperty to which they were, in effect, heirs was very large; and hewas instigated by the lawyer whom he had employed in the case of theturnpike to call upon Mr Chadwick for a statement as to the funds ofthe estate. 

Bold had often expressed his indignation at the malappropriation ofchurch funds in general, in the hearing of his friend the precentor;but the conversation had never referred to anything at Barchester; andwhen Finney, the attorney, induced him to interfere with the affairsof the hospital, it was against Mr Chadwick that his efforts were tobe directed. Bold soon found that if he interfered with Mr Chadwickas steward, he must also interfere with Mr Harding as warden; andthough he regretted the situation in which this would place him, hewas not the man to flinch from his undertaking from personal motives. 

As soon as he had determined to take the matter in hand, he setabout his work with his usual energy. He got a copy of John Hiram'swill, of the wording of which he made himself perfectly master. Heascertained the extent of the property, and as nearly as he could thevalue of it; and made out a schedule of what he was informed was thepresent distribution of its income. Armed with these particulars, he called on Mr Chadwick, having given that gentleman notice of hisvisit; and asked him for a statement of the income and expenditure ofthe hospital for the last twenty-five years. 

This was of course refused, Mr Chadwick alleging that he had noauthority for making public the concerns of a property in managingwhich he was only a paid servant. 

"And who is competent to give you that authority, Mr Chadwick?" askedBold. 

"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 merelyout of curiosity, he must decline answering them: if Mr Bold had anyulterior proceeding in view, perhaps it would be desirable that anynecessary information should be sought for in a professional way bya professional man. Mr Chadwick's attorneys were Messrs Cox andCummins, of Lincoln's Inn. Mr Bold took down the address of Cox andCummins, remarked that the weather was cold for the time of the year, and wished Mr Chadwick good-morning. Mr Chadwick said it was coldfor June, and bowed him out. 

He at once went to his lawyer, Finney. Now, Bold was not very fondof his attorney, but, as he said, he merely wanted a man who knew theforms of law, and who would do what he was told for his money. Hehad no idea of putting himself in the hands of a lawyer. He wantedlaw from a lawyer as he did a coat from a tailor, because he couldnot make it so well himself; and he thought Finney the fittest manin Barchester for his purpose. In one respect, at any rate, he wasright: Finney was humility itself. 

Finney advised an instant letter to Cox and Cummins, mindful ofhis six-and-eightpence. "Slap at them at once, Mr Bold. Demandcategorically and explicitly a full statement of the affairs of thehospital. "

"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--leadto some little difficulties; but perhaps you're right. Mr Bold, Idon't think seeing Mr Harding can do any harm. " Finney saw from theexpression 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 Eleanorwas accustomed to drive in the evening, and that he might thereforeprobably find Mr Harding alone. It was between seven and eight whenhe 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 violoncellofrom the far end of the garden, and, advancing before the houseand across the lawn, he found him playing;--and not without anaudience. The musician was seated in a garden-chair just within thesummer-house, so as to allow the violoncello which he held between hisknees to rest upon the dry stone flooring; before him stood a roughmusic desk, on which was open a page of that dear sacred book, thatmuch-laboured and much-loved volume of church music, which had cost somany guineas; and around sat, and lay, and stood, and leaned, ten ofthe 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 heartsthey were conscious of any wrong done or to be done to their mildwarden, but latterly they had kept aloof from him, and his music wasno longer to their taste. 

It was amusing to see the positions, and eager listening faces ofthese well-to-do old men. I will not say that they all appreciatedthe music which they heard, but they were intent on appearing todo so; pleased at being where they were, they were determined, asfar as in them lay, to give pleasure in return; and they were notunsuccessful. It gladdened the precentor's heart to think that theold bedesmen whom he loved so well admired the strains which were tohim so full of almost ecstatic joy; and he used to boast that such wasthe air of the hospital, as to make it a precinct specially fit forthe worship of St Cecilia. 

Immediately before him, on the extreme corner of the bench whichran round the summer-house, sat one old man, with his handkerchiefsmoothly lain upon his knees, who did enjoy the moment, or actedenjoyment well. He was one on whose large frame many years, for hewas over eighty, had made small havoc;--he was still an upright, burly, handsome figure, with an open, ponderous brow, round whichclung a few, though very few, thin gray locks. The coarse black gownof the hospital, the breeches, and buckled shoes became him well; andas he sat with his hands folded on his staff, and his chin resting onhis hands, he was such a listener as most musicians would be glad towelcome. 

This man was certainly the pride of the hospital. It had always beenthe custom that one should be selected as being to some extent inauthority over the others; and though Mr Bunce, for such was his name, and so he was always designated by his inferior brethren, had nogreater emoluments than they, he had assumed, and well knew how tomaintain, the dignity of his elevation. The precentor delighted tocall him his sub-warden, and was not ashamed, occasionally, when noother 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. Buncenever went without the second glass, but no entreaty ever made himtake a third. 

"Well, well, Mr Harding; you're too good, much too good, " he'd alwayssay, as the second glass was filled; but when that was drunk, and thehalf hour over, Bunce stood erect, and with a benediction which hispatron valued, retired to his own abode. He knew the world too wellto risk the comfort of such halcyon moments, by prolonging them tillthey 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 wouldinterfere in the affairs of the hospital; he was every inch achurchman, and though he was not very fond of Dr Grantly personally, that arose from there not being room in the hospital for two peopleso much alike as the doctor and himself, rather than from anydissimilarity in feeling. Mr Bunce was inclined to think thatthe warden and himself could manage the hospital without furtherassistance; and that, though the bishop was the constitutionalvisitor, and as such entitled to special reverence from all connectedwith John Hiram's will, John Hiram never intended that his affairsshould be interfered with by an archdeacon. 

At the present moment, however, these cares were off his mind, and hewas 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 firstperceive him, and continued to draw his bow slowly across theplaintive wires; but he soon found from his audience that somestranger was there, and looking up, began to welcome his young friendwith frank hospitality. 

"Pray, Mr Harding--pray don't let me disturb you, " said Bold; "youknow how fond I am of sacred music. "

"Oh! it's nothing, " said the precentor, shutting up the book and thenopening it again as he saw the delightfully imploring look of his oldfriend Bunce. Oh, Bunce, Bunce, Bunce, I fear that after all thou artbut a flatterer. "Well, I'll just finish it then; it's a favouritelittle bit of Bishop's; and then, Mr Bold, we'll have a stroll anda chat till Eleanor comes in and gives us tea. " And so Bold satdown on the soft turf to listen, or rather to think how, after suchsweet harmony, he might best introduce a theme of so much discord, todisturb the peace of him who was so ready to welcome him kindly. 

Bold thought that the performance was soon over, for he felt thathe had a somewhat difficult task, and he almost regretted the finalleave-taking of the last of the old men, slow as they were in goingthrough their adieux. 

Bold's heart was in his mouth, as the precentor made some ordinary butkind remark as to the friendliness of the visit. 

"One evening call, " said he, "is worth ten in the morning. It's allformality in the morning; real social talk never begins till afterdinner. That's why I dine early, so as to get as much as I can ofit. "

"Quite true, Mr Harding, " said the other; "but I fear I've reversedthe order of things, and I owe you much apology for troubling you onbusiness at such an hour; but it is on business that I have calledjust now. "

Mr Harding looked blank and annoyed; there was something in thetone of the young man's voice which told him that the interview wasintended to be disagreeable, and he shrank back at finding his kindlygreeting 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 ignorantas a child. All I know is, that they pay me £800 a year. Go toChadwick, he knows all about the accounts; and now tell me, will poorMary Jones ever get the use of her limb again?"

"Well, I think she will, if she's careful; but, Mr Harding, I hopeyou won't object to discuss with me what I have to say about thehospital. "

Mr Harding gave a deep, long-drawn sigh. He did object, very stronglyobject, to discuss any such subject with John Bold; but he had not thebusiness tact of Mr Chadwick, and did not know how to relieve himselffrom the coming evil; he sighed sadly, but made no answer. 

"I have the greatest regard for you, Mr Harding, " continued Bold; "thetruest respect, the most sincere--"

"Thank ye, thank ye, Mr Bold, " interjaculated the precentor somewhatimpatiently; "I'm much obliged, but never mind that; I'm as likely tobe in the wrong as another man, --quite as likely. "

"But, Mr Harding, I must express what I feel, lest you should thinkthere is personal enmity in what I'm going to do. "

"Personal enmity! Going to do! Why, you're not going to cut mythroat, nor put me into the Ecclesiastical Court!"

Bold tried to laugh, but he couldn't. He was quite in earnest, anddetermined in his course, and couldn't make a joke of it. He walkedon awhile in silence before he recommenced his attack, during whichMr Harding, who had still the bow in his hand, played rapidly on animaginary violoncello. "I fear there is reason to think that JohnHiram's will is not carried out to the letter, Mr Harding, " said theyoung 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 sayanother word about it. "

"Only one word more, Mr Harding. Chadwick has referred me to Cox andCummins, and I think it my duty to apply to them for some statementabout the hospital. In what I do I may appear to be interfering withyou, 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 useno unfair weapons in carrying out your purposes, I shall have nothingto forgive. I presume you think I am not entitled to the incomeI receive from the hospital, and that others are entitled to it. Whatever some may do, I shall never attribute to you base motivesbecause you hold an opinion opposed to my own and adverse to myinterests: pray do what you consider to be your duty; I can giveyou no assistance, neither will I offer you any obstacle. Let me, however, suggest to you, that you can in no wise forward your viewsnor I mine, by any discussion between us. Here comes Eleanor and theponies, and we'll go in to tea. "

Bold, however, felt that he could not sit down at ease with Mr Hardingand his daughter after what had passed, and therefore excused himselfwith much awkward apology; and merely raising his hat and bowing as hepassed Eleanor and the pony chair, left her in disappointed amazementat his departure. 

Mr Harding's demeanour certainly impressed Bold with a full convictionthat the warden felt that he stood on strong grounds, and almost madehim think that he was about to interfere without due warrant in theprivate affairs of a just and honourable man; but Mr Harding himselfwas anything but satisfied with his own view of the case. 

In the first place, he wished for Eleanor's sake to think well ofBold and to like him, and yet he could not but feel disgusted at thearrogance of his conduct. What right had he to say that John Hiram'swill was not fairly carried out? But then the question would arisewithin his heart, --Was that will fairly acted on? Did John Hiram meanthat the warden of his hospital should receive considerably more outof the legacy than all the twelve old men together for whose behoofthe hospital was built? Could it be possible that John Bold wasright, and that the reverend warden of the hospital had been for thelast ten years and more the unjust recipient of an income legally andequitably belonging to others? What if it should be proved beforethe light of day that he, whose life had been so happy, so quiet, so respected, had absorbed eight thousand pounds to which he had notitle, and which he could never repay? I do not say that he fearedthat such was really the case; but the first shade of doubt now fellacross 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, oppressedMr Harding as he sat sipping his tea, absent and ill at ease. PoorEleanor felt that all was not right, but her ideas as to the cause ofthe evening's discomfort did not go beyond her lover, and his suddenand uncivil departure. She thought there must have been some quarrelbetween Bold and her father, and she was half angry with both, thoughshe did not attempt to explain to herself why she was so. 

Mr Harding thought long and deeply over these things, both before hewent to bed and after it, as he lay awake, questioning within himselfthe validity of his claim to the income which he enjoyed. It seemedclear at any rate that, however unfortunate he might be at having beenplaced in such a position, no one could say that he ought either tohave refused the appointment first, or to have rejected the incomeafterwards. All the world, --meaning the ecclesiastical world asconfined to the English church, --knew that the wardenship of theBarchester Hospital was a snug sinecure, but no one had ever beenblamed for accepting it. To how much blame, however, would he havebeen open had he rejected it! How mad would he have been thought hadhe declared, when the situation was vacant and offered to him, that hehad scruples as to receiving £800 a year from John Hiram's property, and that he had rather some stranger should possess it! How would DrGrantly have shaken his wise head, and have consulted with his friendsin the close as to some decent retreat for the coming insanity of thepoor minor canon! If he was right in accepting the place, it wasclear to him also that he would be wrong in rejecting any part of theincome attached to it. The patronage was a valuable appanage of thebishopric; and surely it would not be his duty to lessen the valueof that preferment which had been bestowed on himself; surely he wasbound to stand by his order. 

But somehow these arguments, though they seemed logical, were notsatisfactory. Was John Hiram's will fairly carried out? that was thetrue question: and if not, was it not his especial duty to see thatthis was done, --his especial duty, whatever injury it might do tohis order, --however ill such duty might be received by his patron andhis friends? At the idea of his friends, his mind turned unhappilyto his son-in-law. He knew well how strongly he would be supportedby Dr Grantly, if he could bring himself to put his case into thearchdeacon's hands and to allow him to fight the battle; but he knewalso that he would find no sympathy there for his doubts, no friendlyfeeling, no inward comfort. Dr Grantly would be ready enough to takeup his cudgel against all comers on behalf of the church militant, but he would do so on the distasteful ground of the church'sinfallibility. Such a contest would give no comfort to Mr Harding'sdoubts. 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, wasone whose qualities had rendered him dear to all who knew him. Hewas the very opposite to his son; he was a bland and a kind old man, opposed by every feeling to authoritative demonstrations and episcopalostentation. It was perhaps well for him, in his situation, that hisson had early in life been able to do that which he could not well dowhen he was younger, and which he could not have done at all now thathe was over seventy. The bishop knew how to entertain the clergyof his diocese, to talk easy small-talk with the rectors' wives, and put curates at their ease; but it required the strong hand ofthe archdeacon to deal with such as were refractory either in theirdoctrines or their lives. 

The bishop and Mr Harding loved each other warmly. They had grown oldtogether, and had together spent many, many years in clerical pursuitsand clerical conversation. When one of them was a bishop and theother only a minor canon they were even then much together; but sincetheir children had married, and Mr Harding had become warden andprecentor, they were all in all to each other. I will not say thatthey managed the diocese between them, but they spent much time indiscussing the man who did, and in forming little plans to mitigatehis wrath against church delinquents, and soften his aspirations forchurch dominion. 

Mr Harding determined to open his mind and confess his doubts tohis old friend; and to him he went on the morning after John Bold'suncourteous visit. 

Up to this period no rumour of these cruel proceedings against thehospital had reached the bishop's ears. He had doubtless heard thatmen existed who questioned his right to present to a sinecure of £800a year, as he had heard from time to time of some special immoralityor disgraceful disturbance in the usually decent and quiet city ofBarchester: but all he did, and all he was called on to do, on suchoccasions, was to shake his head, and to beg his son, the greatdictator, to see that no harm happened to the church. 

It was a long story that Mr Harding had to tell before he made thebishop comprehend his own view of the case; but we need not followhim through the tale. At first the bishop counselled but one step, recommended but one remedy, had but one medicine in his wholepharmacopoeia strong enough to touch so grave a disorder;--heprescribed the archdeacon. "Refer him to the archdeacon, " herepeated, as Mr Harding spoke of Bold and his visit. "The archdeaconwill set you quite right about that, " he kindly said, when his friendspoke with hesitation of the justness of his cause. "No man has gotup 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, whenfirst instituted to his see, but could not state positively: however, he very well knew that he had the absolute right to present to thewardenship, and that the income of the warden had been regularlysettled. 

"But, bishop, the question is, who has the power to settle it?If, as this young man says, the will provides that the proceeds ofthe property are to be divided into shares, who has the power toalter these provisions?" The bishop had an indistinct idea thatthey altered themselves by the lapse of years; that a kind ofecclesiastical statute of limitation barred the rights of the twelvebedesmen to any increase of income arising from the increased value ofproperty. He said something about tradition; more of the many learnedmen who by their practice had confirmed the present arrangement;then went at some length into the propriety of maintaining the duedifference in rank and income between a beneficed clergyman andcertain poor old men who were dependent on charity; and concluded hisargument by another reference to the archdeacon. 

The precentor sat thoughtfully gazing at the fire, and listening tothe good-natured reasoning of his friend. What the bishop said had asort of comfort in it, but it was not a sustaining comfort. It madeMr Harding feel that many others, --indeed, all others of his ownorder, --would think him right; but it failed to prove to him that hetruly was so. 

"Bishop, " said he, at last, after both had sat silent for a while, "Ishould deceive you and myself too, if I did not tell you that I amvery unhappy about this. Suppose that I cannot bring myself to agreewith Dr Grantly!--that I find, after inquiry, that the young man isright, and that I am wrong, --what then?"

The two old men were sitting near each other, --so near that the bishopwas able to lay his hand upon the other's knee, and he did so with agentle pressure. Mr Harding well knew what that pressure meant. Thebishop had no further argument to adduce; he could not fight for thecause as his son would do; he could not prove all the precentor'sdoubts to be groundless; but he could sympathise with his friend, andhe did so; and Mr Harding felt that he had received that for which hecame. There was another period of silence, after which the bishopasked, with a degree of irritable energy, very unusual with him, whether this "pestilent intruder" (meaning John Bold) had any friendsin 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 talkof John Bold in his double capacity of future son-in-law and presentenemy; and though he felt it to be sufficiently disagreeable, now washis time to do it. 

"He is very intimate at my own house, bishop. " The bishop stared. Hewas not so far gone in orthodoxy and church militancy as his son, butstill he could not bring himself to understand how so declared anenemy of the establishment could be admitted on terms of intimacy intothe house, not only of so firm a pillar as Mr Harding, but one so muchinjured as the warden of the hospital. 

"Indeed, I like Mr Bold much, personally, " continued the disinterestedvictim; "and to tell you the 'truth, '"--he hesitated as he brought outthe dreadful tidings, --"I have sometimes thought it not improbablethat 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 awhistling bishop; but he looked as though he would have done so, butfor his apron. 

What a brother-in-law for the archdeacon! what an alliance forBarchester close! what a connection for even the episcopal palace!The bishop, in his simple mind, felt no doubt that John Bold, had heso much power, would shut up all cathedrals, and probably all parishchurches; distribute all tithes among Methodists, Baptists, and othersavage tribes; utterly annihilate the sacred bench, and make shovelhats and lawn sleeves as illegal as cowls, sandals, and sackcloth!Here was a nice man to be initiated into the comfortable arcana ofecclesiastical snuggeries; one who doubted the integrity of parsons, and probably disbelieved the Trinity!

Mr Harding saw what an effect his communication had made, and almostrepented the openness of his disclosure; he, however, did what hecould to moderate the grief of his friend and patron. "I do not saythat there is any engagement between them. Had there been, Eleanorwould have told me; I know her well enough to be assured that shewould have done so; but I see that they are fond of each other; andas a man and a father, I have had no objection to urge against theirintimacy. "

"But, Mr Harding, " said the bishop, "how are you to oppose him, if heis your son-in-law?"

"I don't mean to oppose him; it is he who opposes me; if anything isto be done in defence, I suppose Chadwick will do it. I suppose--"

"Oh, the archdeacon will see to that: were the young man twice hisbrother-in-law, the archdeacon will never be deterred from doing whathe feels to be right. "

Mr Harding reminded the bishop that the archdeacon and the reformerwere not yet brothers, and very probably never would be; exacted fromhim a promise that Eleanor's name should not be mentioned in anydiscussion between the father bishop and son archdeacon respecting thehospital; and then took his departure, leaving his poor old friendbewildered, amazed, and confounded. 

Chapter IV

HIRAM'S BEDESMEN

The parties most interested in the movement which is about to setBarchester by the ears were not the foremost to discuss the meritof the question, as is often the case; but when the bishop, thearchdeacon, the warden, the steward, and Messrs Cox and Cummins, were all busy with the matter, each in his own way, it is not to besupposed that Hiram's bedesmen themselves were altogether passivespectators. Finney, the attorney, had been among them, asking slyquestions, and raising immoderate hopes, creating a party hostileto the warden, and establishing a corps in the enemy's camp, as hefiguratively calls it to himself. Poor old men: whoever may berighted or wronged by this inquiry, they at any rate will assuredlybe only injured: to them it can only be an unmixed evil. How cantheir lot be improved? all their wants are supplied; every comfort isadministered; they have warm houses, good clothes, plentiful diet, and rest after a life of labour; and above all, that treasure soinestimable in declining years, a true and kind friend to listen totheir sorrows, watch over their sickness, and administer comfort asregards this world, and the world to come!

John Bold sometimes thinks of this, when he is talking loudly of therights of the bedesmen, whom he has taken under his protection; but hequiets the suggestion within his breast with the high-sounding nameof justice: "_Fiat justitia, ruat coelum_. " These old men should, by rights, have one hundred pounds a year instead of one shillingand sixpence a day, and the warden should have two hundred or threehundred pounds instead of eight hundred pounds. What is unjust mustbe wrong; what is wrong should be righted; and if he declined thetask, who else would do it?

"Each one of you is clearly entitled to one hundred pounds a year bycommon law": such had been the important whisper made by Finney intothe 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 JohnHiram's bedesmen, and the positive promise of one hundred a year toeach of the twelve old men had its way with most of them. The greatBunce was not to be wiled away, and was upheld in his orthodoxy bytwo adherents. Abel Handy, who was the leader of the aspirants afterwealth, had, alas, a stronger following. No less than five of thetwelve soon believed that his views were just, making with theirleader a moiety of the hospital. The other three, volatile unstableminds, vacillated between the two chieftains, now led away by the hopeof 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 ofJohn Hiram's Charity, and to send copies of this petition and of thereply it would elicit to all the leading London papers, and therebyto obtain notoriety for the subject. This it was thought would pavethe way for ulterior legal proceedings. It would have been a greatthing to have had the signatures and marks of all the twelve injuredlegatees; but this was impossible: Bunce would have cut his hand offsooner than have signed it. It was then suggested by Finney thatif even eleven could be induced to sanction the document, the oneobstinate recusant might have been represented as unfit to judge onsuch a question, --in fact, as being _non compos mentis_, --and thepetition 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 moreprovoking, as Bunce himself could write his name legibly, and one ofthose three doubting souls had for years boasted of like power, andpossessed, indeed, a Bible, in which he was proud to show his namewritten by himself some thirty years ago--"Job Skulpit;" but it wasthought that Job Skulpit, having forgotten his scholarship, on thataccount recoiled from the petition, and that the other doubters wouldfollow as he led them. A petition signed by half the hospital wouldhave but a poor effect. 

It was in Skulpit's room that the petition was now lying, waiting suchadditional signatures as Abel Handy, by his eloquence, could obtainfor it. The six marks it bore were duly attested, thus:

 his his his Abel X Handy, Gregy X Moody, Mathew X Spriggs, mark mark mark

&c. , and places were duly designated in pencil for those brethren whowere now expected to join: for Skulpit alone was left a spot on whichhis genuine signature might be written in fair clerk-like style. Handy had brought in the document, and spread it out on the small dealtable, and was now standing by it persuasive and eager. Moody hadfollowed with an inkhorn, carefully left behind by Finney; and Spriggsbore aloft, as though it were a sword, a well-worn ink-black pen, which from time to time he endeavoured to thrust into Skulpit'sunwilling hand. 

With the learned man were his two abettors in indecision, William Gazyand Jonathan Crumple. If ever the petition were to be forwarded, nowwas the time, --so said Mr Finney; and great was the anxiety on thepart 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 hadmuttered to his friend Handy, "by an old fool saying that he canwrite 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 greatlyfailed; "so you're ready now, Mr Finney says; here's theplace, d'ye see;"--and he put his huge brown finger down onthe 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'tstay waiting for old Catgut no longer. "

It was thus these miscreants named our excellent friend. The nicknamehe could easily have forgiven, but the allusion to the divine sourceof all his melodious joy would have irritated even him. Let us hopehe never knew the insult. 

"Only think, old Billy Gazy, " said Spriggs, who rejoiced in greateryouth than his brethren, but having fallen into a fire when drunk, hadhad one eye burnt out, one cheek burnt through, and one arm nearlyburnt off, and who, therefore, in regard to personal appearance, wasnot the most prepossessing of men, "a hundred a year, and all tospend; only think, old Billy Gazy;" and he gave a hideous grin thatshowed off his misfortunes to their full extent. 

Old Billy Gazy was not alive to much enthusiasm. Even these goldenprospects did not arouse him to do more than rub his poor old blearedeyes with the cuff of his bedesman's gown, and gently mutter: "hedidn't know, not he; he didn't know. "

"But you'd know, Jonathan, " continued Spriggs, turning to the otherfriend of Skulpit's, who was sitting on a stool by the table, gazingvacantly at the petition. Jonathan Crumple was a meek, mild man, whohad known better days; his means had been wasted by bad children, who had made his life wretched till he had been received into thehospital, of which he had not long been a member. Since that day hehad known neither sorrow nor trouble, and this attempt to fill himwith 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 nogood. " And he gave a low sigh, as he thought of the children of hisown loins who had robbed him. 

"And shall have again, Joe, " said Handy; "and will have someone tokeep 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 remainedhappy with one and sixpence a day. 

"Come, Skulpit, " repeated Handy, getting impatient, "you're not goingto go along with old Bunce in helping that parson to rob us all. Take the pen, man, and right yourself. Well, " he added, seeing thatSkulpit still doubted, "to see a man as is afraid to stand by hisselfis, 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 andeverything!"

"Who's to harm you, man?" argued Spriggs. "Let them look never soblack 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 thearchdeacon himself was designated by this scurrilous allusion to hisnether person. 

"A hundred a year to win, and nothing to lose, " continued Handy. "Myeyes! Well, how a man's to doubt about sich a bit of cheese as thatpasses me;--but some men is timorous;--some men is born with no pluckin them;--some men is cowed at the very first sight of a gentleman'scoat and waistcoat. "

Oh, Mr Harding, if you had but taken the archdeacon's advice in thatdisputed case, when Joe Mutters was this ungrateful demagogue's rivalcandidate!

"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 nothingfrom 'em but just what I could take by might and right;--that's themost I'd be afraid on of any parson of 'em all. "

"But, " said Skulpit, apologetically, "Mr Harding's not so bad;--he didgive us twopence a day, didn't he now?"

"Twopence a day!" exclaimed Spriggs with scorn, opening awfully thered 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, andthank a chap for twopence a day, when he owes me a hundred pounds ayear; 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. "Whatd'ye think, Bill Gazy?" said he. 

But Bill Gazy couldn't think. He made a noise like the bleating of anold sheep, which was intended to express the agony of his doubt, andagain muttered that "he didn't know. "

"Take hold, you old cripple, " said Handy, thrusting the pen into poorBilly's hand: "there, so--ugh! you old fool, you've been and smearedit all, --there, --that'll do for you;--that's as good as the bestname as ever was written": and a big blotch of ink was presumed torepresent 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'llplease me. "

The pen was thrust into Crumple's hand, and a faint, wandering, meaningless sign was made, betokening such sanction and authority asJonathan Crumple was able to convey. 

"Come, Job, " said Handy, softened by success, "don't let 'em have tosay that old Bunce has a man like you under his thumb, --a man thatalways holds his head in the hospital as high as Bunce himself, thoughyou're never axed to drink wine, and sneak, and tell lies about yourbetters 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 yourname to it at all, but just put your mark like the others;"--the cloudbegan to clear from Skulpit's brow;--"we all know you can do it if youlike, but maybe you wouldn't like to seem uppish, you know. "

"Well, the mark would be best, " said Skulpit. "One name and the restmarks wouldn't look well, would it?"

"The worst in the world, " said Handy; "there--there": and stoopingover the petition, the learned clerk made a huge cross on the placeleft 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 oldBunce, and his cronies, they may--" But as he was hobbling off to thedoor, with a crutch on one side and a stick on the other, he was metby Bunce himself. 

"Well Handy, and what may old Bunce do?" said the gray-haired, uprightsenior. 

Handy muttered something, and was departing; but he was stopped in thedoorway by the huge frame of the newcomer. 

"You've been doing no good here, Abel Handy, " said he, "'tis plain tosee that; and 'tisn't much good, I'm thinking, you ever do. "

"I mind my own business, Master Bunce, " muttered the other, "and doyou do the same. It ain't nothing to you what I does;--and yourspying and poking here won't do no good nor yet no harm. "

"I suppose then, Job, " continued Bunce, not noticing his opponent, "ifthe truth must out, you've stuck your name to that petition of theirsat last. "

Skulpit looked as though he were about to sink into the ground withshame. 

"What is it to you what he signs?" said Handy. "I suppose if we allwants 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 roomwhen 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 dayhe was born. I knowed the mother that bore him, when she and I werelittle wee things, picking daisies together in the close yonder; andI've lived under the same roof with him more nor ten years; and afterthat I may come into his room without axing leave, and yet no sneakingneither. "

"So you can, Mr Bunce, " said Skulpit; "so you can, any hour, day ornight. "

"And I'm free also to tell him my mind, " continued Bunce, looking atthe one man and addressing the other; "and I tell him now that he'sdone a foolish and a wrong thing. He's turned his back upon onewho is his best friend; and is playing the game of others, who carenothing for him, whether he be poor or rich, well or ill, alive ordead. A hundred a year? Are the lot of you soft enough to think thatif a hundred a year be to be given, it's the likes of you that willget it?"--and he pointed to Billy Gazy, Spriggs, and Crumple. "Didany of us ever do anything worth half the money? Was it to makegentlemen of us we were brought in here, when all the world turnedagainst us, and we couldn't longer earn our daily bread? A'n't youall as rich in your ways as he in his?"--and the orator pointed tothe side on which the warden lived. "A'n't you getting all you hopedfor, ay, and more than you hoped for? Wouldn't each of you have giventhe dearest limb of his body to secure that which now makes you sounthankful?"

"We wants what John Hiram left us, " said Handy. "We wants what's ournby law; it don't matter what we expected. What's ourn by law shouldbe 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 alawyer? Will Mr Finney ever be as good to you, Job, as that man hasbeen? Will he see to you when you're sick, and comfort you whenyou're wretched? Will he--"

"No, nor give you port wine, old boy, on cold winter nights! he won'tdo that, will he?" asked Handy; and laughing at the severity of hisown 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 tohis own room, disgusted at the frailty of human nature. Job Skulpitscratched his head;--Jonathan Crumple again remarked, that, "forsartain, sure a hundred a year was very nice;"--and Billy Gazy againrubbed 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, nosuch weakness perplexed the nobler breast of his son-in-law. As theindomitable cock preparing for the combat sharpens his spurs, shakeshis feathers, and erects his comb, so did the archdeacon arrange hisweapons for the coming war, without misgiving and without fear. Thathe 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 doubtingconscience. Such was not the case with Dr Grantly. He did notbelieve in the Gospel with more assurance than he did in the sacredjustice of all ecclesiastical revenues. When he put his shoulder tothe wheel to defend the income of the present and future precentorsof 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 asister of mercy to give up the pleasures of the world for the wardsof a hospital. He was about to defend the holy of holies from thetouch of the profane; to guard the citadel of his church from themost rampant of its enemies; to put on his good armour in the best offights, and secure, if possible, the comforts of his creed for cominggenerations of ecclesiastical dignitaries. Such a work required noordinary vigour; and the archdeacon was, therefore, extraordinarilyvigorous. It demanded a buoyant courage, and a heart happy in itstoil; and the archdeacon's heart was happy, and his courage wasbuoyant. 

He knew that he would not be able to animate his father-in-lawwith feelings like his own, but this did not much disturb him. Hepreferred to bear the brunt of the battle alone, and did not doubtthat the warden would resign himself into his hands with passivesubmission. 

"Well, Mr Chadwick, " he said, walking into the steward's office a dayor two after the signing of the petition as commemorated in the lastchapter: "anything from Cox and Cummins this morning?" Mr Chadwickhanded him a letter; which he read, stroking the tight-gaitered calfof his right leg as he did so. Messrs Cox and Cummins merely saidthat they had as yet received no notice from their adversaries;that they could recommend no preliminary steps; but that should anyproceeding really be taken by the bedesmen, it would be expedient toconsult 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; athorough churchman, a sound conservative, and in every respect thebest man we could get;--he's in the House, too, which is a greatthing. "

Mr Chadwick quite agreed. 

"You remember how completely he put down that scoundrel Horseman aboutthe Bishop of Beverley's income; how completely he set them all adriftin the earl's case. " Since the question of St Cross had been mootedby the public, one noble lord had become "the earl, " _par excellence_, in the doctor's estimation. "How he silenced that fellow atRochester. 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 willforestall us. "

With all his admiration for Sir Abraham, the doctor seemed to thinkit not impossible that that great man might be induced to lend hisgigantic powers to the side of the church's enemies. 

Having settled this point to his satisfaction, the doctor stepped downto the hospital, to learn how matters were going on there; and as hewalked across the hallowed close, and looked up at the ravens whocawed with a peculiar reverence as he wended his way, he thought withincreased acerbity of those whose impiety would venture to disturb thegoodly grace of cathedral institutions. 

And who has not felt the same? We believe that Mr Horseman himselfwould relent, and the spirit of Sir Benjamin Hall give way, were thosegreat reformers to allow themselves to stroll by moonlight round thetowers of some of our ancient churches. Who would not feel charityfor a prebendary when walking the quiet length of that long aisle atWinchester, looking at those decent houses, that trim grass-plat, andfeeling, as one must, the solemn, orderly comfort of the spot! Whocould be hard upon a dean while wandering round the sweet close ofHereford, and owning that in that precinct, tone and colour, designand form, solemn tower and storied window, are all in unison, and allperfect! Who could lie basking in the cloisters of Salisbury, andgaze on Jewel's library and that unequalled spire, without feelingthat bishops should sometimes be rich!

The tone of our archdeacon's mind must not astonish us; it has beenthe growth of centuries of church ascendancy; and though some funginow disfigure the tree, though there be much dead wood, for how muchgood fruit have not we to be thankful? Who, without remorse, canbatter 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 theyare now summoned to give way in a tone so peremptory and so harsh?

The archdeacon, with all his virtues, was not a man of delicatefeeling; and after having made his morning salutations in the warden'sdrawing-room, he did not scruple to commence an attack on "pestilent"John Bold in the presence of Miss Harding, though he rightly guessedthat that lady was not indifferent to the name of his enemy. 

"Nelly, my dear, fetch me my spectacles from the back room, " said herfather, anxious to save both her blushes and her feelings. 

Eleanor brought the spectacles, while her father was trying, inambiguous phrases, to explain to her too-practical brother-in-law thatit might be as well not to say anything about Bold before her, andthen retreated. Nothing had been explained to her about Bold and thehospital; but, with a woman's instinct she knew that things were goingwrong. 

"We must soon be doing something, " commenced the archdeacon, wipinghis brows with a large, bright-coloured handkerchief, for he had feltbusy, and had walked quick, and it was a broiling summer's day. "Ofcourse 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, butnone coming, he continued, --"We must be doing something, you know; wemustn't allow these people to cut the ground from under us while wesit looking on. " The archdeacon, who was a practical man, allowedhimself the use of everyday expressive modes of speech when among hisclosest intimates, though no one could soar into a more intricatelabyrinth of refined phraseology when the church was the subject, andhis lower brethren were his auditors. 

The warden still looked mutely in his face, making the slightestpossible passes with an imaginary fiddle bow, and stopping, as hedid so, sundry imaginary strings with the fingers of his other hand. 'Twas his constant consolation in conversational troubles. Whilethese vexed him sorely, the passes would be short and slow, and theupper hand would not be seen to work; nay, the strings on which itoperated would sometimes lie concealed in the musician's pocket, andthe instrument on which he played would be beneath his chair;--but ashis spirit warmed to the subject, --as his trusting heart looking tothe bottom of that which vexed him, would see its clear way out, --hewould rise to a higher melody, sweep the unseen strings with a bolderhand, and swiftly fingering the cords from his neck, down along hiswaistcoat, and up again to his very ear, create an ecstatic strain ofperfect music, audible to himself and to St Cecilia, and not withouteffect. 

"I quite agree with Cox and Cummins, " continued the archdeacon. "They say we must secure Sir Abraham Haphazard. I shall not havethe slightest fear in leaving the case in Sir Abraham's hands. "

The warden played the slowest and saddest of tunes. It was but adirge on one string. 

"I think Sir Abraham will not be long in letting Master Bold know whathe's about. I fancy I hear Sir Abraham cross-questioning him at theCommon Pleas. "

The warden thought of his income being thus discussed, his modestlife, his daily habits, and his easy work; and nothing issued fromthat single cord, but a low wail of sorrow. "I suppose they've sentthis petition up to my father. " The warden didn't know; he imaginedthey would do so this very day. 

"What I can't understand is, how you let them do it, with such acommand as you have in the place, or should have with such a man asBunce. 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 todestroy the petition?"

"That would have been hardly wise, " said the warden. 

"Wise;--yes, it would have been very wise if they'd done it amongthemselves. 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 brazenvoice, as though all the men in the hospital were expected to hear himthrough the walls; "why shouldn't they? I'll let them know why theyshouldn't; by the bye, warden, I'd like to say a few words to them alltogether. "

The warden's mind misgave him, and even for a moment he forgot toplay. He by no means wished to delegate to his son-in-law his placeand authority of warden; he had expressly determined not to interferein any step which the men might wish to take in the matter underdispute; he was most anxious neither to accuse them nor to defendhimself. All these things he was aware the archdeacon would do in hisbehalf, and that not in the mildest manner; and yet he knew not how torefuse the permission requested. 

"I'd so much sooner remain quiet in the matter, " said he, in anapologetic 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 tothem in the quad. "

Mr Harding knew not how to resist, and the disagreeable order wasgiven. The quad, as it was familiarly called, was a small quadrangle, open on one side to the river, and surrounded on the others by thehigh wall of Mr Harding's garden, by one gable end of Mr Harding'shouse, and by the end of the row of buildings which formed theresidences of the bedesmen. It was flagged all round, and the centrewas stoned; small stone gutters ran from the four corners of thesquare to a grating in the centre; and attached to the end of MrHarding's house was a conduit with four cocks covered over from theweather, at which the old men got their water, and very generallyperformed their morning toilet. It was a quiet, sombre place, shadedover by the trees of the warden's garden. On the side towards theriver, there stood a row of stone seats, on which the old men wouldsit and gaze at the little fish, as they flitted by in the runningstream. On the other side of the river was a rich, green meadow, running up to and joining the deanery, and as little open to thepublic as the garden of the dean itself. Nothing, therefore, could bemore private than the quad of the hospital; and it was there that thearchdeacon determined to convey to them his sense of their refractoryproceedings. 

The servant soon brought in word that the men were assembled in thequad, and the archdeacon, big with his purpose, rose to address them. 

"Well, warden, of course you're coming, " said he, seeing that MrHarding 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, " repliedthe archdeacon: "let us have a long pull and a strong pull, but aboveall a pull all together; come, warden, come; don't be afraid of yourduty. "

Mr Harding was afraid; he was afraid that he was being led to do thatwhich 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 themat 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'searliest followers. 'Tis true he could not move from the bed wherehe lay; 'tis true he had no friend on earth, but those whom thehospital contained; and of those the warden and his daughter werethe most constant and most appreciated; 'tis true that everything wasadministered to him which his failing body could require, or which hisfaint appetite could enjoy; but still his dull eye had glistened for amoment at the idea of possessing a hundred pounds a year "to his owncheek, " as Abel Handy had eloquently expressed it; and poor old JohnnyBell 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 andwaistcoat 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 withaffectionate reverence expressed his wish, that the warden and MissEleanor were quite well; "and the doctor's lady, " he added, turningto the archdeacon, "and the children at Plumstead, and my lord;" andhaving made his speech, he also retired among the others, and tookhis place with the rest upon the stone benches. 

As the archdeacon stood up to make his speech, erect in the middle ofthat little square, he looked like an ecclesiastical statue placedthere, as a fitting impersonation of the church militant here onearth; his shovel hat, large, new, and well-pronounced, a churchman'shat in every inch, declared the profession as plainly as does theQuaker's broad brim; his heavy eyebrows, large open eyes, and fullmouth and chin expressed the solidity of his order; the broad chest, amply covered with fine cloth, told how well to do was its estate; onehand ensconced within his pocket, evinced the practical hold which ourmother church keeps on her temporal possessions; and the other, loosefor action, was ready to fight if need be in her defence; and, belowthese, the decorous breeches, and neat black gaiters showing soadmirably that well-turned leg, betokened the decency, the outwardbeauty and grace of our church establishment. 

"Now, my men, " he began, when he had settled himself well in hisposition, "I want to say a few words to you. Your good friend, thewarden here, and myself, and my lord the bishop, on whose behalf Iwish to speak to you, would all be very sorry, very sorry indeed, that you should have any just ground of complaint. Any just groundof complaint on your part would be removed at once by the warden, orby his lordship, or by me on his behalf, without the necessity ofany petition on your part. " Here the orator stopped for a moment, expecting that some little murmurs of applause would show thatthe weakest of the men were beginning to give way; but no suchmurmurs came. Bunce, himself, even sat with closed lips, mute andunsatisfactory. "Without the necessity of any petition at all, " herepeated. "I'm told you have addressed a petition to my lord. " Hepaused for a reply from the men, and after a while, Handy plucked upcourage 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 allthat is your due. " Here most of the men expressed their assent. "Nowwhat is it you ask for? What is it you want that you hav'n't gothere? What is it--"

"A hundred a year, " muttered old Moody, with a voice as if it came outof the ground. 

"A hundred a year!" ejaculated the archdeacon militant, defying theimpudence of these claimants with one hand stretched out and closed, while with the other he tightly grasped, and secured within hisbreeches pocket, that symbol of the church's wealth which his ownloose 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 oldlabouring men, infirm old men past their work, cripples, blind, bed-ridden, and such like, do you think he meant to make gentlemen ofthem? Do you think John Hiram intended to give a hundred a year toold single men, who earned perhaps two shillings or half-a-crown a dayfor 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 oldworn-out labourers, men who could no longer support themselves, whohad no friends to support them, who must starve and perish miserablyif not protected by the hand of charity;--he meant that twelve suchmen as these should come in here in their poverty and wretchedness, and find within these walls shelter and food before their death, and alittle leisure to make their peace with God. That was what John Hirammeant: you have not read John Hiram's will, and I doubt whether thosewicked men who are advising you have done so. I have; I know what hiswill was; and I tell you that that was his will, and that that was hisintention. "

Not a sound came from the eleven bedesmen, as they sat listening towhat, according to the archdeacon, was their intended estate. Theygrimly stared upon his burly figure, but did not then express, by wordor sign, the anger and disgust to which such language was sure to giverise. 

"Now let me ask you, " he continued: "do you think you are worse offthan John Hiram intended to make you? Have you not shelter, and food, and leisure? Have you not much more? Have you not every indulgencewhich you are capable of enjoying? Have you not twice better food, twice a better bed, ten times more money in your pocket than you wereever able to earn for yourselves before you were lucky enough to getinto this place? And now you send a petition to the bishop, askingfor a hundred pounds a year! I tell you what, my friends; you aredeluded, and made fools of by wicked men who are acting for theirown ends. You will never get a hundred pence a year more than whatyou have now: it is very possible that you may get less; it is verypossible that my lord the bishop, and your warden, may make changes--"

"No, no, no, " interrupted Mr Harding, who had been listening withindescribable 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 offthan you now are, as long as you and I live together. "

"God bless you, Mr Harding, " said Bunce; and "God bless you, MrHarding, God bless you, sir: we know you was always our friend, " wasexclaimed by enough of the men to make it appear that the sentimentwas general. 

The archdeacon had been interrupted in his speech before he had quitefinished it; but he felt that he could not recommence with dignityafter 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 retreatof the warden's garden; "I think I spoke to them plainly. " And hewiped the perspiration from his brow; for making a speech under abroiling 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 didnot express approbation. 

"And that's everything, " said the other, who was clearly wellsatisfied with himself; "that's everything: with those sort of peopleone must be plain, or one will not be understood. Now, I think theydid understand me;--I think they knew what I meant. "

The warden agreed. He certainly thought they had understood to thefull what had been said to them. 

"They know pretty well what they have to expect from us; they know howwe shall meet any refractory spirit on their part; they know that weare not afraid of them. And now I'll just step into Chadwick's, andtell him what I've done; and then I'll go up to the palace, and answerthis 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 thoughtswhich were working within him, he would indeed have astonished thearchdeacon by the reprobation he would have expressed as to theproceeding of which he had been so unwilling a witness. But differentfeelings kept him silent; he was as yet afraid of differing from hisson-in-law;--he was anxious beyond measure to avoid even a semblanceof rupture with any of his order, and was painfully fearful of havingto come to an open quarrel with any person on any subject. His lifehad hitherto been so quiet, so free from strife; his little earlytroubles had required nothing but passive fortitude; his subsequentprosperity had never forced upon him any active cares, --had neverbrought him into disagreeable contact with anyone. He felt thathe would give almost anything, --much more than he knew he ought todo, --to relieve himself from the storm which he feared was coming. It was so hard that the pleasant waters of his little stream should bedisturbed and muddied by rough hands; that his quiet paths should bemade a battlefield; that the unobtrusive corner of the world which hadbeen allotted to him, as though by Providence, should be invaded anddesecrated, and all within it made miserable and unsound. 

Money he had none to give; the knack of putting guineas togetherhad never belonged to him; but how willingly, with what a foolisheasiness, with what happy alacrity, would he have abandoned the halfof his income for all time to come, could he by so doing have quietlydispelled the clouds that were gathering over him, --could he have thuscompromised 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 prudentialmotive of saving what would yet remain, for Mr Harding still feltlittle doubt but he should be left for life in quiet possession of thegood things he had, if he chose to retain them. No; he would havedone so from the sheer love of quiet, and from a horror of being madethe subject of public talk. He had very often been moved to pity. --tothat inward weeping of the heart for others' woes; but none had heever pitied more than that old lord, whose almost fabulous wealth, drawn from his church preferments, had become the subject of so muchopprobrium, of such public scorn; that wretched clerical octogenarianCroesus, whom men would not allow to die in peace, --whom all the worldunited to decry and to abhor. 

Was he to suffer such a fate? Was his humble name to be bandied inmen's mouths, as the gormandiser of the resources of the poor, asof one who had filched from the charity of other ages wealth whichhad been intended to relieve the old and the infirm? Was he to begibbeted in the press, to become a byword for oppression, to be namedas an example of the greed of the English church? Should it everbe said that he had robbed those old men, whom he so truly and sotenderly loved in his heart of hearts? As he slowly paced, hour afterhour, under those noble lime-trees, turning these sad thoughts withinhim, he became all but fixed in his resolve that some great step mustbe taken to relieve him from the risk of so terrible a fate. 

In the meanwhile, the archdeacon, with contented mind and unruffledspirit, went about his business. He said a word or two to MrChadwick, and then finding, as he expected, the petition lying in hisfather's library, he wrote a short answer to the men, in which he toldthem that they had no evils to redress, but rather great mercies forwhich to be thankful; and having seen the bishop sign it, he got intohis 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 Hardingresolve. He determined that at any rate he would take no offence, andthat he would make this question no cause of quarrel either with Boldor with the bedesmen. In furtherance of this resolution, he himselfwrote a note to Mr Bold, the same afternoon, inviting him to meet afew friends and hear some music on an evening named in the next week. Had not this little party been promised to Eleanor, in his presentstate of mind he would probably have avoided such gaiety; but thepromise had been given, the invitations were to be written, and whenEleanor consulted her father on the subject, she was not ill pleasedto hear him say, "Oh, I was thinking of Bold, so I took it into myhead 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, thoughby no means beautiful. Her great merit was the kindliness of herdisposition. She was not very clever, nor very animated, nor had sheapparently the energy of her brother; but she was guided by a highprinciple of right and wrong; her temper was sweet, and her faultswere fewer in number than her virtues. Those who casually met MaryBold thought little of her; but those who knew her well loved herwell, and the longer they knew her the more they loved her. Amongthose who were fondest of her was Eleanor Harding; and though Eleanorhad never openly talked to her of her brother, each understood theother's feelings about him. The brother and sister were sittingtogether when the two notes were brought in. 

"How odd, " said Mary, "that they should send two notes. Well, if MrHarding becomes fashionable, the world is going to change. "

Her brother understood immediately the nature and intention of thepeace-offering; but it was not so easy for him to behave well in thematter, as it was for Mr Harding. It is much less difficult for thesufferer to be generous than for the oppressor. John Bold felt thathe could not go to the warden's party: he never loved Eleanor betterthan he did now; he had never so strongly felt how anxious he wasto make her his wife as now, when so many obstacles to his doingso appeared in view. Yet here was her father himself, as it were, clearing away those very obstacles, and still he felt that he couldnot go to the house any more as an open friend. 

As he sat thinking of these things with the note in his hand, hissister was waiting for his decision. 

"Well, " said she, "I suppose we must write separate answers, and bothsay 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 Icould, with all my heart. "

"And why not, John?" said she. She had as yet heard nothing of thenew-found abuse which her brother was about to reform;--at leastnothing which connected it with her brother's name. 

He sat thinking for a while till he determined that it would be bestto tell her at once what it was that he was about: it must be donesooner or later. 

"I fear I cannot go to Mr Harding's house any more as a friend, justat 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, lovingface, for she knew well how much of his heart was there in that housewhich he said he could no longer enter. 

"Why, " said he at last, "I've taken up the case of these twelveold men of Hiram's Hospital, and of course that brings me intocontact with Mr Harding. I may have to oppose him, interfere withhim, --perhaps injure him. "

Mary looked at him steadily for some time before she committedherself to reply, and then merely asked him what he meant to dofor the old men. 

"Why, it's a long story, and I don't know that I can make youunderstand it. John Hiram made a will, and left his property incharity for certain poor old men, and the proceeds, instead of goingto the benefit of these men, go chiefly into the pocket of the wardenand 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 tosee who is entitled to this property. I mean to see, if I can, thatjustice be done to the poor of the city of Barchester generally, whoare, in fact, the legatees under the will. I mean, in short, to putthe matter right, if I can. "

"And why are you to do this, John?"

"You might ask the same question of anybody else, " said he; "andaccording to that the duty of righting these poor men would belong tonobody. If we are to act on that principle, the weak are never to beprotected, injustice is never to be opposed, and no one is to strugglefor the poor!" And Bold began to comfort himself in the warmth of hisown virtue. 

"But is there no one to do this but you, who have known Mr Harding solong? Surely, John, as a friend, as a young friend, so much youngerthan 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 allowedto interfere. Because I esteem Mr Harding, is that a reason that Ishould neglect a duty which I owe to these old men? or should I giveup a work which my conscience tells me is a good one, because I regretthe loss of his society?"

"And Eleanor, John?" said the sister, looking timidly into herbrother's face. 

"Eleanor, that is, Miss Harding, if she thinks fit, --that is, ifher father--or, rather, if she--or, indeed, he, --if they find itnecessary--but there is no necessity now to talk about EleanorHarding; but this I will say, that if she has the kind of spirit forwhich I give her credit, she will not condemn me for doing what Ithink to be a duty. " And Bold consoled himself with the consolationof a Roman. 

Mary sat silent for a while, till at last her brother reminded herthat the notes must be answered, and she got up, and placed her deskbefore 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 whatyou say about those old men. Nothing can call upon you, --no duty canrequire 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 youlove her. " And she came and knelt before him on the rug. "Praygive it up. You are going to make yourself, and her, and her fathermiserable: you are going to make us all miserable. And for what? Fora dream of justice. You will never make those twelve men happier thanthey now are. "

"You don't understand it, my dear girl, " said he, smoothing her hairwith his hand. 

"I do understand it, John. I understand that this is a chimera, --adream that you have got. I know well that no duty can require you todo this mad--this suicidal thing. I know you love Eleanor Hardingwith 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 lastto bid you neglect it for any woman's love; but this--; oh, thinkagain, before you do anything to make it necessary that you and MrHarding should be at variance. " He did not answer, as she kneltthere, leaning on his knees, but by his face she thought that he wasinclined to yield. "At any rate let me say that you will go to thisparty. At any rate do not break with them while your mind is indoubt. " And she got up, hoping to conclude her note in the way shedesired. 

"My mind is not in doubt, " at last he said, rising. "I could neverrespect myself again were I to give way now, because Eleanor Hardingis beautiful. I do love her: I would give a hand to hear her tellme what you have said, speaking on her behalf; but I cannot for hersake go back from the task which I have commenced. I hope she mayhereafter acknowledge and respect my motives, but I cannot now go asa guest to her father's house. " And the Barchester Brutus went outto fortify his own resolution by meditations on his own virtue. 

Poor Mary Bold sat down, and sadly finished her note, saying that shewould herself attend the party, but that her brother was unavoidablyprevented from doing so. I fear that she did not admire as she shouldhave done the self-devotion of his singular virtue. 

The party went off as such parties do. There were fat old ladies, infine silk dresses, and slim young ladies, in gauzy muslin frocks; oldgentlemen stood up with their backs to the empty fire-place, lookingby no means so comfortable as they would have done in their ownarm-chairs at home; and young gentlemen, rather stiff about the neck, clustered near the door, not as yet sufficiently in courage to attackthe muslin frocks, who awaited the battle, drawn up in a semicirculararray. The warden endeavoured to induce a charge, but failedsignally, not having the tact of a general; his daughter did what shecould to comfort the forces under her command, who took in refreshingrations of cake and tea, and patiently looked for the comingengagement: but she herself, Eleanor, had no spirit for the work; theonly enemy whose lance she cared to encounter was not there, and sheand others were somewhat dull. 

Loud above all voices was heard the clear sonorous tones of thearchdeacon as he dilated to brother parsons of the danger of thechurch, of the fearful rumours of mad reforms even at Oxford, and ofthe damnable heresies of Dr Whiston. 

Soon, however, sweeter sounds began timidly to make themselvesaudible. Little movements were made in a quarter notable for roundstools and music stands. Wax candles were arranged in sconces, bigbooks were brought from hidden recesses, and the work of the eveningcommenced. 

How often were those pegs twisted and re-twisted before our friendfound that he had twisted them enough; how many discordant scrapesgave promise of the coming harmony. How much the muslin flutteredand crumpled before Eleanor and another nymph were duly seated at thepiano; how closely did that tall Apollo pack himself against the wall, with his flute, long as himself, extending high over the heads of hispretty neighbours; into how small a corner crept that round and floridlittle minor canon, and there with skill amazing found room to tunehis accustomed fiddle!

And now the crash begins: away they go in full flow of harmonytogether, --up hill and down dale, --now louder and louder, thenlower 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 sotwisted and re-twisted;--listen, listen! Now alone that saddestof instruments tells its touching tale. Silent, and in awe, standfiddle, flute, and piano, to hear the sorrows of their wailingbrother. 'Tis but for a moment: before the melancholy of those lownotes has been fully realised, again comes the full force of all theband;--down go the pedals, away rush twenty fingers scouring over thebass notes with all the impetus of passion. Apollo blows till hisstiff neckcloth is no better than a rope, and the minor canon workswith both arms till he falls in a syncope of exhaustion against thewall. 

How comes it that now, when all should be silent, when courtesy, ifnot taste, should make men listen, --how is it at this moment theblack-coated corps leave their retreat and begin skirmishing? One byone they creep forth, and fire off little guns timidly, and withoutprecision. Ah, my men, efforts such as these will take no cities, even though the enemy should be never so open to assault. At length amore deadly artillery is brought to bear; slowly, but with effect, theadvance is made; the muslin ranks are broken, and fall into confusion;the formidable array of chairs gives way; the battle is no longerbetween opposing regiments, but hand to hand, and foot to foot withsingle combatants, as in the glorious days of old, when fighting wasreally noble. In corners, and under the shadow of curtains, behindsofas and half hidden by doors, in retiring windows, and shelteredby 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-blownrector assisting him, in all the perils and all the enjoyments ofshort whist. With solemn energy do they watch the shuffled pack, and, all-expectant, eye the coming trump. With what anxious nicety do theyarrange their cards, jealous of each other's eyes! Why is that leandoctor so slow, --cadaverous man with hollow jaw and sunken eye, illbeseeming the richness of his mother church! Ah, why so slow, thoumeagre doctor? See how the archdeacon, speechless in his agony, deposits on the board his cards, and looks to heaven or to the ceilingfor support. Hark, how he sighs, as with thumbs in his waistcoatpocket he seems to signify that the end of such torment is not yeteven nigh at hand! Vain is the hope, if hope there be, to disturbthat meagre doctor. With care precise he places every card, weighs well the value of each mighty ace, each guarded king, andcomfort-giving queen; speculates on knave and ten, counts all hissuits, and sets his price upon the whole. At length a card is led, and quick three others fall upon the board. The little doctor leadsagain, while with lustrous eye his partner absorbs the trick. Nowthrice has this been done, --thrice has constant fortune favouredthe brace of prebendaries, ere the archdeacon rouses himself to thebattle; but at the fourth assault he pins to the earth a prostrateking, laying low his crown and sceptre, bushy beard, and loweringbrow, with a poor deuce. 

"As David did Goliath, " says the archdeacon, pushing over the fourcards 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 bringsdown from the meagre doctor his only remaining tower of strength--hischerished queen of trumps. 

"What, no second club?" says the archdeacon to his partner. 

"Only one club, " mutters from his inmost stomach the pursy rector, whosits there red-faced, silent, impervious, careful, a safe but not abrilliant ally. 

But the archdeacon cares not for many clubs, or for none. He dashesout his remaining cards with a speed most annoying to his antagonists, pushes over to them some four cards as their allotted portion, shovesthe remainder across the table to the red-faced rector; calls out "twoby cards and two by honours, and the odd trick last time, " marks atreble under the candle-stick, and has dealt round the second packbefore the meagre doctor has calculated his losses. 

And so went off the warden's party, and men and women arranging shawlsand shoes declared how pleasant it had been; and Mrs Goodenough, thered-faced rector's wife, pressing the warden's hand, declared she hadnever enjoyed herself better; which showed how little pleasure sheallowed herself in this world, as she had sat the whole eveningthrough in the same chair without occupation, not speaking, andunspoken to. And Matilda Johnson, when she allowed young Dickson ofthe bank to fasten her cloak round her neck, thought that two hundredpounds a year and a little cottage would really do for happiness;besides, he was sure to be manager some day. And Apollo, folding hisflute into his pocket, felt that he had acquitted himself with honour;and the archdeacon pleasantly jingled his gains; but the meagre doctorwent off without much audible speech, muttering ever and anon as hewent, "three and thirty points!" "three and thirty points!"

And so they all were gone, and Mr Harding was left alone with hisdaughter. 

What had passed between Eleanor Harding and Mary Bold need notbe told. It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that neither thehistorian nor the novelist hears all that is said by their heroesor heroines, or how would three volumes or twenty suffice! In thepresent case so little of this sort have I overheard, that I livein hopes of finishing my work within 300 pages, and of completingthat pleasant task--a novel in one volume; but something had passedbetween them, and as the warden blew out the wax candles, and put hisinstrument into its case, his daughter stood sad and thoughtful by theempty fire-place, determined to speak to her father, but irresolute asto 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 heretonight; 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 suchthings, 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 itall about? Is there any--any--any--" she didn't well know what wordto use--"any danger?"

"Danger, my dear, what sort of danger?"

"Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and of--Oh, papa, whyhaven't you told me of all this before?"

Mr Harding was not the man to judge harshly of anyone, much less ofthe daughter whom he now loved better than any living creature; butstill he did judge her wrongly at this moment. He knew that she lovedJohn Bold; he fully sympathised in her affection; day after day hethought more of the matter, and, with the tender care of a lovingfather, tried to arrange in his own mind how matters might be somanaged that his daughter's heart should not be made the sacrifice tothe dispute which was likely to exist between him and Bold. Now, whenshe spoke to him for the first time on the subject, it was naturalthat he should think more of her than of himself, and that he shouldimagine that her own cares, and not his, were troubling her. 

He stood silent before her awhile, as she gazed up into his face, andthen 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 shehad forgotten herself, and her own love in thinking about John Bold, and while conversing with Mary: she certainly had not done so. Shehad been sick at heart to think that a man of whom she could not butown to herself that she loved him, of whose regard she had been soproud, 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 kepthim from such a course; had he really cared for her, he would not haverisked her love by such an outrage. But her main fear had been forher father, and when she spoke of danger, it was of danger to him andnot 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'sa poor word;--do you love him?" She sat still in his arms withoutanswering him. She certainly had not prepared herself for an avowalof 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 usmake a clean breast of it: do you tell me what concerns yourself, andI will tell you what concerns me and the hospital. "

And then, without waiting for an answer, he described to her, as hebest could, the accusation that was made about Hiram's will; theclaims which the old men put forward; what he considered the strengthand what the weakness of his own position; the course which Bold hadtaken, and that which he presumed he was about to take; and thenby degrees, without further question, he presumed on the fact ofEleanor's love, and spoke of that love as a feeling which he could inno way disapprove: he apologised for Bold, excused what he was doing;nay, praised him for his energy and intentions; made much of his goodqualities, and harped on none of his foibles; then, reminding hisdaughter how late it was, and comforting her with much assurance whichhe hardly felt himself, he sent her to her room, with flowing eyes anda full heart. 

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

"My sister tells me, " said he, abruptly hurrying on with hispremeditated speech, "my sister tells me that you had a delightfulparty 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--" AndBold 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 beglad 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; butyou, 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 alwaysjudge my father to be right, and those who oppose him I shall judgeto be wrong. If those who do not know him oppose him, I shall havecharity enough to believe that they are wrong, through error ofjudgment; but should I see him attacked by those who ought to knowhim, and to love him, and revere him, of such I shall be constrainedto 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, itmust not be supposed that her heart was so elate as her demeanour. In the first place, she had a natural repugnance to losing herlover; and in the next, she was not quite so sure that she was inthe right as she pretended to be. Her father had told her, and thatnow repeatedly, that Bold was doing nothing unjust or ungenerous;and why then should she rebuke him, and throw him off, when she feltherself so ill able to bear his loss?--but such is human nature, andyoung-lady-nature especially. 

As she walked off from him beneath the shady elms of the close, herlook, her tone, every motion and gesture of her body, belied herheart; she would have given the world to have taken him by the hand, to have reasoned with him, persuaded him, cajoled him, coaxed him outof his project; to have overcome him with all her female artillery, and to have redeemed her father at the cost of herself; but pridewould not let her do this, and she left him without a look of love ora word of kindness. 

Had Bold been judging of another lover and of another lady, he mighthave understood all this as well as we do; but in matters of love mendo not see clearly in their own affairs. They say that faint heartnever won fair lady; and it is amazing to me how fair ladies arewon, so faint are often men's hearts! Were it not for the kindnessof their nature, that seeing the weakness of our courage they willoccasionally descend from their impregnable fortresses, and themselvesaid us in effecting their own defeat, too often would they escapeunconquered if not unscathed, and free of body if not of heart. 

Poor Bold crept off quite crestfallen; he felt that as regardedEleanor Harding his fate was sealed, unless he could consent to giveup a task to which he had pledged himself, and which indeed it wouldnot be easy for him to give up. Lawyers were engaged, and thequestion had to a certain extent been taken up by the public; besides, how could a high-spirited girl like Eleanor Harding really learn tolove a man for neglecting a duty which he assumed! Could she allowher 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 dailymeetings, discussing their tactics, and preparing for the greatattack. Sir Abraham Haphazard had been consulted, but his opinion wasnot yet received: copies of Hiram's will, copies of wardens' journals, copies of leases, copies of accounts, copies of everything that couldbe copied, and of some that could not, had been sent to him; and thecase was assuming most creditable dimensions. But, above all, it hadbeen mentioned in the daily _Jupiter_. That all-powerful organ ofthe press in one of its leading thunderbolts launched at St Cross, hadthus remarked: "Another case, of smaller dimensions indeed, but ofsimilar import, is now likely to come under public notice. We areinformed that the warden or master of an old almshouse attached toBarchester Cathedral is in receipt of twenty-five times the annualincome appointed for him by the will of the founder, while the sumyearly expended on the absolute purposes of the charity has alwaysremained fixed. In other words, the legatees under the founder'swill have received no advantage from the increase in the value of theproperty during the last four centuries, such increase having beenabsorbed by the so-called warden. It is impossible to conceive acase of greater injustice. It is no answer to say that some six ornine or twelve old men receive as much of the goods of this worldas such old men require. On what foundation, moral or divine, traditional or legal, is grounded the warden's claim to the largeincome he receives for doing nothing? The contentment of thesealmsmen, if content they be, can give him no title to this wealth!Does he ever ask himself, when he stretches wide his clerical palm toreceive the pay of some dozen of the working clergy, for what servicehe is so remunerated? Does his conscience ever entertain the questionof his right to such subsidies? Or is it possible that the subjectnever so presents itself to his mind; that he has received for manyyears, and intends, should God spare him, to receive for years to comethese fruits of the industrious piety of past ages, indifferent as toany right on his own part, or of any injustice to others! We mustexpress an opinion that nowhere but in the Church of England, and onlythere among its priests, could such a state of moral indifference befound. "

I must for the present leave my readers to imagine the state of MrHarding's mind after reading the above article. They say that fortythousand copies of _The Jupiter_ are daily sold, and that each copy isread by five persons at the least. Two hundred thousand readers thenwould hear this accusation against him; two hundred thousand heartswould swell with indignation at the griping injustice, the barefacedrobbery of the warden of Barchester Hospital! And how was he toanswer this? How was he to open his inmost heart to this multitude, to these thousands, the educated, the polished, the picked men of hisown country; how show them that he was no robber, no avaricious, lazypriest scrambling for gold, but a retiring, humble-spirited man, whohad 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 withscorn; shaken this way and that, as a rat in the mouth of a practisedterrier. You will leave out some word or letter in your answer, andthe ignorance of the cathedral clergy will be harped upon; you willmake some small mistake, which will be a falsehood, or some admission, which will be self-condemnation; you will find yourself to have beenvulgar, ill-tempered, irreverend, and illiterate, and the chances areten to one, but that being a clergyman, you will have been guilty ofblasphemy! 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 asstrongly as Junius; but even with all this he cannot successfullyanswer, when attacked by _The Jupiter_. In such matters it isomnipotent. 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 ofthing, you know; but we need not draw down on our heads more of itthan is necessary. "

The article in _The Jupiter_, while it so greatly harassed our poorwarden, was an immense triumph to some of the opposite party. Sorryas Bold was to see Mr Harding attacked so personally, it still gavehim a feeling of elation to find his cause taken up by so powerfulan 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, andfurthered, and battled for by _The Jupiter_! Perhaps to have his ownname mentioned as that of the learned gentleman whose efforts hadbeen so successful on behalf of the poor of Barchester! He might beexamined before committees of the House of Commons, with heaven knowshow much a day for his personal expenses;--he might be engaged foryears on such a suit! There was no end to the glorious golden dreamswhich this leader in _The Jupiter_ produced in the soaring mind ofFinney. 

And the old bedesmen, they also heard of this article, and had aglimmering, indistinct idea of the marvellous advocate which had nowtaken up their cause. Abel Handy limped hither and thither throughthe rooms, repeating all that he understood to have been printed, with some additions of his own which he thought should have beenadded. He told them how _The Jupiter_ had declared that their wardenwas no better than a robber, and that what _The Jupiter_ said wasacknowledged by the world to be true. How _The Jupiter_ had affirmedthat each one of them--"each one of us, Jonathan Crumple, think ofthat!"--had a clear right to a hundred a year; and that if _TheJupiter_ had said so, it was better than a decision of the LordChancellor: and then he carried about the paper, supplied by MrFinney, which, though none of them could read it, still afforded inits very touch and aspect positive corroboration of what was toldthem; and Jonathan Crumple pondered deeply over his returning wealth;and Job Skulpit saw how right he had been in signing the petition, andsaid so many scores of times; and Spriggs leered fearfully with hisone eye; and Moody, as he more nearly approached the coming goldenage, hated more deeply than ever those who still kept possession ofwhat he so coveted. Even Billy Gazy and poor bed-ridden Bell becameactive and uneasy, and the great Bunce stood apart with lowering brow, with deep grief seated in his heart, for he perceived that evil dayswere coming. 

It had been decided, the archdeacon advising, that no remonstrance, explanation, or defence should be addressed from the Barchesterconclave to the editor of _The Jupiter_; but hitherto that was theonly decision to which they had come. 

Sir Abraham Haphazard was deeply engaged in preparing a bill for themortification of papists, to be called the "Convent Custody Bill, "the purport of which was to enable any Protestant clergyman overfifty years of age to search any nun whom he suspected of being inpossession of treasonable papers or Jesuitical symbols; and as therewere to be a hundred and thirty-seven clauses in the bill, each clausecontaining a separate thorn for the side of the papist, and as itwas known the bill would be fought inch by inch, by fifty maddenedIrishmen, the due construction and adequate dovetailing of it didconsume much of Sir Abraham's time. The bill had all its desiredeffect. Of course it never passed into law; but it so completelydivided the ranks of the Irish members, who had bound themselvestogether to force on the ministry a bill for compelling all men todrink Irish whiskey, and all women to wear Irish poplins, that forthe remainder of the session the Great Poplin and Whiskey League wasutterly harmless. 

Thus it happened that Sir Abraham's opinion was not at onceforthcoming, and the uncertainty, the expectation, and suffering ofthe folk of Barchester was maintained at a high pitch. 

Chapter VIII

PLUMSTEAD EPISCOPI

The reader must now be requested to visit the rectory of PlumsteadEpiscopi; and as it is as yet still early morning, to ascend againwith us into the bedroom of the archdeacon. The mistress of themansion was at her toilet; on which we will not dwell with profaneeyes, but proceed into a small inner room, where the doctor dressedand 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 aconversation between our reverend Adam and his valued Eve. 

"It's all your own fault, archdeacon, " said the latter. "I told youfrom the beginning how it would end, and papa has no one to thank butyou. "

"Good gracious, my dear, " said the doctor, appearing at the door ofhis dressing-room, with his face and head enveloped in the rough towelwhich he was violently using; "how can you say so? I am doing my verybest. "

"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 papaliked, he and Eleanor would have been married by this time, and weshould 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; Idon'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 byhuffing 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 thoughEleanor 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; oras well indeed, " added the anxious sister, giving the last twist toher last shoe-string. 

Dr Grantly felt keenly the injustice of this attack; but what could hesay? He certainly had huffed John Bold; he certainly had objected tohim as a brother-in-law, and a very few months ago the very idea hadexcited his wrath: but now matters were changed; John Bold had shownhis power, and, though he was as odious as ever to the archdeacon, power is always respected, and the reverend dignitary began to thinkthat 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 SirAbraham Haphazard, and in himself; and it was only when alone withhis wife that doubts of defeat ever beset him. He once more tried tocommunicate this confidence to Mrs Grantly, and for the twentieth timebegan to tell her of Sir Abraham. 

"Oh, Sir Abraham!" said she, collecting all her house keys into herbasket before she descended; "Sir Abraham won't get Eleanor a husband;Sir Abraham won't get papa another income when he has been worretedout of the hospital. Mark what I tell you, archdeacon: while you andSir Abraham are fighting, papa will lose his preferment; and what willyou do then with him and Eleanor on your hands? besides, who's to paySir Abraham? I suppose he won't take the case up for nothing?" Andso the lady descended to family worship among her children andservants, 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. Theywere called, respectively, Charles James, Henry, and Samuel. The twoyounger (there were five in all) were girls; the elder, Florinda, borethe name of the Archbishop of York's wife, whose godchild she was:and the younger had been christened Grizzel, after a sister of theArchbishop of Canterbury. The boys were all clever, and gave goodpromise 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 hisindividual character, and each his separate admirers among thedoctor's friends. 

Charles James was an exact and careful boy; he never committedhimself; he well knew how much was expected from the eldest son of theArchdeacon of Barchester, and was therefore mindful not to mix toofreely with other boys. He had not the great talents of his youngerbrothers, but he exceeded them in judgment and propriety of demeanour;his fault, if he had one, was an over-attention to words instead ofthings; there was a thought too much finesse about him, and, as evenhis father sometimes told him, he was too fond of a compromise. 

The second was the archdeacon's favourite son, and Henry was indeed abrilliant boy. The versatility of his genius was surprising, and thevisitors at Plumstead Episcopi were often amazed at the marvellousmanner in which he would, when called on, adapt his capacity toapparently most uncongenial pursuits. He appeared once before a largecircle as Luther the reformer, and delighted them with the perfectmanner in which he assumed the character; and within three days heagain astonished them by acting the part of a Capuchin friar to thevery life. For this last exploit his father gave him a golden guinea, and his brothers said the reward had been promised beforehand in theevent of the performance being successful. He was also sent on a tourinto 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. Hewas a most courageous lad, game to the backbone. 

It was soon known, both at home, where he lived, and within some milesof Barchester Cathedral, and also at Westminster, where he was atschool, that young Henry could box well and would never own himselfbeat; other boys would fight while they had a leg to stand on, but hewould fight with no leg at all. Those backing him would sometimesthink him crushed by the weight of blows and faint with loss of blood, and his friends would endeavour to withdraw him from the contest; butno, Henry never gave in, was never weary of the battle. The ring wasthe only element in which he seemed to enjoy himself; and while otherboys were happy in the number of their friends, he rejoiced most inthe multitude of his foes. 

His relations could not but admire his pluck, but they sometimes wereforced to regret that he was inclined to be a bully; and those notso partial to him as his father was, observed with pain that, thoughhe could fawn to the masters and the archdeacon's friends, he wasimperious 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 fondmother petted. He was soft and gentle in his manners, and attractivein his speech; the tone of his voice was melody, and every action wasa grace; unlike his brothers, he was courteous to all, he was affableto the lowly, and meek even to the very scullery-maid. He was a boyof great promise, minding his books and delighting the hearts of hismasters. His brothers, however, were not particularly fond of him;they would complain to their mother that Soapy's civility all meantsomething; they thought that his voice was too often listened to atPlumstead Episcopi, and evidently feared that, as he grew up, hewould 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, wassharp; he could not assume the stiff decorum of Charles James, norcould he fight like Henry; but he was a perfect master of his ownweapons, and contrived, in the teeth of both of them, to hold theplace which he had assumed. Henry declared that he was a false, cunning creature; and Charles James, though he always spoke of him ashis dear brother Samuel, was not slow to say a word against him whenopportunity offered. To speak the truth, Samuel was a cunning boy, and those even who loved him best could not but own that for one soyoung, he was too adroit in choosing his words, and too skilled inmodulating his voice. 

The two little girls Florinda and Grizzel were nice little girlsenough, but they did not possess the strong sterling qualities oftheir brothers; their voices were not often heard at PlumsteadEpiscopi; they were bashful and timid by nature, slow to speak beforecompany even when asked to do so; and though they looked very nice intheir clean white muslin frocks and pink sashes, they were but littlenoticed by the archdeacon's visitors. 

Whatever of submissive humility may have appeared in the gait andvisage of the archdeacon during his colloquy with his wife in thesanctum of their dressing-rooms was dispelled as he entered hisbreakfast-parlour with erect head and powerful step. In the presenceof a third person he assumed the lord and master; and that wise andtalented lady too well knew the man to whom her lot for life wasbound, to stretch her authority beyond the point at which it would beborne. Strangers at Plumstead Episcopi, when they saw the imperiousbrow with which he commanded silence from the large circle ofvisitors, children, and servants who came together in the morning tohear him read the word of God, and watched how meekly that wife seatedherself 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 stoutlyheld her ground against him, hardly allowing him to open his mouth inhis own defence. But such is the tact and talent of women!

And now let us observe the well-furnished breakfast-parlour atPlumstead Episcopi, and the comfortable air of all the belongings ofthe rectory. Comfortable they certainly were, but neither gorgeousnor even grand; indeed, considering the money that had been spentthere, the eye and taste might have been better served; there was anair of heaviness about the rooms which might have been avoided withoutany sacrifice of propriety; colours might have been better chosen andlights more perfectly diffused; but perhaps in doing so the thoroughclerical aspect of the whole might have been somewhat marred; at anyrate, it was not without ample consideration that those thick, dark, costly carpets were put down; those embossed, but sombre papers hungup; those heavy curtains draped so as to half exclude the light ofthe sun: nor were these old-fashioned chairs, bought at a price farexceeding that now given for more modern goods, without a purpose. The breakfast-service on the table was equally costly and equallyplain; the apparent object had been to spend money without obtainingbrilliancy or splendour. The urn was of thick and solid silver, aswere also the tea-pot, coffee-pot, cream-ewer, and sugar-bowl; thecups were old, dim dragon china, worth about a pound a piece, but verydespicable in the eyes of the uninitiated. The silver forks were soheavy as to be disagreeable to the hand, and the bread-basket was of aweight really formidable to any but robust persons. The tea consumedwas the very best, the coffee the very blackest, the cream thevery thickest; there was dry toast and buttered toast, muffins andcrumpets; hot bread and cold bread, white bread and brown bread, home-made bread and bakers' bread, wheaten bread and oaten bread; andif there be other breads than these, they were there; there were eggsin napkins, and crispy bits of bacon under silver covers; and therewere little fishes in a little box, and devilled kidneys frizzling ona hot-water dish; which, by the bye, were placed closely contiguous tothe plate of the worthy archdeacon himself. Over and above this, ona snow-white napkin, spread upon the sideboard, was a huge ham and ahuge sirloin; the latter having laden the dinner table on the previousevening. Such was the ordinary fare at Plumstead Episcopi. 

And yet I have never found the rectory a pleasant house. Thefact that man shall not live by bread alone seemed to be somewhatforgotten; and noble as was the appearance of the host, and sweet andgood-natured as was the face of the hostess, talented as were thechildren, and excellent as were the viands and the wines, in spiteof these attractions, I generally found the rectory somewhat dull. After breakfast the archdeacon would retire, of course to his clericalpursuits. Mrs Grantly, I presume, inspected her kitchen, though shehad a first-rate housekeeper, with sixty pounds a year; and attendedto the lessons of Florinda and Grizzel, though she had an excellentgoverness with thirty pounds a year: but at any rate she disappeared:and I never could make companions of the boys. Charles James, thoughhe always looked as though there was something in him, never seemed tohave much to say; and what he did say he would always unsay the nextminute. He told me once that he considered cricket, on the whole, tobe a gentleman-like game for boys, provided they would play withoutrunning about; and that fives, also, was a seemly game, so that thosewho played it never heated themselves. Henry once quarrelled with mefor taking his sister Grizzel's part in a contest between them as tothe best mode of using a watering-pot for the garden flowers; and fromthat day to this he has not spoken to me, though he speaks at me oftenenough. For half an hour or so I certainly did like Sammy's gentlespeeches; but one gets tired of honey, and I found that he preferredthe more admiring listeners whom he met in the kitchen-garden and backprecincts of the establishment; besides, I think I once caught Sammyfibbing. 

On the whole, therefore, I found the rectory a dull house, though itmust be admitted that everything there was of the very best. 

After breakfast, on the morning of which we are writing, thearchdeacon, as usual, retired to his study, intimating that he wasgoing 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 onwhich he was wont to compose his favourite sermons, and spread on ita fair sheet of paper and one partly written on; he then placed hisinkstand, looked at his pen, and folded his blotting paper; havingdone so, he got up again from his seat, stood with his back to thefire-place, and yawned comfortably, stretching out vastly his hugearms and opening his burly chest. He then walked across the room andlocked the door; and having so prepared himself, he threw himself intohis easy-chair, took from a secret drawer beneath his table a volumeof Rabelais, and began to amuse himself with the witty mischief ofPanurge; and so passed the archdeacon's morning on that day. 

He was left undisturbed at his studies for an hour or two, when aknock came to the door, and Mr Chadwick was announced. Rabelaisretired into the secret drawer, the easy-chair seemed knowingly tobetake itself off, and when the archdeacon quickly undid his bolt, he was discovered by the steward working, as usual, for that churchof which he was so useful a pillar. Mr Chadwick had just come fromLondon, and was, therefore, known to be the bearer of important news. 

"We've got Sir Abraham's opinion at last, " said Mr Chadwick, as heseated 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 aword, but you can read it;" and he handed him a copy, in heaven knowshow many spun-out folios, of the opinion which the attorney-generalhad managed to cram on the back and sides of the case as originallysubmitted to him. 

"The upshot is, " said Chadwick, "that there's a screw loose in theircase, and we had better do nothing. They are proceeding against MrHarding and myself, and Sir Abraham holds that, under the wording ofthe will, and subsequent arrangements legally sanctioned, Mr Hardingand I are only paid servants. The defendants should have been eitherthe Corporation of Barchester, or possibly the chapter of yourfather. "

"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 wrongscent. Sir Abraham thinks that if they'd taken the corporation, orthe chapter, we could have baffled them. The bishop, he thinks, wouldbe the surest shot; but even there we could plead that the bishop isonly a visitor, and that he has never made himself a consenting partyto the performance of other duties. "

"That's quite clear, " said the archdeacon. 

"Not quite so clear, " said the other. "You see the will says, 'Mylord, the bishop, being graciously pleased to see that due justicebe done. ' Now, it may be a question whether, in accepting andadministering the patronage, your father has not accepted also theother duties assigned. It is doubtful, however; but even if they hitthat 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 thousandpounds' cost before they could bring it to an issue! and where's thatsum of money to come from?"

The archdeacon rubbed his hands with delight; he had never doubted thejustice of his case, but he had begun to have some dread of unjustsuccess on the part of his enemies. It was delightful to him thus tohear that their cause was surrounded with such rocks and shoals; suchcauses of shipwreck unseen by the landsman's eye, but visible enoughto the keen eyes of practical law mariners. How wrong his wife was towish that Bold should marry Eleanor! Bold! why, if he should be assenough to persevere, he would be a beggar before he knew whom he wasat law with!

"That's excellent, Chadwick;--that's excellent! I told you SirAbraham was the man for us;" and he put down on the table the copy ofthe 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 theirown 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 thecloseness of the confidence; "no one else shall. "

"Mrs Grantly is very interested in the matter, I know, " said MrChadwick. 

Did the archdeacon wink, or did he not? I am inclined to think he didnot quite wink; but that without such, perhaps, unseemly gesture hecommunicated to Mr Chadwick, with the corner of his eye, intimationthat, deep as was Mrs Grantly's interest in the matter, it should notprocure for her a perusal of that document; and at the same time hepartly opened the small drawer, above spoken of, deposited the paperon the volume of Rabelais, and showed to Mr Chadwick the nature of thekey which guarded these hidden treasures. The careful steward thenexpressed himself contented. Ah! vain man! he could fasten up hisRabelais, and other things secret, with all the skill of Bramah orof Chubb; but where could he fasten up the key which solved thesemechanical mysteries? It is probable to us that the contents ofno 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 MrHarding so much of Sir Abraham's opinion as will satisfy them that thematter is doing well. "

"Oh, certainly, --yes, of course, " said the doctor. 

"You had better let them know that Sir Abraham is of opinion thatthere is no case at any rate against Mr Harding; and that as theaction is worded at present, it must fall to the ground; they must benonsuited, if they carry it on; you had better tell Mr Harding, thatSir Abraham is clearly of opinion that he is only a servant, and assuch not liable;--or if you like it, I'll see Mr Harding myself. "

"Oh, I must see him to-morrow, and my father too, and I'll explain tothem 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 shookhands with the diocesan steward, and bowed him out. 

The archdeacon had again recourse to his drawer, and twice readthrough the essence of Sir Abraham Haphazard's law-enlightened andlaw-bewildered brains. It was very clear that to Sir Abraham, thejustice of the old men's claim or the justice of Mr Harding's defencewere ideas that had never presented themselves. A legal victoryover an opposing party was the service for which Sir Abraham was, ashe imagined, to be paid; and that he, according to his lights, haddiligently laboured to achieve, and with probable hope of success. Of the intense desire which Mr Harding felt to be assured on fitauthority that he was wronging no man, that he was entitled in trueequity to his income, that he might sleep at night without pangs ofconscience, that he was no robber, no spoiler of the poor; that he andall 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 ofMr Harding, Sir Abraham was entirely ignorant; nor, indeed, could itbe looked on as part of his business to gratify such desires. Suchwas not the system on which his battles were fought, and victoriesgained. Success was his object, and he was generally successful. He conquered his enemies by their weakness rather than by his ownstrength, and it had been found almost impossible to make up a casein which Sir Abraham, as an antagonist, would not find a flaw. 

The archdeacon was delighted with the closeness of the reasoning. Todo him justice, it was not a selfish triumph that he desired; he wouldpersonally lose nothing by defeat, or at least what he might lose didnot actuate him; but neither was it love of justice which made him soanxious, nor even mainly solicitude for his father-in-law. He wasfighting a part of a never-ending battle against a never-conqueredfoe--that of the church against its enemies. 

He knew Mr Harding could not pay all the expense of these doings: forthese long opinions of Sir Abraham's, these causes to be pleaded, these speeches to be made, these various courts through which the casewas, he presumed, to be dragged. He knew that he and his father mustat least bear the heavier portion of this tremendous cost; but to dothe archdeacon justice, he did not recoil from this. He was a manfond of obtaining money, greedy of a large income, but open-handedenough in expending it, and it was a triumph to him to foresee thesuccess of this measure, although he might be called on to pay sodearly 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 thepalace. Dr Grantly, as he cogitated on the matter, leaning back inhis brougham as he journeyed into Barchester, felt that it would bedifficult to communicate his own satisfaction either to his father orhis father-in-law. He wanted success on his own side and discomfitureon that of his enemies. The bishop wanted peace on the subject; asettled peace if possible, but peace at any rate till the shortremainder of his own days had spun itself out. Mr Harding requirednot only success and peace, but he also demanded that he might standjustified before the world. 

The bishop, however, was comparatively easy to deal with; and beforethe arrival of the other, the dutiful son had persuaded his fatherthat 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 bishopoccupying a huge arm-chair fitted up with candle-sticks, a readingtable, a drawer, and other paraphernalia, the position of whichchair was never moved, summer or winter; and when, as was usual, thearchdeacon was there also, he confronted the two elders, who thus wereenabled to fight the battle against him together;--and together submitto defeat, for such was their constant fate. 

Our warden now took his accustomed place, having greeted hisson-in-law as he entered, and then affectionately inquired after hisfriend's health. There was a gentleness about the bishop to which thesoft womanly affection of Mr Harding particularly endeared itself, andit was quaint to see how the two mild old priests pressed each other'shand, and smiled and made little signs of love. 

"Sir Abraham's opinion has come at last, " began the archdeacon. MrHarding 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 forconfirmation of these glad tidings. 

"Yes, " said the archdeacon; "Sir Abraham has given most minuteattention to the case; indeed, I knew he would;--most minuteattention; and his opinion is, --and as to his opinion on such asubject being correct, no one who knows Sir Abraham's character candoubt, --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 doubtyou won't understand it; the gist of the matter is this:--underHiram'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 withthe 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, andthe other to look after the money. You and Chadwick are these twoservants, 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 asdaylight that no one can fall foul of either of you for receiving anallotted stipend. "

"That does seem clear, " said the bishop, who had winced visibly at thewords servants and stipend, which, however, appeared to have caused nouneasiness to the archdeacon. 

"Quite clear, " said he, "and very satisfactory. In point of fact, itbeing 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 suchservices, 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 themfind that out; that's another question: the action is brought againstyou and Chadwick; that's your defence, and a perfect and full defenceit is. Now that I think very satisfactory. "

"Well, " said the bishop, looking inquiringly up into his friend'sface, who sat silent awhile, and apparently not so well satisfied. 

"And conclusive, " continued the archdeacon; "if they press it to ajury, which they won't do, no twelve men in England will take fiveminutes to decide against them. "

"But according to that" said Mr Harding, "I might as well have sixteenhundred a year as eight, if the managers choose to allot it to me; andas I am one of the managers, if not the chief manager, myself, thatcan 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 andpestilent dissenters, are to interfere with an arrangement whicheveryone knows is essentially just and serviceable to the church. Pray don't let us be splitting hairs, and that amongst ourselves, orthere'll never be an end of the cause or the cost. "

Mr Harding again sat silent for a while, during which the bishop onceand again pressed his arm, and looked in his face to see if he couldcatch a gleam of a contented and eased mind; but there was no suchgleam, and the poor warden continued playing sad dirges on invisiblestringed instruments in all manner of positions; he was ruminating inhis mind on this opinion of Sir Abraham, looking to it wearily andearnestly for satisfaction, but finding none. At last he said, "Didyou 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 acopy, but he could not say whether of a whole or part; nor could hesay that what he had seen were the _ipsissima verba_ of the great manhimself; but what he had seen contained exactly the decision which hehad announced, and which he again declared to be to his mind extremelysatisfactory. 

"I should like to see the opinion, " said the warden; "that is, a copyof it. "

"Well, I suppose you can if you make a point of it; but I don't seethe use myself; of course it is essential that the purport of itshould not be known, and it is therefore unadvisable to multiplycopies. "

"Why should it not be known?" asked the warden. 

"What a question for a man to ask!" said the archdeacon, throwing uphis hands in token of his surprise; "but it is like you:--a child isnot more innocent than you are in matters of business. Can't you seethat if we tell them that no action will lie against you, but that onemay possibly lie against some other person or persons, that we shallbe putting weapons into their hands, and be teaching them how to cutour own throats?"

The warden again sat silent, and the bishop again looked at himwistfully. "The only thing we have now to do, " continued thearchdeacon, "is to remain quiet, hold our peace, and let them playtheir own game as they please. "

"We are not to make known then, " said the warden, "that we haveconsulted the attorney-general, and that we are advised by him thatthe founder's will is fully and fairly carried out. "

"God bless my soul!" said the archdeacon, "how odd it is that you willnot see that all we are to do is to do nothing: why should we sayanything about the founder's will? We are in possession; and we knowthat they are not in a position to put us out; surely that is enoughfor the present. "

Mr Harding rose from his seat and paced thoughtfully up and down thelibrary, the bishop the while watching him painfully at every turn, and the archdeacon continuing to pour forth his convictions that theaffair 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 nobones. You must bear with that; there is much, of course, which itis our bounden duty to bear; it cannot be all roses for us here, " andthe archdeacon looked exceedingly moral; "besides, the matter is tootrivial, of too little general interest to be mentioned again in _TheJupiter_, unless we stir up the subject. " And the archdeacon againlooked exceedingly knowing and worldly wise. 

The warden continued his walk; the hard and stinging words of thatnewspaper article, each one of which had thrust a thorn as it wereinto his inmost soul, were fresh in his memory; he had read it morethan once, word by word, and what was worse, he fancied it was as wellknown to everyone as to himself. Was he to be looked on as the unjustgriping priest he had been there described? Was he to be pointed atas the consumer of the bread of the poor, and to be allowed no meansof refuting such charges, of clearing his begrimed name, of standinginnocent in the world, as hitherto he had stood? Was he to bear allthis, to receive as usual his now hated income, and be known as oneof those greedy priests who by their rapacity have brought disgraceon their church? And why? Why should he bear all this? Why shouldhe die, for he felt that he could not live, under such a weight ofobloquy? As he paced up and down the room he resolved in his miseryand enthusiasm that he could with pleasure, if he were allowed, giveup his place, abandon his pleasant home, leave the hospital, and livepoorly, happily, and with an unsullied name, on the small remainder ofhis means. 

He was a man somewhat shy of speaking of himself, even before thosewho knew him best, and whom he loved the most; but at last it burstforth from him, and with a somewhat jerking eloquence he declared thathe could not, would not, bear this misery any longer. 

"If it can be proved, " said he at last, "that I have a just and honestright to this, as God well knows I always deemed I had; if this salaryor stipend be really my due, I am not less anxious than another toretain it. I have the well-being of my child to look to. I am tooold 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 havebeen right, and to uphold the place I have held; but I cannot do itat such a cost as this. I cannot bear this. Could you tell me to doso?" And he appealed, almost in tears, to the bishop, who had lefthis chair, and was now leaning on the warden's arm as he stood on thefurther side of the table facing the archdeacon. "Could you tell meto sit there at ease, indifferent, and satisfied, while such things asthese are said loudly of me in the world?"

The bishop could feel for him and sympathise with him, but he couldnot advise him; he could only say, "No, no, you shall be asked todo nothing that is painful; you shall do just what your heart tellsyou to be right; you shall do whatever you think best yourself. Theophilus, don't advise him, pray don't advise the warden to doanything 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 asomewhat peremptory manner. 

"Why, my lord, " he said, speaking to his father;--and when he calledhis father "my lord, " the good old bishop shook in his shoes, for heknew that an evil time was coming. "Why, my lord, there are two waysof giving advice: there is advice that may be good for the presentday; and there is advice that may be good for days to come: now Icannot bring myself to give the former, if it be incompatible with theother. "

"No, no, no, I suppose not, " said the bishop, re-seating himself, andshading his face with his hands. Mr Harding sat down with his back tothe further wall, playing to himself some air fitted for so calamitousan occasion, and the archdeacon said out his say standing, with hisback to the empty fire-place. 

"It is not to be supposed but that much pain will spring out of thisunnecessarily raised question. We must all have foreseen that, andthe matter has in no wise gone on worse than we expected; but it willbe weak, yes, and wicked also, to abandon the cause and own ourselveswrong, because the inquiry is painful. It is not only ourselves wehave to look to; to a certain extent the interest of the church is inour keeping. Should it be found that one after another of those whohold preferment abandoned it whenever it might be attacked, is itnot plain that such attacks would be renewed till nothing was leftus? and, that if so deserted, the Church of England must fall tothe 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 torelinquish the preferment which is your property, with the vain objectof proving yourself disinterested, you would fail in that object, youwould inflict a desperate blow on your brother clergymen, you wouldencourage every cantankerous dissenter in England to make a similarcharge against some source of clerical revenue, and you would do yourbest to dishearten those who are most anxious to defend you and upholdyour position. I can fancy nothing more weak, or more wrong. It isnot that you think that there is any justice in these charges, or thatyou doubt your own right to the wardenship: you are convinced of yourown 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 isafraid 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 theevil which you dread. The _Jupiter_ publishes an article which agreat many, no doubt, will read; but of those who understand thesubject how many will believe _The Jupiter_? Everyone knows what itsobject is: it has taken up the case against Lord Guildford and againstthe Dean of Rochester, and that against half a dozen bishops; and doesnot everyone know that it would take up any case of the kind, rightor wrong, false or true, with known justice or known injustice, if bydoing so it could further its own views? Does not all the world knowthis of _The Jupiter_? Who that really knows you will think the worseof you for what _The Jupiter_ says? And why care for those who do notknow you? I will say nothing of your own comfort, but I do say thatyou could not be justified in throwing up, in a fit of passion, forsuch it would be, the only maintenance that Eleanor has; and if youdid so, if you really did vacate the wardenship, and submit to ruin, what would that profit you? If you have no future right to theincome, you have had no past right to it; and the very fact of yourabandoning your position would create a demand for repayment of thatwhich you have already received and spent. "

The poor warden groaned as he sat perfectly still, looking up at thehard-hearted orator who thus tormented him, and the bishop echoed thesound faintly from behind his hands; but the archdeacon cared littlefor such signs of weakness, and completed his exhortation. 

"But let us suppose the office to be left vacant, and that your owntroubles concerning it were over; would that satisfy you? Are youronly aspirations in the matter confined to yourself and family? Iknow they are not. I know you are as anxious as any of us for thechurch to which we belong; and what a grievous blow would such an actof apostasy give her! You owe it to the church of which you are amember and a minister, to bear with this affliction, however severe itmay be: you owe it to my father, who instituted you, to support hisrights: you owe it to those who preceded you to assert the legalityof their position; you owe it to those who are to come after you, tomaintain uninjured for them that which you received uninjured fromothers; and you owe to us all the unflinching assistance of perfectbrotherhood in this matter, so that upholding one another we maysupport our great cause without blushing and without disgrace. "

And so the archdeacon ceased, and stood self-satisfied, watching theeffect of his spoken wisdom. 

The warden felt himself, to a certain extent, stifled; he would havegiven the world to get himself out into the open air without speakingto, or noticing those who were in the room with him; but this wasimpossible. He could not leave without saying something, and he felthimself confounded by the archdeacon's eloquence. There was a heavy, unfeeling, unanswerable truth in what he had said; there was so muchpractical, but odious common sense in it, that he neither knew howto assent or to differ. If it were necessary for him to suffer, hefelt 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, andnot acquitted by himself. Doubting, as he had begun to doubt, thejustice of his own position in the hospital, he knew that his ownself-confidence would not be restored because Mr Bold had been inerror as to some legal form; nor could he be satisfied to escape, because, through some legal fiction, he who received the greatestbenefit from the hospital might be considered only as one of itsservants. 

The archdeacon's speech had silenced him, --stupefied him, --annihilatedhim; anything but satisfied him. With the bishop it fared not muchbetter. He did not discern clearly how things were, but he saw enoughto know that a battle was to be prepared for; a battle that woulddestroy his few remaining comforts, and bring him with sorrow to thegrave. 

The warden still sat, and still looked at the archdeacon, till histhoughts fixed themselves wholly on the means of escape from hispresent position, and he felt like a bird fascinated by gazing on asnake. 

"I hope you agree with me, " said the archdeacon at last, breaking thedread 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 hegot up and took one turn before he answered. 

"Do not press me for an answer just at present; I will do nothinglightly in the matter, and of whatever I do I will give you and thebishop 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 hugeelms of the silent close. Here he walked long and slowly, thinkingon his case with a troubled air, and trying in vain to confute thearchdeacon's argument. He then went home, resolved to bear itall, --ignominy, suspense, disgrace, self-doubt, and heart-burning, --and to do as those would have him, who he still believed were most fitand most able to counsel him aright. 

Chapter X

TRIBULATION

Mr Harding was a sadder man than he had ever yet been when he returnedto his own house. He had been wretched enough on that well-rememberedmorning when he was forced to expose before his son-in-law thepublisher's account for ushering into the world his dear bookof sacred music: when after making such payments as he could dounassisted, he found that he was a debtor of more than three hundredpounds; but his sufferings then were as nothing to his presentmisery;--then he had done wrong, and he knew it, and was able toresolve that he would not sin in like manner again; but now he couldmake no resolution, and comfort himself by no promises of firmness. He had been forced to think that his lot had placed him in a falseposition, and he was about to maintain that position against theopinion of the world and against his own convictions. 

He had read with pity, amounting almost to horror, the strictureswhich had appeared from time to time against the Earl of Guildford asmaster of St Cross, and the invectives that had been heaped on richdiocesan dignitaries and overgrown sinecure pluralists. In judging ofthem, he judged leniently; the whole bias of his profession had taughthim to think that they were more sinned against than sinning, andthat the animosity with which they had been pursued was venomousand unjust; but he had not the less regarded their plight as mostmiserable. His hair had stood on end and his flesh had crept ashe read the things which had been written; he had wondered how mencould live under such a load of disgrace; how they could face theirfellow-creatures while their names were bandied about so injuriouslyand so publicly;--and now this lot was to be his, --he, that shy, retiring man, who had so comforted himself in the hidden obscurity ofhis lot, who had so enjoyed the unassuming warmth of his own littlecorner, --he was now dragged forth into the glaring day, and gibbetedbefore ferocious multitudes. He entered his own house a crestfallen, humiliated man, without a hope of overcoming the wretchedness whichaffected him. 

He wandered into the drawing-room where was his daughter; but he couldnot 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 herfrom seeing that he was disturbed; and in a little while she followedhim. She found him seated in his accustomed chair with no book openbefore him, no pen ready in his hand, no ill-shapen notes of blottedmusic lying before him as was usual, none of those hospital accountswith which he was so precise and yet so unmethodical: he was doingnothing, thinking of nothing, looking at nothing; he was merelysuffering. 

"Leave me, Eleanor, my dear, " he said; "leave me, my darling, for afew minutes, for I am busy. "

Eleanor saw well how it was, but she did leave him, and glidedsilently back to her drawing-room. When he had sat a while, thusalone and unoccupied, he got up to walk again;--he could make moreof his thoughts walking than sitting, and was creeping out into hisgarden, 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 oldbedesman, touching his hat; "and to inquire about the news fromLondon, " he added after a pause. 

The warden winced, and put his hand to his forehead and feltbewildered. 

"Attorney Finney has been there this morning, " continued Bunce, "andby his looks I guess he is not so well pleased as he once was, and ithas got abroad somehow that the archdeacon has had down great newsfrom London, and Handy and Moody are both as black as devils. And Ihope, " said the man, trying to assume a cheery tone, "that things arelooking up, and that there'll be an end soon to all this stuff whichbothers your reverence so sorely. "

"Well, I wish there may be, Bunce. "

"But about the news, your reverence?" said the old man, almostwhispering. 

Mr Harding walked on, and shook his head impatiently. Poor Buncelittle 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 miserycould 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 tocheer me;--God's will be done": and two small hot tears broke awayfrom his eyes and stole down his furrowed cheeks. 

"Then God's will be done, " said the other solemnly; "but they toldme that there was good news from London, and I came to wish yourreverence joy; but God's will be done;" and so the warden again walkedon, and the bedesman, looking wistfully after him and receiving noencouragement to follow, returned sadly to his own abode. 

For a couple of hours the warden remained thus in the garden, nowwalking, now standing motionless on the turf, and then, as his legsgot weary, sitting unconsciously on the garden seats, and then walkingagain. And Eleanor, hidden behind the muslin curtains of the window, watched him through the trees as he now came in sight, and then againwas concealed by the turnings of the walk; and thus the time passedaway till five, when the warden crept back to the house and preparedfor dinner. 

It was but a sorry meal. The demure parlour-maid, as she handed thedishes and changed the plates, saw that all was not right, and wasmore demure than ever: neither father nor daughter could eat, and thehateful food was soon cleared away, and the bottle of port placed uponthe table. 

"Would you like Bunce to come in, papa?" said Eleanor, thinking thatthe company of the old man might lighten his sorrow. 

"No, my dear, thank you, not to-day; 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 ofsadness 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! herdesire now was not to find him happy, but to be allowed to share hissorrows; not to force him to be sociable, but to persuade him to betrustful. 

She put on her bonnet as desired, and went up to Mary Bold; this wasnow her daily haunt, for John Bold was up in London among lawyers andchurch reformers, diving deep into other questions than that of thewardenship of Barchester; supplying information to one member ofParliament, and dining with another; subscribing to funds for theabolition of clerical incomes, and seconding at that great nationalmeeting at the Crown and Anchor a resolution to the effect, that noclergyman of the Church of England, be he who he might, should havemore 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, andthe room was hired for two hours only, at the expiration of whichthe Quakers and Mr Cobden were to make use of it for an appeal tothe public in aid of the Emperor of Russia; but it was sharp andeffective; at least he was told so by a companion with whom he nowlived much, and on whom he greatly depended, --one Tom Towers, a veryleading 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 Marylistened kindly, while the daughter spoke much of her father, and, perhaps kinder still, found a listener in Eleanor, while she spokeabout her brother. In the meantime the warden sat alone, leaning onthe arm of his chair; he had poured out a glass of wine, but had doneso merely from habit, for he left it untouched; there he sat gazingat 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 camebefore his mind, which at the time he had enjoyed without consideringthem; his easy days, his absence of all kind of hard work, hispleasant shady home, those twelve old neighbours whose welfare tillnow had been the source of so much pleasant care, the excellenceof his children, the friendship of the dear old bishop, the solemngrandeur of those vaulted aisles, through which he loved to hear hisown voice pealing; and then that friend of friends, that choice allythat had never deserted him, that eloquent companion that wouldalways, when asked, discourse such pleasant music, that violoncelloof his;--ah, how happy he had been! but it was over now; his easydays and absence of work had been the crime which brought on him histribulation; his shady home was pleasant no longer; maybe it was nolonger his; the old neighbours, whose welfare had been so desired byhim, were his enemies; his daughter was as wretched as himself; andeven the bishop was made miserable by his position. He could neveragain lift up his voice boldly as he had hitherto done among hisbrethren, for he felt that he was disgraced; and he feared even totouch his bow, for he knew how grievous a sound of wailing, howpiteous a lamentation, it would produce. 

He was still sitting in the same chair and the same posture, havinghardly moved a limb for two hours, when Eleanor came back to tea, andsucceeded in bringing him with her into the drawing-room. 

The tea seemed as comfortless as the dinner, though the warden, whohad hitherto eaten nothing all day, devoured the plateful of bread andbutter, unconscious of what he was doing. 

Eleanor had made up her mind to force him to talk to her, but shehardly knew how to commence: she must wait till the urn was gone, tillthe servant would no longer be coming in and out. 

At last everything was gone, and the drawing-room door was permanentlyclosed; then Eleanor, getting up and going round to her father, puther arm round his neck, and said, "Papa, won't you tell me what itis?"

"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 caressometimes;" and he tried to smile, but it was a ghastly failure; "butI shouldn't be so dull a companion; come, we'll have some music. "

"No, papa, not tonight, --it would only trouble you tonight;" and shesat upon his knee, as she sometimes would in their gayest moods, andwith her arm round his neck, she said: "Papa, I will not leave youtill you talk to me; oh, if you only knew how much good it would doto you, to tell me of it all. "

The father kissed his daughter, and pressed her to his heart; butstill he said nothing: it was so hard to him to speak of his ownsorrows; 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, andwhat they are doing up in London, and what that cruel newspaper hassaid; but if there be such cause for sorrow, let us be sorrowfultogether; we are all in all to each other now: dear, dear papa, dospeak to me. "

Mr Harding could not well speak now, for the warm tears were runningdown his cheeks like rain in May, but he held his child close to hisheart, and squeezed her hand as a lover might, and she kissed hisforehead and his wet cheeks, and lay upon his bosom, and comforted himas a woman only can do. 

"My own child, " he said, as soon as his tears would let him speak, "myown, 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 timecomes, why should your young days be clouded?"

"And is that all, papa? If that be all, let us leave it, and havelight hearts elsewhere: if that be all, let us go. Oh, papa, you andI could be happy if we had only bread to eat, so long as our heartswere light. "

And Eleanor's face was lighted up with enthusiasm as she told herfather how he might banish all his care; and a gleam of joy shotacross his brow as this idea of escape again presented itself, andhe again fancied for a moment that he could spurn away from him theincome which the world envied him; that he could give the lie to thatwielder 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, andwipe his hands altogether of so sorrow-stirring a concern. Ah, whathappiness might there be in the distance, with Eleanor and him in somesmall cottage, and nothing left of their former grandeur but theirmusic! Yes, they would walk forth with their music books, and theirinstruments, and shaking the dust from off their feet as they went, leave the ungrateful place. Never did a poor clergyman sigh for a warmbenefice more anxiously than our warden did now to be rid of his. 

"Give it up, papa, " she said again, jumping from his knees andstanding on her feet before him, looking boldly into his face; "giveit 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 theremembrance of the archdeacon came back upon our poor warden, and hereflected that he could not stir from his now hated post. He was asa man bound with iron, fettered with adamant: he was in no respect afree 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 hishesitation arose from his unwillingness to abandon so comfortablea home; "is it on my account that you would stay here? Do youthink that I cannot be happy without a pony-carriage and a finedrawing-room? Papa, I never can be happy here, as long as there is aquestion as to your honour in staying here; but I could be gay as theday is long in the smallest tiny little cottage, if I could see youcome in and go out with a light heart. Oh! papa, your face tells somuch; though you won't speak to me with your voice, I know how it iswith you every time I look at you. "

How he pressed her to his heart again with almost a spasmodicpressure! How he kissed her as the tears fell like rain from his oldeyes! How he blessed her, and called her by a hundred soft sweetnames which now came new to his lips! How he chid himself for everhaving been unhappy with such a treasure in his house, such a jewel onhis 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 hewished, and all that he could not do. He repeated those argumentsof the archdeacon, not agreeing in their truth, but explaining hisinability to escape from them;--how it had been declared to him thathe 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 senseof duty, which, though he could not understand it, he was fain toacknowledge. He told her how he had been accused of cowardice, andthough he was not a man to make much of such a charge before theworld, now in the full candour of his heart he explained to her thatsuch an accusation was grievous to him; that he did think it would beunmanly to desert his post, merely to escape his present sufferings, and that, therefore, he must bear as best he might the misery whichwas prepared for him. 

And did she find these details tedious? Oh, no; she encouraged himto dilate on every feeling he expressed, till he laid bare the inmostcorners of his heart to her. They spoke together of the archdeacon, as two children might of a stern, unpopular, but still respectedschoolmaster, and of the bishop as a parent kind as kind could be, butpowerless against an omnipotent pedagogue. 

And then when they had discussed all this, when the father had toldall 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 wellshe had learned to love him, --"had loved him once, " she said, "but shewould not, could not do so now--no, even had her troth been plightedto him, she would have taken it back again;--had she sworn to lovehim as his wife, she would have discarded him, and not felt herselfforsworn, when he proved himself the enemy of her father. "

But the warden declared that Bold was no enemy of his, and encouragedher love; and gently rebuked, as he kissed her, the stern resolve shehad made to cast him off; and then he spoke to her of happier dayswhen their trials would all be over; and declared that her young heartshould not be torn asunder to please either priest or prelate, dean orarchdeacon. No, not if all Oxford were to convocate together, andagree as to the necessity of the sacrifice. 

And so they greatly comforted each other;--and in what sorrow will notsuch mutual confidence give consolation!--and with a last expressionof tender love they parted, and went comparatively happy to theirrooms. 

Chapter XI

IPHIGENIA

When Eleanor laid her head on her pillow that night, her mind wasanxiously intent on some plan by which she might extricate her fatherfrom his misery; and, in her warm-hearted enthusiasm, self-sacrificewas decided on as the means to be adopted. Was not so good anAgamemnon worthy of an Iphigenia? She would herself personallyimplore John Bold to desist from his undertaking; she would explain tohim her father's sorrows, the cruel misery of his position; she wouldtell him how her father would die if he were thus dragged before thepublic and exposed to such unmerited ignominy; she would appeal to hisold friendship, to his generosity, to his manliness, to his mercy; ifneed were, she would kneel to him for the favour she would ask; butbefore she did this the idea of love must be banished. There must beno bargain in the matter. To his mercy, to his generosity, she couldappeal; but as a pure maiden, hitherto even unsolicited, she could notappeal to his love, nor under such circumstances could she allow himto do so. Of course, when so provoked he would declare his passion;that was to be expected; there had been enough between them to makesuch 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 Iam the reward. There would be no sacrifice in that;--not so hadJephthah's daughter saved her father;--not so could she show tothat kindest, dearest of parents how much she was able to bear forhis good. No; to one resolve must her whole soul be bound; and soresolving, she felt that she could make her great request to Boldwith as much self-assured confidence as she could have done to hisgrandfather. 

And now I own I have fears for my heroine; not as to the upshot of hermission, --not in the least as to that; as to the full success of hergenerous scheme, and the ultimate result of such a project, no oneconversant with human nature and novels can have a doubt; but as tothe amount of sympathy she may receive from those of her own sex. Girls below twenty and old ladies above sixty will do her justice; forin the female heart the soft springs of sweet romance reopen aftermany 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 willnot approve of Eleanor's plan. I fear that unmarried ladies ofthirty-five will declare that there can be no probability of so absurda project being carried through; that young women on their kneesbefore their lovers are sure to get kissed, and that they would notput themselves in such a position did they not expect it; that Eleanoris going to Bold only because circumstances prevent Bold from comingto her; that she is certainly a little fool, or a little schemer, butthat in all probability she is thinking a good deal more about herselfthan her father. 

Dear ladies, you are right as to your appreciation of thecircumstances, but very wrong as to Miss Harding's character. MissHarding 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 givemy solemn word and positive assurance, that the remotest idea of sucha catastrophe never occurred to her as she made the great resolve nowalluded to. 

And then she slept; and then she rose refreshed; and met her fatherwith her kindest embrace and most loving smiles; and on the wholetheir breakfast was by no means so triste as had been their dinner theday before; and then, making some excuse to her father for so soonleaving him, she started on the commencement of her operations. 

She knew that John Bold was in London, and that, therefore, the sceneitself could not be enacted to-day; but she also knew that he was soonto be home, probably on the next day, and it was necessary that somelittle plan for meeting him should be concerted with his sister Mary. When she got up to the house, she went, as usual, into the morningsitting-room, and was startled by perceiving, by a stick, a greatcoat, and sundry parcels which were lying about, that Bold must already havereturned. 

"John has come back so suddenly, " said Mary, coming into the room; "hehas been travelling all night. "

"Then I'll come up again some other time, " said Eleanor, about to beata 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 returnsby the mail train tonight. "

Returns by the mail train tonight, thought Eleanor to herself, as shestrove to screw up her courage;--away again tonight;--then it must benow or never; and she again sat down, having risen to go. 

She wished the ordeal could have been postponed: she had fully madeup her mind to do the deed, but she had not made up her mind to do itthis very day; and now she felt ill at ease, astray, and indifficulty. 

"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 seeyou;" and she tried to treat it as a matter of course, but she was notthe less surprised; for Mary and Eleanor had daily talked over JohnBold and his conduct, and his love, and Mary would insist on callingEleanor her sister, and would scold her for not calling Bold by hisChristian name; and Eleanor would half confess her love, but like amodest maiden would protest against such familiarities even with thename of her lover; and so they talked hour after hour, and Mary Bold, who was much the elder, looked forward with happy confidence to theday when Eleanor would not be ashamed to call her her sister. Shewas, however, fully sure that just at present Eleanor would be muchmore likely to avoid her brother than to seek him. 

"Mary, I must see your brother, now, to-day, and beg from him a greatfavour;" 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, herwell-weighed scheme for saving her father from a sorrow which would, she said, if it lasted, bring him to his grave. "But, Mary, " shecontinued, "you must now, you know, cease any joking about me and MrBold; you must now say no more about that; I am not ashamed to begthis favour from your brother, but when I have done so, there cannever be anything further between us;" and this she said with a staidand solemn air, quite worthy of Jephthah's daughter or of Iphigeniaeither. 

It was quite clear that Mary Bold did not follow the argument. ThatEleanor Harding should appeal, on behalf of her father, to Bold'sbetter feelings seemed to Mary quite natural; it seemed quite naturalthat he should relent, overcome by such filial tears, and by so muchbeauty; but, to her thinking, it was at any rate equally natural, thathaving relented, John should put his arm round his mistress's waist, and say: "Now having settled that, let us be man and wife, and allwill end happily!" Why his good nature should not be rewarded, whensuch reward would operate to the disadvantage of none, Mary, who hadmore sense than romance, could not understand; and she said as much. 

Eleanor, however, was firm, and made quite an eloquent speech tosupport her own view of the question: she could not condescend, shesaid, 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 surehe 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 tothe window, and made a little inward call on her own courage, andfinding herself somewhat sustained, said sententiously: "Mary, thisis nonsense. "

"But you do love him, " said Mary, who had followed her friend to thewindow, and now spoke with her arms close wound round the other'swaist. "You do love him with all your heart, --you know you do; I defyyou to deny it. "

"I--" commenced Eleanor, turning sharply round to refute the charge;but the intended falsehood stuck in her throat, and never came toutterance. She could not deny her love, so she took plentifullyto tears, and leant upon her friend's bosom and sobbed there, andprotested that, love or no love, it would make no difference in herresolve, and called Mary, a thousand times, the most cruel of girls, and swore her to secrecy by a hundred oaths, and ended by declaringthat 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 shouldopen the city gates to the enemy. While they were yet discussing thematter, Bold returned, and Eleanor was forced into sudden action: shehad either to accomplish or abandon her plan; and having slipped intoher friend's bedroom, as the gentleman closed the hall door, shewashed the marks of tears from her eyes, and resolved within herselfto go through with it. "Tell him I am here, " said she, "and comingin; and mind, whatever you do, don't leave us. " So Mary informed herbrother, with a somewhat sombre air, that Miss Harding was in the nextroom, and was coming to speak to him. 

Eleanor was certainly thinking more of her father than herself, as shearranged her hair before the glass, and removed the traces of sorrowfrom her face; and yet I should be untrue if I said that she was notanxious to appear well before her lover: why else was she so sedulouswith that stubborn curl that would rebel against her hand, and smoothso eagerly her ruffled ribands? why else did she damp her eyes todispel 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 mortalangel after all. But had she been immortal, had she flitted back tothe sitting-room on a cherub's wings, she could not have had a morefaithful heart, or a truer wish to save her father at any cost toherself. 

John Bold had not met her since the day when she left him in dudgeonin the cathedral close. Since then his whole time had been occupiedin promoting the cause against her father, and not unsuccessfully. He had often thought of her, and turned over in his mind a hundredschemes for showing her how disinterested was his love. He wouldwrite to her and beseech her not to allow the performance of a publicduty to injure him in her estimation; he would write to Mr Harding, explain all his views, and boldly claim the warden's daughter, urgingthat the untoward circumstances between them need be no bar to theirancient friendship, or to a closer tie; he would throw himself on hisknees before his mistress; he would wait and marry the daughter whenthe father has lost his home and his income; he would give up thelawsuit and go to Australia, with her of course, leaving _The Jupiter_and Mr Finney to complete the case between them. Sometimes as he wokein the morning fevered and impatient, he would blow out his brains andhave done with all his cares;--but this idea was generally consequenton an imprudent supper enjoyed in company with Tom Towers. 

How beautiful Eleanor appeared to him as she slowly walked into theroom! Not for nothing had all those little cares been taken. Thoughher sister, the archdeacon's wife, had spoken slightingly of hercharms, Eleanor was very beautiful when seen aright. Hers was not ofthose impassive faces, which have the beauty of a marble bust; finelychiselled features, perfect in every line, true to the rules ofsymmetry, as lovely to a stranger as to a friend, unvarying unless insickness, or as age affects them. She had no startling brilliancy ofbeauty, no pearly whiteness, no radiant carnation. She had not themajestic contour that rivets attention, demands instant wonder, andthen disappoints by the coldness of its charms. You might passEleanor Harding in the street without notice, but you could hardlypass an evening with her and not lose your heart. 

She had never appeared more lovely to her lover than she now did. Herface was animated though it was serious, and her full dark lustrouseyes shone with anxious energy; her hand trembled as she took his, andshe could hardly pronounce his name, when she addressed him. Boldwished with all his heart that the Australian scheme was in the act ofrealisation, and that he and Eleanor were away together, never to hearfurther of the lawsuit. 

He began to talk, asked after her health, --said something about Londonbeing very stupid, and more about Barchester being very pleasant;declared the weather to be very hot, and then inquired after MrHarding. 

"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 onsuch occasions. 

"I especially want to speak to you about my father, Mr Bold; indeed, Iam now here on purpose to do so. Papa is very unhappy, very unhappyindeed, about this affair of the hospital: you would pity him, MrBold, 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 friendas you are, --indeed you would. He is an altered man; his cheerfulnesshas 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 muchaltered; and--and--if this goes on, he will die. " Here Eleanor hadrecourse to her handkerchief, and so also had her auditors; but sheplucked up her courage, and went on with her tale. "He will break hisheart, and die. I am sure, Mr Bold, it was not you who wrote thosecruel things in the newspaper--"

John Bold eagerly protested that it was not, but his heart smote himas 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 cannotbear to think that people should so speak of him, and that everybodyshould hear him so spoken of:--they have called him avaricious, anddishonest, and they say he is robbing the old men, and taking themoney of the hospital for nothing. "

"I have never said so, Miss Harding. I--"

"No, " continued Eleanor, interrupting him, for she was now in the fullflood-tide of her eloquence; "no, I am sure you have not; but othershave 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 declaredon their own knowledge that no man lived less addicted to filthy lucrethan 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 youknow he would give up the hospital altogether, only he cannot. Thearchdeacon says it would be cowardly, and that he would be desertinghis order, and injuring the church. Whatever may happen, papa willnot do that: he would leave the place to-morrow willingly, and giveup his house, and the income and all, if the archdeacon--"

Eleanor was going to say "would let him, " but she stopped herselfbefore she had compromised her father's dignity; and giving a longsigh, 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 hedeserved this persecution? he that never had an unkind thought in hislife, he that never said an unkind word!" and here she broke down, andthe violence of her sobs stopped her utterance. 

Bold, for the fifth or sixth time, declared that neither he nor any ofhis friends imputed any blame personally to Mr Harding. 

"Then why should he be persecuted?" ejaculated Eleanor through hertears, forgetting in her eagerness that her intention had been tohumble herself as a suppliant before John Bold;--"why should he besingled out for scorn and disgrace? why should he be made so wretched?Oh! Mr Bold, "--and she turned towards him as though the kneeling scenewere 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 uponhim, for his present plight was not enviable; he had nothing for itbut to excuse himself by platitudes about public duty, which it isby no means worth while to repeat, and to reiterate his eulogy on MrHarding's character. His position was certainly a cruel one: had anygentleman called upon him on behalf of Mr Harding he could of coursehave declined to enter upon the subject; but how could he do so with abeautiful girl, with the daughter of the man whom he had injured, withhis own love?

In the meantime Eleanor recollected herself, and again summoned upher energies. "Mr Bold, " said she, "I have come here to implore youto abandon this proceeding. " He stood up from his seat, and lookedbeyond measure distressed. "To implore you to abandon it, to imploreyou to spare my father, to spare either his life or his reason, forone or the other will pay the forfeit if this goes on. I know howmuch I am asking, and how little right I have to ask anything; butI 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 whohas loved you so well. "

She did not absolutely kneel to him, but she followed him as he movedfrom 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 hesay to that sweet suppliant; how explain to her that the matter nowwas probably beyond his control; how tell her that he could not quellthe 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 formyself; 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, stilladdressing his sister; "everything I have is hers, if she will acceptit; my house, my heart, my all; every hope of my breast is centred inher; her smiles are sweeter to me than the sun, and when I see her insorrow as she now is, every nerve in my body suffers. No man can lovebetter than I love her. "

"No, no, no, " ejaculated Eleanor; "there can be no talk of lovebetween us. Will you protect my father from the evil you have broughtupon 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 hisquiet home?" and seizing him by his arm and hand, she followed himacross the room towards the door. "I will not leave you till youpromise me; I'll cling to you in the street; I'll kneel to you beforeall the people. You shall promise me this, you shall promise me this, you shall--" And she clung to him with fixed tenacity, and reiteratedher resolve with hysterical passion. 

"Speak to her, John; answer her, " said Mary, bewildered by theunexpected vehemence of Eleanor's manner; "you cannot have the crueltyto refuse her. "

"Promise me, promise me, " said Eleanor; "say that my father issafe;--one word will do. I know how true you are; say one word, and Iwill let you go. "

She still held him, and looked eagerly into his face, with her hairdishevelled and her eyes all bloodshot. She had no thought now ofherself, no care now for her appearance; and yet he thought he hadnever seen her half so lovely; he was amazed at the intensity of herbeauty, and could hardly believe that it was she whom he had dared tolove. "Promise me, " said she; "I will not leave you till you havepromised 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; andfalling on her knees with her face in Mary's lap, she wept and sobbedlike 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 havegone, had not Bold made her understand that it was necessary for himto explain to her how far it was in his power to put an end to theproceedings which had been taken against Mr Harding. Had he spoken onany other subject, she would have vanished, but on that she was boundto hear him; and now the danger of her position commenced. While shehad an active part to play, while she clung to him as a suppliant, itwas easy enough for her to reject his proffered love, and cast fromher his caressing words; but now--now that he had yielded, and wastalking to her calmly and kindly as to her father's welfare, it washard enough for her to do so. Then Mary Bold assisted her; but nowshe was quite on her brother's side. Mary said but little, but everyword she did say gave some direct and deadly blow. The first thingshe did was to make room for her brother between herself and Eleanoron the sofa: as the sofa was full large for three, Eleanor could notresent this, nor could she show suspicion by taking another seat; butshe felt it to be a most unkind proceeding. And then Mary would talkas though they three were joined in some close peculiar bond together;as though they were in future always to wish together, contrivetogether, and act together; and Eleanor could not gainsay this; shecould 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 againstthe hospital had commenced solely with himself, many others were nowinterested in the matter, some of whom were much more influential thanhimself; that it was to him alone, however, that the lawyers lookedfor instruction as to their doings, and, more important still, forthe payment of their bills; and he promised that he would at oncegive them notice that it was his intention to abandon the cause. Hethought, he said, that it was not probable that any active steps wouldbe taken after he had seceded from the matter, though it was possiblethat some passing allusion might still be made to the hospital in thedaily _Jupiter_. He promised, however, that he would use his bestinfluence to prevent any further personal allusion being made to MrHarding. He then suggested that he would on that afternoon ride overhimself to Dr Grantly, and inform him of his altered intentions on thesubject, and with this view, he postponed his immediate return toLondon. 

This was all very pleasant, and Eleanor did enjoy a sort of triumph inthe feeling that she had attained the object for which she had soughtthis interview; but still the part of Iphigenia was to be played out. The gods had heard her prayer, granted her request, and were they notto have their promised sacrifice? Eleanor was not a girl to defraudthem wilfully; so, as soon as she decently could, she got up for herbonnet. 

"Are you going so soon?" said Bold, who half an hour since wouldhave given a hundred pounds that he was in London, and she still atBarchester. 

"Oh yes!" said she. "I am so much obliged to you; papa will feelthis to be so kind. " She did not quite appreciate all her father'sfeelings. "Of course I must tell him, and I will say that you willsee 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 ofleaving 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, stoodfast by the door, and permitted no such retreat. Poor Iphigenia!

And with a volley of impassioned love, John Bold poured forth thefeelings of his heart, swearing, as men do, some truths and manyfalsehoods; and Eleanor repeated with every shade of vehemence the"No, no, no, " which had had a short time since so much effect; butnow, alas! its strength was gone. Let her be never so vehement, hervehemence was not respected; all her "No, no, no's" were met withcounter-asseverations, and at last were overpowered. The ground wascut from under her on every side. She was pressed to say whether herfather 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 wasimpossible that she should love him (Eleanor could not say that itwas impossible): and so at last all her defences demolished, all hermaiden barriers swept away, she capitulated, or rather marched outwith 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 nosacrifice. 

Chapter XII

MR BOLD'S VISIT TO PLUMSTEAD

Whether or no the ill-natured prediction made by certain ladies inthe beginning of the last chapter was or was not carried out to theletter, I am not in a position to state. Eleanor, however, certainlydid feel herself to have been baffled as she returned home with allher news to her father. Certainly she had been victorious, certainlyshe had achieved her object, certainly she was not unhappy, and yetshe did not feel herself triumphant. Everything would run smooth now. Eleanor was not at all addicted to the Lydian school of romance; sheby no means objected to her lover because he came in at the door underthe name of Absolute, instead of pulling her out of a window under thename of Beverley; and yet she felt that she had been imposed upon, andcould hardly think of Mary Bold with sisterly charity. "I did thinkI 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 toget out!" Eleanor, however, felt that the game was up, and that shehad now nothing further to do but to add to the budget of news whichwas 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 toPlumstead Episcopi, merely premising that Eleanor on reaching homewill not find things so smooth as she fondly expected; two messengershad come, one to her father and the other to the archdeacon, andeach of them much opposed to her quiet mode of solving all theirdifficulties; the one in the shape of a number of _The Jupiter_, andthe other in that of a further opinion from Sir Abraham Haphazard. 

John Bold got on his horse and rode off to Plumstead Episcopi; notbriskly and with eager spur, as men do ride when self-satisfied withtheir own intentions; but slowly, modestly, thoughtfully, and somewhatin dread of the coming interview. Now and again he would recur to thescene which was just over, support himself by the remembrance of thesilence that gives consent, and exult as a happy lover. But even thisfeeling was not without a shade of remorse. Had he not shown himselfchildishly weak thus to yield up the resolve of many hours of thoughtto 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 sopublicly concerned? What, oh what! was he to say to Tom Towers?While meditating these painful things he reached the lodge leading upto the archdeacon's glebe, and for the first time in his life foundhimself 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 thereholding high debate on matters evidently of deep interest at PlumsteadEpiscopi, and the voices of the boys had been heard before the lodgegate was closed. 

Florinda and Grizzel, frightened at the sight of so well-known anenemy 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, tenderbranches, to resent injuries, or as members of a church militant toput on armour against its enemies. But the boys stood their groundlike heroes, and boldly demanded the business of the intruder. 

"Do you want to see anybody here, sir?" said Henry, with a defiant eyeand a hostile tone, which plainly said that at any rate no one therewanted to see the person so addressed; and as he spoke he brandishedaloft his garden water-pot, holding it by the spout, ready for thebraining of anyone. 

"Henry, " said Charles James slowly, and with a certain dignity ofdiction, "Mr Bold of course would not have come without wanting to seesomeone; if Mr Bold has a proper ground for wanting to see some personhere, of course he has a right to come. "

But Samuel stepped lightly up to the horse's head, and offered hisservices. "Oh, Mr Bold, " said he, "papa, I'm sure, will be glad tosee you; I suppose you want to see papa. Shall I hold your horse foryou? Oh what a very pretty horse!" and he turned his head and winkedfunnily at his brothers. "Papa has heard such good news about the oldhospital to-day. We know you'll be glad to hear it, because you'resuch a friend of grandpapa Harding, and so much in love with AuntNelly!"

"How d'ye do, lads?" said Bold, dismounting. "I want to see yourfather if he's at home. "

"Lads!" said Henry, turning on his heel and addressing himself to hisbrother, but loud enough to be heard by Bold; "lads, indeed! if we'relads, what does he call himself?"

Charles James condescended to say nothing further, but cocked his hatwith much precision, and left the visitor to the care of his youngestbrother. 

Samuel stayed till the servant came, chatting and patting the horse;but as soon as Bold had disappeared through the front door, he stucka switch under the animal's tail to make him kick if possible. 

The church reformer soon found himself _tête-à-tête_ with thearchdeacon in that same room, in that sanctum sanctorum of therectory, to which we have already been introduced. As he entered heheard the click of a certain patent lock, but it struck him with nosurprise; the worthy clergyman was no doubt hiding from eyes profanehis last much-studied sermon; for the archdeacon, though he preachedbut seldom, was famous for his sermons. No room, Bold thought, couldhave been more becoming for a dignitary of the church; each wall wasloaded with theology; over each separate bookcase was printed in smallgold letters the names of those great divines whose works were rangedbeneath: beginning from the early fathers in due chronological order, there were to be found the precious labours of the chosen servantsof the church down to the last pamphlet written in opposition to theconsecration of Dr Hampden; and raised above this were to be seenthe busts of the greatest among the great: Chrysostom, St Augustine, Thomas à Becket, Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop Laud, and Dr Philpotts. 

Every appliance that could make study pleasant and give ease to theovertoiled brain was there; chairs made to relieve each limb andmuscle; reading-desks and writing-desks to suit every attitude;lamps and candles mechanically contrived to throw their light on anyfavoured spot, as the student might desire; a shoal of newspapers toamuse the few leisure moments which might be stolen from the laboursof the day; and then from the window a view right through a boskyvista along which ran a broad green path from the rectory to thechurch, --at the end of which the tawny-tinted fine old tower was seenwith all its variegated pinnacles and parapets. Few parish churchesin England are in better repair, or better worth keeping so, than thatat Plumstead Episcopi; and yet it is built in a faulty style: the bodyof the church is low, --so low, that the nearly flat leaden roof wouldbe visible from the churchyard, were it not for the carved parapetwith which it is surrounded. It is cruciform, though the transeptsare irregular, one being larger than the other; and the tower is muchtoo high in proportion to the church. But the colour of the buildingis perfect; it is that rich yellow gray which one finds nowhere but inthe south and west of England, and which is so strong a characteristicof most of our old houses of Tudor architecture. The stone work alsois beautiful; the mullions of the windows and the thick tracery ofthe Gothic workmanship is as rich as fancy can desire; and though ingazing on such a structure one knows by rule that the old priests whobuilt it, built it wrong, one cannot bring oneself to wish that theyshould have made it other than it is. 

When Bold was ushered into the book-room, he found its owner standingwith his back to the empty fire-place ready to receive him, and hecould not but perceive that that expansive brow was elated withtriumph, and that those full heavy lips bore more prominently thanusual 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 friendof my father-in-law. "

"I hope you'll excuse my calling, Dr Grantly. "

"Certainly, certainly, " said the archdeacon; "I can assure you, noapology is necessary from Mr Bold;--only let me know what I can do forhim. "

Dr Grantly was standing himself, and he did not ask Bold to sit, andtherefore he had to tell his tale standing, leaning on the table, withhis hat in his hand. He did, however, manage to tell it; and as thearchdeacon never once interrupted him, or even encouraged him by asingle 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 desirousof 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 anattack;--most men would so call an endeavour to take away from a manevery shilling of income that he has to live upon; but it sha'n't bean attack, if you don't like it; you wish to abandon this--this littlegame of backgammon you've begun to play. "

"I intend to put an end to the legal proceedings which I havecommenced. "

"I understand, " said the archdeacon. "You've already had enoughof it; well, I can't say that I am surprised; carrying on a losinglawsuit where one has nothing to gain, but everything to pay, is notpleasant. "

Bold turned very red in the face. "You misinterpret my motives, " saidhe; "but, however, that is of little consequence. I did not cometo 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 exactlyappreciate the taste which induced you to make any personalcommunication to me on the subject; but I dare say I'm wrong, I daresay your judgment is the better of the two; but as you have done methe honour, --as you have, as it were, forced me into a certain amountof conversation on a subject which had better, perhaps, have been leftto our lawyers, you will excuse me if I ask you to hear my reply toyour 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 goingto 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 warmestfriends to all the ignominy and insolence which the press could heapupon his name, having somewhat ostentatiously declared that it wasyour duty as a man of high public virtue to protect those poor oldfools whom you have humbugged there at the hospital, you now find thatthe game costs more than it's worth, and so you make up your mind tohave done with it. A prudent resolution, Mr Bold; but it is a pityyou should have been so long coming to it. Has it struck you thatwe may not now choose to give over? that we may find it necessary topunish the injury you have done to us? Are you aware, sir, that wehave gone to enormous expense to resist this iniquitous attempt ofyours?"

Bold's face was now furiously red, and he nearly crushed his hatbetween his hands; but he said nothing. 

"We have found it necessary to employ the best advice that moneycould procure. Are you aware, sir, what may be the probable cost ofsecuring the services of the attorney-general?"

"Not in the least, Dr Grantly. "

"I dare say not, sir. When you recklessly put this affair intothe hands of your friend Mr Finney, whose six-and-eightpences andthirteen-and-fourpences may, probably, not amount to a large sum, youwere indifferent as to the cost and suffering which such a proceedingmight entail on others; but are you aware, sir, that these crushingcosts must now come out of your own pocket?"

"Any demand of such a nature which Mr Harding's lawyer may have tomake will doubtless be made to my lawyer. "

"'Mr Harding's lawyer and my lawyer!' Did you come here merely torefer me to the lawyers? Upon my word I think the honour of yourvisit might have been spared! And now, sir, I'll tell you what myopinion is:--my opinion is, that we shall not allow you to withdrawthis 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 thelast opinion given in this matter by Sir Abraham Haphazard. I daresay you have already heard of this;--I dare say it has had somethingto do with your visit here to-day. "

"I know nothing whatever of Sir Abraham Haphazard or his opinion. "

"Be that as it may, here it is; he declares most explicitly that underno phasis of the affair whatever have you a leg to stand upon; that MrHarding is as safe in his hospital as I am here in my rectory; that amore futile attempt to destroy a man was never made, than this whichyou have made to ruin Mr Harding. Here, " and he slapped the paperon the table, "I have this opinion from the very first lawyer in theland; and under these circumstances you expect me to make you a lowbow for your kind offer to release Mr Harding from the toils of yournet! Sir, your net is not strong enough to hold him; sir, your nethas fallen to pieces, and you knew that well enough before I toldyou--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 onbecause he knew not with what words to interrupt him; but now that hehad been so defied and insulted, he could not leave the room withoutsome 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 thebell. 

"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 outragedby your treatment. "

"Of course they have;--I have not chosen to see my father-in-lawruined; what an outrage that has been to your feelings!"

"The time will come, Dr Grantly, when you will understand why I calledupon you to-day. "

"No doubt, no doubt. Is Mr Bold's horse there? That's right; openthe front door. Good-morning, Mr Bold;" and the doctor stalked intohis own drawing-room, closing the door behind him, and making it quiteimpossible that John Bold should speak another word. 

As he got on his horse, which he was fain to do feeling like a dogturned out of a kitchen, he was again greeted by little Sammy. 

"Good-bye, Mr Bold; I hope we may have the pleasure of seeing youagain 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 eventhe remembrance of his successful love could comfort him; nay, whenhe thought of Eleanor he felt that it was that very love which hadbrought 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 therequest 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 tothe archdeacon's! He bit the top of his whip, till he penetrated thehorn of which it was made: he struck the poor animal in his anger, andthen was doubly angry with himself at his futile passion. He had beenso 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 hisenemy had endeavoured to goad him!

He threw the reins to the servant who came to take his horse, andrushed upstairs into his drawing-room, where his sister Mary wassitting. 

"If there be a devil, " said he, "a real devil here on earth, it isDr Grantly. " He vouchsafed her no further intelligence, but againseizing his hat, he rushed out, and took his departure for Londonwithout another word to anyone. 

Chapter XIII

THE WARDEN'S DECISION

The meeting between Eleanor and her father was not so stormy as thatdescribed in the last chapter, but it was hardly more successful. Onher 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 memorableday when his son-in-law lectured him as to all that he owed to hisorder; nor was he in his usual quiet mood. When Eleanor reached thehospital, he was walking to and fro upon the lawn, and she soon sawthat 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 thehouse. "I had such good news for you, and now you make me fear I amtoo late. " And then, before he could let her know what had causedthis sudden resolve, or could point to the fatal paper which lay onthe table, she told him that the lawsuit was over, that Bold hadcommissioned her to assure her father in his name that it would beabandoned, --that there was no further cause for misery, that the wholematter might be looked on as though it had never been discussed. Shedid not tell him with what determined vehemence she had obtained thisconcession in his favour, nor did she mention the price she was to payfor it. 

The warden did not express himself peculiarly gratified at thisintelligence, and Eleanor, though she had not worked for thanks, andwas by no means disposed to magnify her own good offices, felt hurtat the manner in which her news was received. "Mr Bold can act ashe thinks proper, my love, " said he; "if Mr Bold thinks he has beenwrong, of course he will discontinue what he is doing; but that cannotchange my purpose. "

"Oh, papa!" she exclaimed, all but crying with vexation; "I thoughtyou would have been so happy;--I thought all would have been rightnow. "

"Mr Bold, " continued he, "has set great people to work, --so great thatI doubt they are now beyond his control. Read that, my dear. " Thewarden, doubling up a number of _The Jupiter_, pointed to the peculiararticle which she was to read. It was to the last of the threeleaders, which are generally furnished daily for the support of thenation, that Mr Harding directed her attention. It dealt some heavyblows on various clerical delinquents; on families who received theirtens of thousands yearly for doing nothing; on men who, as the articlestated, rolled in wealth which they had neither earned nor inherited, and which was in fact stolen from the poorer clergy. It named somesons of bishops, and grandsons of archbishops; men great in their way, who had redeemed their disgrace in the eyes of many by the enormity oftheir plunder; and then, having disposed of these leviathans, itdescended 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, andwhen 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 worthwhile 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 thatsha'n't be read by every clergyman at Oxford; nay, by every gentlemanin the land;" and then he walked up and down the room, while Eleanorin mute despair followed him with her eyes. "And I'll tell you what, my dear, " he continued, speaking now very calmly, and in a forcedmanner very unlike himself; "Mr Bold can't dispute the truth of everyword in that article you have just read--nor can I. " Eleanor staredat 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 ifthere were no remedy. I have thought much of all this since we weretogether last night;" and he came and sat beside her, and put his armround her waist as he had done then. "I have thought much of what thearchdeacon has said, and of what this paper says; and I do believe Ihave 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 bewarden with such a house as this; no right to spend in luxury moneythat was intended for charity. Mr Bold may do as he pleases about hissuit, but I hope he will not abandon it for my sake. "

Poor Eleanor! this was hard upon her. Was it for this she had madeher great resolve! For this that she had laid aside her quietdemeanour, and taken upon her the rants of a tragedy heroine! Onemay 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 goodactions, and yet feel discontented that they are not recognised. Charity may be given with the left hand so privily that the right handdoes not know it, and yet the left hand may regret to feel that it hasno immediate reward. Eleanor had had no wish to burden her fatherwith a weight of obligation, and yet she had looked forward to muchdelight from the knowledge that she had freed him from his sorrows:now such hopes were entirely over: all that she had done was of noavail; she had humbled herself to Bold in vain; the evil was utterlybeyond her power to cure!

She had thought also how gently she would whisper to her father allthat her lover had said to her about herself, and how impossible shehad found it to reject him: and then she had anticipated her father'skindly 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, herfather put him aside as one whose thoughts and sayings and acts couldbe of no moment. Gentle reader, did you ever feel yourself snubbed?Did you ever, when thinking much of your own importance, find yourselfsuddenly reduced to a nonentity? Such was Eleanor's feeling now. 

"They shall not put forward this plea on my behalf, " continued thewarden. "Whatever may be the truth of the matter, that at any rate isnot true; and the man who wrote that article is right in saying thatsuch 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 bemade 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 cannotbear:--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 marchupon the archdeacon. He was aware that he could take no steps withoutinforming his dread son-in-law, but he had resolved that he would sendout a note to Plumstead Episcopi detailing his plans, but that themessenger should not leave Barchester till he himself had startedfor London; so that he might be a day before the doctor, who, he hadno doubt, would follow him. In that day, if he had luck, he mightarrange 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 wouldnot be able to undo what he had done. He knew too well the doctor'sstrength and his own weakness to suppose he could do this, if theyboth reached London together; indeed, he would never be able to get toLondon, if the doctor knew of his intended journey in time to preventit. 

"No, I think not, " said he. "I think I shall start before thearchdeacon could be ready;--I shall go early to-morrow morning. "

"That will be best, papa, " said Eleanor, showing that her father'sruse was appreciated. 

"Why yes, my love. The fact is, I wish to do all this before thearchdeacon can--can interfere. There is a great deal of truth inall he says;--he argues very well, and I can't always answer him;but there is an old saying, Nelly: 'Everyone knows where his ownshoe pinches!' He'll say that I want moral courage, and strength ofcharacter, and power of endurance, and it's all true; but I'm sure Iought not to remain here, if I have nothing better to put forward thana quibble: so, Nelly, we shall have to leave this pretty place. "

Eleanor's face brightened up, as she assured her father how cordiallyshe agreed with him. 

"True, my love, " said he, now again quite happy and at ease in hismanner. "What good to us is this place or all the money, if we are tobe ill-spoken of?"

"Oh, papa, I am so glad!"

"My darling child! It did cost me a pang at first, Nelly, to thinkthat you should lose your pretty drawing-room, and your ponies, andyour garden: the garden will be the worst of all;--but there is agarden at Crabtree, a very pretty garden. "

Crabtree Parva was the name of the small living which Mr Harding hadheld as a minor canon, and which still belonged to him. It was onlyworth some eighty pounds a year, and a small house and glebe, allof which were now handed over to Mr Harding's curate; but it was toCrabtree glebe that Mr Harding thought of retiring. This parish mustnot be mistaken for that other living, Crabtree Canonicorum, as it iscalled. Crabtree Canonicorum is a very nice thing; there are only twohundred parishioners; there are four hundred acres of glebe; and thegreat and small tithes, which both go to the rector, are worth fourhundred pounds a year more. Crabtree Canonicorum is in the gift ofthe dean and chapter, and is at this time possessed by the Honourableand Reverend Dr Vesey Stanhope, who also fills the prebendal stallof Goosegorge in Barchester Chapter, and holds the united rectory ofEiderdown and Stogpingum, or Stoke Pinquium, as it should be written. This is the same Dr Vesey Stanhope whose hospitable villa on the Lakeof Como is so well known to the _élite_ of English travellers, andwhose collection of Lombard butterflies is supposed to be unique. 

"Yes, " said the warden, musing, "there is a very pretty garden atCrabtree;--but I shall be sorry to disturb poor Smith. " Smith was thecurate of Crabtree, a gentleman who was maintaining a wife and half adozen children on the income arising from his profession. 

Eleanor assured her father that, as far as she was concerned, shecould leave her house and her ponies without a single regret. She wasonly so happy that he was going--going where he would escape all thisdreadful turmoil. 

"But we will take the music, my dear. "

And so they went on planning their future happiness, and plotting howthey would arrange it all without the interposition of the archdeacon, and at last they again became confidential, and then the warden didthank her for what she had done, and Eleanor, lying on her father'sshoulder, did find an opportunity to tell her secret: and the fathergave his blessing to his child, and said that the man whom sheloved was honest, good, and kind-hearted, and right-thinking in themain, --one who wanted only a good wife to put him quite upright, --"aman, my love, " he ended by saying, "to whom I firmly believe that Ican trust my treasure with safety. "

"But what will Dr Grantly say?"

"Well, my dear, it can't be helped;--we shall be out at Crabtreethen. "

And Eleanor ran upstairs to prepare her father's clothes for hisjourney; and the warden returned to his garden to make his last adieuxto 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 tohis London lodgings. Ill as he had fared in his interview with thearchdeacon, he was not the less under the necessity of carrying outhis pledge to Eleanor; and he went about his ungracious task with aheavy heart. 

The attorneys whom he had employed in London received his instructionswith surprise and evident misgiving; however, they could only obey, and mutter something of their sorrow that such heavy costs shouldonly fall upon their own employer, --especially as nothing was wantingbut perseverance to throw them on the opposite party. Bold left theoffice which he had latterly so much frequented, shaking the dust fromoff his feet; and before he was down the stairs, an edict had alreadygone forth for the preparation of the bill. 

He next thought of the newspapers. The case had been taken up by morethan one; and he was well aware that the keynote had been sounded by_The Jupiter_. He had been very intimate with Tom Towers, and hadoften discussed with him the affairs of the hospital. Bold couldnot say that the articles in that paper had been written at his owninstigation. He did not even know, as a fact, that they had beenwritten by his friend. Tom Towers had never said that such a view ofthe case, or such a side in the dispute, would be taken by the paperwith which he was connected. Very discreet in such matters was TomTowers, and altogether indisposed to talk loosely of the concernsof that mighty engine of which it was his high privilege to movein secret some portion. Nevertheless Bold believed that to himwere owing those dreadful words which had caused such panic atBarchester, --and he conceived himself bound to prevent theirrepetition. With this view he betook himself from the attorneys'office to that laboratory where, with amazing chemistry, Tom Towerscompounded thunderbolts for the destruction of all that is evil, andfor the furtherance of all that is good, in this and otherhemispheres. 

Who has not heard of Mount Olympus, --that high abode of all the powersof type, that favoured seat of the great goddess Pica, that wondroushabitation of gods and devils, from whence, with ceaseless hum ofsteam and never-ending flow of Castalian ink, issue forth fiftythousand nightly edicts for the governance of a subject nation?

Velvet and gilding do not make a throne, nor gold and jewels asceptre. It is a throne because the most exalted one sits there, --anda sceptre because the most mighty one wields it. So it is with MountOlympus. Should a stranger make his way thither at dull noonday, orduring the sleepy hours of the silent afternoon, he would find noacknowledged temple of power and beauty, no fitting fane for thegreat Thunderer, no proud façades and pillared roofs to supportthe dignity of this greatest of earthly potentates. To theoutward and uninitiated eye, Mount Olympus is a somewhat humblespot, --undistinguished, unadorned, --nay, almost mean. It standsalone, as it were, in a mighty city, close to the densest throngof men, but partaking neither of the noise nor the crowd; a smallsecluded, dreary spot, tenanted, one would say, by quite unambitiouspeople at the easiest rents. "Is this Mount Olympus?" asks theunbelieving stranger. "Is it from these small, dark, dingy buildingsthat those infallible laws proceed which cabinets are called upon toobey; by which bishops are to be guided, lords and commons controlled, judges instructed in law, generals in strategy, admirals in navaltactics, and orange-women in the management of their barrows?""Yes, my friend--from these walls. From here issue the only knowninfallible bulls for the guidance of British souls and bodies. This little court is the Vatican of England. Here reigns apope, self-nominated, self-consecrated, --ay, and much strangertoo, --self-believing!--a pope whom, if you cannot obey him, I wouldadvise you to disobey as silently as possible; a pope hitherto afraidof no Luther; a pope who manages his own inquisition, who punishesunbelievers as no most skilful inquisitor of Spain ever dreamt ofdoing;--one who can excommunicate thoroughly, fearfully, radically;put you beyond the pale of men's charity; make you odious to yourdearest friends, and turn you into a monster to be pointed at by thefinger!" Oh heavens! and this is Mount Olympus!

It is a fact amazing to ordinary mortals that _The Jupiter_ is neverwrong. With what endless care, with what unsparing labour, do we notstrive to get together for our great national council the men mostfitting to compose it. And how we fail! Parliament is always wrong:look at _The Jupiter_, and see how futile are their meetings, how vaintheir council, how needless all their trouble! With what pride do weregard our chief ministers, the great servants of state, the oligarchsof the nation on whose wisdom we lean, to whom we look for guidance inour difficulties! But what are they to the writers of _The Jupiter_?They hold council together and with anxious thought painfullyelaborate their country's good; but when all is done, _The Jupiter_declares that all is naught. Why should we look to Lord JohnRussell;--why should we regard Palmerston and Gladstone, when TomTowers without a struggle can put us right? Look at our generals, what faults they make; at our admirals, how inactive they are. Whatmoney, honesty, and science can do, is done; and yet how badly are ourtroops 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 allabout it. Why, oh why, ye earthly ministers, why have ye not followedmore closely this heaven-sent messenger that is among us?

Were it not well for us in our ignorance that we confided all thingsto _The Jupiter_? Would it not be wise in us to abandon uselesstalking, idle thinking, and profitless labour? Away with majoritiesin the House of Commons, with verdicts from judicial bench given aftermuch delay, with doubtful laws, and the fallible attempts of humanity!Does not _The Jupiter_, coming forth daily with fifty thousandimpressions full of unerring decision on every mortal subject, set allmatters sufficiently at rest? Is not Tom Towers here, able to guideus and willing?

Yes indeed, able and willing to guide all men in all things, solong as he is obeyed as autocrat should be obeyed, --with undoubtingsubmission: only let not ungrateful ministers seek other colleaguesthan those whom Tom Towers may approve; let church and state, law andphysic, commerce and agriculture, the arts of war, and the arts ofpeace, all listen and obey, and all will be made perfect. Has not TomTowers an all-seeing eye? From the diggings of Australia to those ofCalifornia, right round the habitable globe, does he not know, watch, and chronicle the doings of everyone? From a bishopric in New Zealandto an unfortunate director of a North-west passage, is he not the onlyfit judge of capability? From the sewers of London to the CentralRailway of India, --from the palaces of St Petersburg to the cabins ofConnaught, 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, evenin the country where it is the most firmly fixed; no creed has beenwithout scoffers; no church has so prospered as to free itselfentirely from dissent. There are those who doubt _The Jupiter_!They live and breathe the upper air, walking here unscathed, thoughscorned, --men, born of British mothers and nursed on English milk, whoscruple not to say that Mount Olympus has its price, that Tom Towerscan be bought for gold!

Such is Mount Olympus, the mouthpiece of all the wisdom of this greatcountry. It may probably be said that no place in this 19th centuryis more worthy of notice. No treasury mandate armed with thesignatures of all the government has half the power of one of thosebroad sheets, which fly forth from hence so abundantly, armed with nosignature at all. 

Some great man, some mighty peer, --we'll say a noble duke, --retires torest feared and honoured by all his countrymen, --fearless himself; ifnot a good man, at any rate a mighty man, --too mighty to care muchwhat men may say about his want of virtue. He rises in the morningdegraded, mean, and miserable; an object of men's scorn, anxious onlyto retire as quickly as may be to some German obscurity, some unseenItalian privacy, or indeed, anywhere out of sight. What has made thisawful change? what has so afflicted him? An article has appeared in_The Jupiter_; some fifty lines of a narrow column have destroyed allhis grace's equanimity, and banished him for ever from the world. No man knows who wrote the bitter words; the clubs talk confusedly ofthe matter, whispering to each other this and that name; while TomTowers walks quietly along Pall Mall, with his coat buttoned closeagainst the east wind, as though he were a mortal man, and not a goddispensing thunderbolts from Mount Olympus. 

It was not to Mount Olympus that our friend Bold betook himself. Hehad before now wandered round that lonely spot, thinking how grand athing it was to write articles for _The Jupiter_; considering withinhimself whether by any stretch of the powers within him he could evercome to such distinction; wondering how Tom Towers would take anylittle humble offering of his talents; calculating that Tom Towershimself must have once had a beginning, have once doubted as tohis own success. Towers could not have been born a writer in _TheJupiter_. With such ideas, half ambitious and half awe-struck, hadBold regarded the silent-looking workshop of the gods; but he hadnever yet by word or sign attempted to influence the slightest wordof his unerring friend. On such a course was he now intent; and notwithout much inward palpitation did he betake himself to the quietabode of wisdom, where Tom Towers was to be found o' mornings inhalingambrosia and sipping nectar in the shape of toast and tea. 

Not far removed from Mount Olympus, but somewhat nearer to the blessedregions of the West, is the most favoured abode of Themis. Washed bythe rich tide which now passes from the towers of Cæsar to Barry'shalls of eloquence; and again back, with new offerings of a city'stribute, from the palaces of peers to the mart of merchants, standthose 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 howclose to the densest concourse of humanity! how gravely respectableits sober alleys, though removed but by a single step from theprofanity of the Strand and the low iniquity of Fleet Street! OldSt Dunstan, with its bell-smiting bludgeoners, has been removed; theancient shops with their faces full of pleasant history are passingaway one by one; the bar itself is to go--its doom has been pronouncedby _The Jupiter_; rumour tells us of some huge building that is toappear in these latitudes dedicated to law, subversive of the courtsof Westminster, and antagonistic to the Rolls and Lincoln's Inn; butnothing yet threatens the silent beauty of the Temple: it is themediæval court of the metropolis. 

Here, on the choicest spot of this choice ground, stands a lofty rowof chambers, looking obliquely upon the sullied Thames; before thewindows, the lawn of the Temple Gardens stretches with that dim yetdelicious verdure so refreshing to the eyes of Londoners. If doomedto live within the thickest of London smoke you would surely say thatthat would be your chosen spot. Yes, you, you whom I now address, mydear, middle-aged bachelor friend, can nowhere be so well domiciledas here. No one here will ask whether you are out or at home; aloneor with friends; here no Sabbatarian will investigate your Sundays, no censorious landlady will scrutinise your empty bottle, novaletudinarian neighbour will complain of late hours. If you lovebooks, to what place are books so suitable? The whole spot isredolent of typography. Would you worship the Paphian goddess, thegroves of Cyprus are not more taciturn than those of the Temple. Wit and wine are always here, and always together; the revels of theTemple are as those of polished Greece, where the wildest worshipperof Bacchus never forgot the dignity of the god whom he adored. Wherecan retirement be so complete as here? where can you be so sure of allthe pleasures of society?

It was here that Tom Towers lived, and cultivated with eminent successthe tenth Muse who now governs the periodical press. But let it notbe supposed that his chambers were such, or so comfortless, as arefrequently the gaunt abodes of legal aspirants. Four chairs, ahalf-filled deal book-case with hangings of dingy green baize, an oldoffice table covered with dusty papers, which are not moved once insix months, and an older Pembroke brother with rickety legs, for alldaily uses; a despatcher for the preparation of lobsters and coffee, and an apparatus for the cooking of toast and mutton chops; suchutensils and luxuries as these did not suffice for the well-being ofTom Towers. He indulged in four rooms on the first floor, each ofwhich was furnished, if not with the splendour, with probably morethan the comfort of Stafford House. Every addition that scienceand art have lately made to the luxuries of modern life was to befound there. The room in which he usually sat was surrounded bybook-shelves carefully filled; nor was there a volume there which wasnot entitled to its place in such a collection, both by its intrinsicworth and exterior splendour: a pretty portable set of steps in onecorner of the room showed that those even on the higher shelves wereintended for use. The chamber contained but two works of art:--theone, an admirable bust of Sir Robert Peel, by Power, declared theindividual politics of our friend; and the other, a singularly longfigure of a female devotee, by Millais, told equally plainly theschool of art to which he was addicted. This picture was not hung, as pictures usually are, against the wall; there was no inch of wallvacant for such a purpose: it had a stand or desk erected for its ownaccommodation; and there on her pedestal, framed and glazed, stoodthe devotional lady looking intently at a lily as no lady ever lookedbefore. 

Our modern artists, whom we style Pre-Raphaelites, have delightedto go back, not only to the finish and peculiar manner, but also tothe subjects of the early painters. It is impossible to give themtoo much praise for the elaborate perseverance with which they haveequalled the minute perfections of the masters from whom they taketheir inspiration: nothing probably can exceed the painting of some ofthese latter-day pictures. It is, however, singular into what faultsthey fall as regards their subjects: they are not quite content totake the old stock groups, --a Sebastian with his arrows, a Lucia withher eyes in a dish, a Lorenzo with a gridiron, or the Virgin with twochildren. But they are anything but happy in their change. As arule, no figure should be drawn in a position which it is impossibleto suppose any figure should maintain. The patient endurance of StSebastian, the wild ecstasy of St John in the Wilderness, the maternallove of the Virgin, are feelings naturally portrayed by a fixedposture; but the lady with the stiff back and bent neck, who looks ather flower, and is still looking from hour to hour, gives us an ideaof 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 oftea, surrounded by an ocean of newspapers, through which he had beenswimming, when John Bold's card was brought in by his tiger. Thistiger never knew that his master was at home, though he often knewthat he was not, and thus Tom Towers was never invaded but by hisown consent. On this occasion, after twisting the card twice in hisfingers, he signified to his attendant imp that he was visible; andthe inner door was unbolted, and our friend announced. 

I have before said that he of _The Jupiter_ and John Bold wereintimate. There was no very great difference in their ages, forTowers was still considerably under forty; and when Bold had beenattending the London hospitals, Towers, who was not then the great manthat he had since become, had been much with him. Then they had oftendiscussed together the objects of their ambition and future prospects;then Tom Towers was struggling hard to maintain himself, as abriefless barrister, by shorthand reporting for any of the papers thatwould engage him; then he had not dared to dream of writing leadersfor _The Jupiter_, or canvassing the conduct of Cabinet ministers. Things had altered since that time: the briefless barrister was stillbriefless, but he now despised briefs: could he have been sure of ajudge's seat, he would hardly have left his present career. It istrue 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 truehis name appeared in no large capitals; on no wall was chalked up "TomTowers for ever;"--"Freedom of the Press and Tom Towers;" but whatmember of Parliament had half his power? It is true that in far-offprovinces men did not talk daily of Tom Towers but they read _TheJupiter_, and acknowledged that without _The Jupiter_ life was notworth having. This kind of hidden but still conscious glory suitedthe nature of the man. He loved to sit silent in a corner of his cluband listen to the loud chattering of politicians, and to think howthey 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 lovedto watch the great men of whom he daily wrote, and flatter himselfthat he was greater than any of them. Each of them was responsible tohis country, each of them must answer if inquired into, each of themmust endure abuse with good humour, and insolence without anger. Butto 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 perhapsthey knew not his name; bishops feared him; judges doubted their ownverdicts unless he confirmed them; and generals, in their councils ofwar, 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 hisfriends; 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 hisown importance. It is probable that Tom Towers considered himselfthe 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 thathe 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 tomake this obliging inquiry? Did any reader of this tale ever meetany friend or acquaintance without asking some such question, and didanyone ever listen to the reply? Sometimes a studiously courteousquestioner will show so much thought in the matter as to answer ithimself, by declaring that had he looked at you he needn't have asked;meaning thereby to signify that you are an absolute personification ofhealth: 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. If I have a leisurehour 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, andnodded 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 pendingabout the hospital. 

"Well, I've abandoned it. "

Tom Towers merely raised his eyebrows, thrust his hands into histrowsers 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 anddoes nothing, " said Tom Towers, interrupting him. 

"Well, I don't know about that; but his conduct in the matter has beenso excellent, so little selfish, so open, that I cannot proceed in thematter to his detriment. " Bold's heart misgave him as to Eleanor ashe said this; and yet he felt that what he said was not untrue. "Ithink nothing should now be done till the wardenship be vacant. "

"And be again filled, " said Towers, "as it certainly would, beforeanyone heard of the vacancy; and the same objection would again exist. It's an old story, that of the vested rights of the incumbent; butsuppose the incumbent has only a vested wrong, and that the poor ofthe town have a vested right, if they only knew how to get at it: isnot that something the case here?"

Bold couldn't deny it, but thought it was one of those cases whichrequired 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 thelion'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 helpthat, and am prepared for it. "

"That's philosophical. It's quite refreshing to hear a man talking ofhis hundreds in so purely indifferent a manner. But I'm sorry you aregiving the matter up. It injures a man to commence a thing of thiskind, and not carry it through. Have you seen that?" and he threwa small pamphlet across the table, which was all but damp from thepress. 

Bold had not seen it nor heard of it; but he was well acquainted withthe author of it, --a gentleman whose pamphlets, condemnatory of allthings in these modern days, had been a good deal talked about oflate. 

Dr Pessimist Anticant was a Scotchman, who had passed a great portionof 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 nothingthat was evil; to banish from him as evil nothing that was good. 'Tisa pity that he should not have recognised the fact, that in this worldno good is unalloyed, and that there is but little evil that has notin it some seed of what is goodly. 

Returning from Germany, he had astonished the reading public by thevigour of his thoughts, put forth in the quaintest language. Hecannot write English, said the critics. No matter, said the public;we can read what he does write, and that without yawning. And so DrPessimist Anticant became popular. Popularity spoilt him for allfurther real use, as it has done many another. While, with somediffidence, he confined his objurgations to the occasional follies orshortcomings of mankind; while he ridiculed the energy of the squiredevoted to the slaughter of partridges, or the mistake of some noblepatron who turned a poet into a gauger of beer-barrels, it was allwell; we were glad to be told our faults and to look forward to thecoming millennium, when all men, having sufficiently studied the worksof Dr Anticant, would become truthful and energetic. But the doctormistook the signs of the times and the minds of men, institutedhimself censor of things in general, and began the great task ofreprobating everything and everybody, without further promise of anymillennium at all. This was not so well; and, to tell the truth, ourauthor did not succeed in his undertaking. His theories were allbeautiful, and the code of morals that he taught us certainly animprovement on the practices of the age. We all of us could, and manyof us did, learn much from the doctor while he chose to remain vague, mysterious, and cloudy: but when he became practical, the charm wasgone. 

His allusion to the poet and the partridges was received very well. "Oh, my poor brother, " said he, "slaughtered partridges a score ofbrace to each gun, and poets gauging ale-barrels, with sixty pounds ayear, at Dumfries, are not the signs of a great era!--perhaps of thesmallest possible era yet written of. Whatever economies we pursue, political or other, let us see at once that this is the maddest of theuneconomic: partridges killed by our land magnates at, shall we say, a guinea a head, to be retailed in Leadenhall at one shilling andninepence, with one poacher in limbo for every fifty birds! our poet, maker, creator, gauging ale, and that badly, with no leisure formaking or creating, only a little leisure for drinking, and such likebeer-barrel avocations! Truly, a cutting of blocks with fine razorswhile we scrape our chins so uncomfortably with rusty knives! Oh, mypolitical economist, master of supply and demand, division of labourand high pressure--oh, my loud-speaking friend, tell me, if so muchbe in you, what is the demand for poets in these kingdoms of QueenVictoria, and what the vouchsafed supply?"

This was all very well: this gave us some hope. We might do betterwith our next poet, when we got one; and though the partridges mightnot be abandoned, something could perhaps be done as to the poachers. We were unwilling, however, to take lessons in politics from somisty a professor; and when he came to tell us that the heroes ofWestminster 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 hissentiments. 

 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 extremis_, 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 themto withdraw their confidence from the present arrangements of thegovernment, and Dr Anticant's monthly pamphlet on the decay of theworld did not receive so much attention as his earlier works. He didnot confine himself to politics in these publications, but roamed atlarge over all matters of public interest, and found everything bad. According to him nobody was true, and not only nobody, but nothing; aman could not take off his hat to a lady without telling a lie;--thelady would lie again in smiling. The ruffles of the gentleman'sshirt would be fraught with deceit, and the lady's flounces full offalsehood. Was ever anything more severe than that attack of his onchip bonnets, or the anathemas with which he endeavoured to dust thepowder 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 inthe way of charity was done by our predecessors, --how little by thepresent age; and it ended by a comparison between ancient and moderntimes, very little to the credit of the latter. 

"Look at this, " said Towers, getting up and turning over the pages ofthe pamphlet, and pointing to a passage near the end. "Your friendthe warden, who is so little selfish, won't like that, I fear. " Boldread 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 couldnot conceive anything that he would like less than this. To what aworld of toil and trouble had he, Bold, given rise by his indiscreetattack upon the hospital!

"You see, " said Towers, "that this affair has been much talked of, andthe 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 advertisementsof Mr Popular Sentiment's new novel of that name, but had in no wayconnected it with Barchester Hospital, and had never thought a momenton the subject. 

"It's a direct attack on the whole system, " said Towers. "It'll goa long way to put down Rochester, and Barchester, and Dulwich, andSt Cross, and all such hotbeds of peculation. It's very clear thatSentiment has been down to Barchester, and got up the whole storythere; indeed, I thought he must have had it all from you; it's verywell done, as you'll see: his first numbers always are. "

Bold declared that Mr Sentiment had got nothing from him, and that hewas deeply grieved to find that the case had become so notorious. 

"The fire has gone too far to be quenched, " said Towers; "the buildingmust go now; and as the timbers are all rotten, why, I should beinclined to say, the sooner the better. I expected to see you getsome _éclat_ in the matter. "

This was all wormwood to Bold. He had done enough to make his friendthe warden miserable for life, and had then backed out just when thesuccess of his project was sufficient to make the question one of realinterest. How weakly he had managed his business! he had alreadydone the harm, and then stayed his hand when the good which he had inview was to be commenced. How delightful would it have been to haveemployed all his energy in such a cause, --to have been backed by _TheJupiter_, and written up to by two of the most popular authors of theday! The idea opened a view into the very world in which he wishedto live. To what might it not have given rise? what delightfulintimacies, --what public praise, --to what Athenian banquets and richflavour of Attic salt?

This, however, was now past hope. He had pledged himself to abandonthe cause; and could he have forgotten the pledge, he had gone too farto retreat. He was now, this moment, sitting in Tom Towers' room withthe object of deprecating any further articles in _The Jupiter_, and, greatly as he disliked the job, his petition to that effect must bemade. 

"I couldn't continue it, " said he, "because I found I was in thewrong. "

Tom Towers shrugged his shoulders. How could a successful man be inthe 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 aconsummate look of gentle surprise, as though Tom Towers was wellaware 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 feltwhat it has said deeply; and I thought that if I could explain to youthat he personally has not been to blame, these articles might bediscontinued. "

How calmly impassive was Tom Towers' face, as this innocent littleproposition was made! Had Bold addressed himself to the doorposts inMount Olympus, they would have shown as much outward sign of assent ordissent. His quiescence was quite admirable; his discretion certainlymore than human. 

"My dear fellow, " said he, when Bold had quite done speaking, "Ireally cannot answer for _The Jupiter_. "

"But if you saw that these articles were unjust, I think that Youwould endeavour to put a stop to them. Of course nobody doubts thatyou could, if you chose. "

"Nobody and everybody are always very kind, but unfortunately aregenerally very wrong. "

"Come, come, Towers, " said Bold, plucking up his courage, andremembering that for Eleanor's sake he was bound to make his bestexertion; "I have no doubt in my own mind but that you wrote thearticles yourself, and very well written they were: it will be a greatfavour if you will in future abstain from any personal allusion topoor 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 hopeyou will let me explain to you, without offence, that none whoare connected with the public press can with propriety listen tointerference. "

"Interference!" said Bold, "I don't want to interfere. "

"Ah, but, my dear fellow, you do; what else is it? You think that Iam able to keep certain remarks out of a newspaper. Your informationis 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 asyou wish: isn't it clear that it would be a great abuse? Certain menare employed in writing for the public press; and if they are inducedeither to write or to abstain from writing by private motives, surely the public press would soon be of little value. Look at therecognised worth of different newspapers, and see if it does notmainly depend on the assurance which the public feel that such a paperis, or is not, independent. You alluded to _The Jupiter_: surely youcannot but see that the weight of _The Jupiter_ is too great to bemoved by any private request, even though it should be made to a muchmore influential person than myself: you've only to think of this, andyou'll see that I am right. "

The discretion of Tom Towers was boundless: there was no contradictingwhat he said, no arguing against such propositions. He took such highground that there was no getting on to 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 nineteenthcentury, thou sententious proclaimer of the purity of the press;--thepublic is defrauded when it is purposely misled. Poor public! howoften 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. "Iknow he wrote those articles, " said Bold to himself. "I know he gothis information from me. He was ready enough to take my word forgospel when it suited his own views, and to set Mr Harding up beforethe public as an impostor on no other testimony than my chanceconversation; but when I offer him real evidence opposed to his ownviews, he tells me that private motives are detrimental to publicjustice! Confound his arrogance! What is any public question but aconglomeration of private interests? What is any newspaper articlebut an expression of the views taken by one side? Truth! it takes anage to ascertain the truth of any question! The idea of Tom Towerstalking of public motives and purity of purpose! Why, it wouldn'tgive him a moment's uneasiness to change his politics to-morrow, ifthe paper required it. "

Such were John Bold's inward exclamations as he made his way out ofthe quiet labyrinth of the Temple; and yet there was no position ofworldly power so coveted in Bold's ambition as that held by the man ofwhom he was thinking. It was the impregnability of the place whichmade Bold so angry with the possessor of it, and it was the samequality which made it appear so desirable. 

Passing into the Strand, he saw in a bookseller's window anannouncement of the first number of "The Almshouse;" so he purchased acopy, and hurrying back to his lodgings, proceeded to ascertain whatMr Popular Sentiment had to say to the public on the subject which hadlately occupied so much of his own attention. 

In former times great objects were attained by great work. When evilswere to be reformed, reformers set about their heavy task with gravedecorum and laborious argument. An age was occupied in proving agrievance, and philosophical researches were printed in folio pages, which it took a life to write, and an eternity to read. We get onnow with a lighter step, and quicker: ridicule is found to be moreconvincing than argument, imaginary agonies touch more than truesorrows, and monthly novels convince, when learned quartos fail todo so. If the world is to be set right, the work will be done byshilling numbers. 

Of all such reformers Mr Sentiment is the most powerful. It isincredible the number of evil practices he has put down: it is tobe feared he will soon lack subjects, and that when he has made theworking classes comfortable, and got bitter beer put into proper-sizedpint bottles, there will be nothing further for him left to do. MrSentiment is certainly a very powerful man, and perhaps not the lessso that his good poor people are so very good; his hard rich peopleso very hard; and the genuinely honest so very honest. Namby-pambyin these days is not thrown away if it be introduced in the properquarters. Divine peeresses are no longer interesting, thoughpossessed of every virtue; but a pattern peasant or an immaculatemanufacturing hero may talk as much twaddle as one of Mrs Ratcliffe'sheroines, and still be listened to. Perhaps, however, Mr Sentiment'sgreat attraction is in his second-rate characters. If his heroes andheroines walk upon stilts, as heroes and heroines, I fear, ever must, their attendant satellites are as natural as though one met them inthe street: they walk and talk like men and women, and live among ourfriends a rattling, lively life; yes, live, and will live till thenames of their calling shall be forgotten in their own, and Buckettand Mrs Gamp will be the only words left to us to signify a detectivepolice officer or a monthly nurse. 

"The Almshouse" opened with a scene in a clergyman's house. Everyluxury to be purchased by wealth was described as being there: all theappearances of household indulgence generally found amongst the mostself-indulgent of the rich were crowded into this abode. Here thereader was introduced to the demon of the book, the Mephistopheles ofthe drama. What story was ever written without a demon? What novel, what history, what work of any sort, what world, would be perfectwithout existing principles both of good and evil? The demon of "TheAlmshouse" was the clerical owner of this comfortable abode. He wasa man well stricken in years, but still strong to do evil: he was onewho looked cruelly out of a hot, passionate, bloodshot eye; who had ahuge red nose with a carbuncle, thick lips, and a great double, flabbychin, which swelled out into solid substance, like a turkey-cock'scomb, when sudden anger inspired him: he had a hot, furrowed, lowbrow, from which a few grizzled hairs were not yet rubbed off bythe friction of his handkerchief: he wore a loose unstarched whitehandkerchief, black loose ill-made clothes, and huge loose shoes, adapted to many corns and various bunions: his husky voice toldtales of much daily port wine, and his language was not so decorousas became a clergyman. Such was the master of Mr Sentiment's"Almshouse. " He was a widower, but at present accompanied by twodaughters, and a thin and somewhat insipid curate. One of the youngladies was devoted to her father and the fashionable world, and she ofcourse was the favourite; the other was equally addicted to Puseyismand the curate. 

The second chapter of course introduced the reader to the moreespecial inmates of the hospital. Here were discovered eight oldmen; and it was given to be understood that four vacancies remainedunfilled, through the perverse ill-nature of the clerical gentlemanwith the double chin. The state of these eight paupers was touchinglydreadful: sixpence-farthing a day had been sufficient for their dietwhen the almshouse was founded; and on sixpence-farthing a day werethey still doomed to starve, though food was four times as dear, and money four times as plentiful. It was shocking to find how theconversation of these eight starved old men in their dormitory shamedthat of the clergyman's family in his rich drawing-room. The absolutewords they uttered were not perhaps spoken in the purest English, andit might be difficult to distinguish from their dialect to what partof the country they belonged; the beauty of the sentiment, however, amply atoned for the imperfection of the language; and it was really apity that these eight old men could not be sent through the country asmoral missionaries, instead of being immured and starved in thatwretched almshouse. 

Bold finished the number; and as he threw it aside, he thought thatthat at least had no direct appliance to Mr Harding, and that theabsurdly strong colouring of the picture would disenable the work fromdoing either good or harm. He was wrong. The artist who paints forthe million must use glaring colours, as no one knew better than MrSentiment when he described the inhabitants of his almshouse; and theradical reform which has now swept over such establishments has owedmore to the twenty numbers of Mr Sentiment's novel, than to all thetrue complaints which have escaped from the public for the last halfcentury. 

Chapter XVI

A LONG DAY IN LONDON

The warden had to make use of all his very moderate powers of intrigueto give his son-in-law the slip, and get out of Barchester withoutbeing stopped on his road. No schoolboy ever ran away from schoolwith more precaution and more dread of detection; no convict, slippingdown from a prison wall, ever feared to see the gaoler more entirelythan Mr Harding did to see his son-in-law as he drove up in the ponycarriage to the railway station, on the morning of his escape toLondon. 

The evening before he went he wrote a note to the archdeacon, explaining that he should start on the morrow on his journey; thatit was his intention to see the attorney-general if possible, and todecide on his future plans in accordance with what he heard from thatgentleman; he excused himself for giving Dr Grantly no earlier notice, by stating that his resolve was very sudden; and having entrusted thisnote to Eleanor, with the perfect, though not expressed, understandingthat it was to be sent over to Plumstead Episcopi without haste, hetook his departure. 

He also prepared and carried with him a note for Sir AbrahamHaphazard, in which he stated his name, explaining that he was thedefendant in the case of "The Queen on behalf of the Wool-carders ofBarchester _v_. Trustees under the will of the late John Hiram, " forso was the suit denominated, and begged the illustrious and learnedgentleman to vouchsafe to him ten minutes' audience at any hour on thenext 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 earlytrain, but not early enough to reach the truant till he should haveescaped from his hotel after breakfast; and could he thus manage tosee the lawyer on that very day, the deed might be done before thearchdeacon could interfere. 

On his arrival in town the warden drove, as was his wont, to theChapter Hotel and Coffee House, near St Paul's. His visits to Londonof late had not been frequent; but in those happy days when "Harding'sChurch Music" was going through the press, he had been often there;and as the publisher's house was in Paternoster Row, and the printer'spress in Fleet Street, the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House had beenconvenient. It was a quiet, sombre, clerical house, beseeming sucha man as the warden, and thus he afterwards frequented it. Had hedared, he would on this occasion have gone elsewhere to throw thearchdeacon further off the scent; but he did not know what violentsteps his son-in-law might take for his recovery if he were not foundat his usual haunt, and he deemed it not prudent to make himself theobject of a hunt through London. 

Arrived at his inn, he ordered dinner, and went forth to theattorney-general's chambers. There he learnt that Sir Abraham was inCourt, and would not probably return that day. He would go directfrom Court to the House; all appointments were, as a rule, made at thechambers; the clerk could by no means promise an interview for thenext day; was able, on the other hand, to say that such interview was, he thought, impossible; but that Sir Abraham would certainly be at theHouse in the course of the night, where an answer from himself mightpossibly be elicited. 

To the House Mr Harding went, and left his note, not finding SirAbraham there. He added a most piteous entreaty that he might befavoured with an answer that evening, for which he would return. Hethen journeyed back sadly to the Chapter Coffee House, digesting hisgreat thoughts, as best he might, in a clattering omnibus, wedged inbetween a wet old lady and a journeyman glazier returning from hiswork with his tools in his lap. In melancholy solitude he discussedhis mutton chop and pint of port. What is there in this world moremelancholy than such a dinner? A dinner, though eaten alone, in acountry hotel may be worthy of some energy; the waiter, if you areknown, will make much of you; the landlord will make you a bow andperhaps 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 isalso lively enough, if it have no other attraction. There is plentyof noise and stir about it, and the rapid whirl of voices and rattleof dishes disperses sadness. But a solitary dinner in an old, respectable, sombre, solid London inn, where nothing makes any noisebut the old waiter's creaking shoes; where one plate slowly goes andanother slowly comes without a sound; where the two or three guestswould as soon think of knocking each other down as of speaking; wherethe servants whisper, and the whole household is disturbed if an orderbe given above the voice, --what can be more melancholy than a muttonchop and a pint of port in such a place?

Having gone through this Mr Harding got into another omnibus, andagain returned to the House. Yes, Sir Abraham was there, and wasthat moment on his legs, fighting eagerly for the hundred and seventhclause of the Convent Custody Bill. Mr Harding's note had beendelivered to him; and if Mr Harding would wait some two or threehours, Sir Abraham could be asked whether there was any answer. The House was not full, and perhaps Mr Harding might get admittanceinto the Strangers' Gallery, which admission, with the help of fiveshillings, Mr Harding was able to effect. 

This bill of Sir Abraham's had been read a second time and passed intocommittee. A hundred and six clauses had already been discussed andhad occupied only four mornings and five evening sittings; nine ofthe hundred and six clauses were passed, fifty-five were withdrawnby consent, fourteen had been altered so as to mean the reverse ofthe original proposition, eleven had been postponed for furtherconsideration, and seventeen had been directly negatived. The hundredand seventh ordered the bodily searching of nuns for jesuiticalsymbols by aged clergymen, and was considered to be the real mainstayof the whole bill. No intention had ever existed to pass such a lawas that proposed, but the government did not intend to abandon ittill their object was fully attained by the discussion of this clause. It was known that it would be insisted on with terrible vehemence byProtestant Irish members, and as vehemently denounced by the RomanCatholic; and it was justly considered that no further union betweenthe parties would be possible after such a battle. The innocent Irishfell into the trap as they always do, and whiskey and poplins became adrug in the market. 

A florid-faced gentleman with a nice head of hair, from the south ofIreland, had succeeded in catching the speaker's eye by the time thatMr Harding had got into the gallery, and was denouncing the proposedsacrilege, his whole face glowing with a fine theatrical frenzy. 

"And this is a Christian country?" said he. (Loud cheers; countercheers from the ministerial benches. "Some doubt as to that, " froma voice below the gangway. ) "No, it can be no Christian country, in which the head of the bar, the lagal adviser (loud laughter andcheers)--yes, I say the lagal adviser of the crown (great cheers andlaughter)--can stand up in his seat in this house (prolonged cheersand laughter), and attempt to lagalise indacent assaults on the bodiesof religious ladies. " (Deafening cheers and laughter, which wereprolonged till the honourable member resumed his seat. )

When Mr Harding had listened to this and much more of the same kindfor about three hours, he returned to the door of the House, andreceived back from the messenger his own note, with the followingwords scrawled in pencil on the back of it: "To-morrow, 10 P. M. --mychambers. --A. H. "

He was so far successful;--but 10 P. M. : what an hour Sir Abraham hadnamed for a legal interview! Mr Harding felt perfectly sure that longbefore that Dr Grantly would be in London. Dr Grantly could not, however, know that this interview had been arranged, nor could helearn it unless he managed to get hold of Sir Abraham before thathour; and as this was very improbable, Mr Harding determined tostart from his hotel early, merely leaving word that he should dineout, and unless luck were much against him, he might still escape thearchdeacon till his return from the attorney-general's chambers. 

He was at breakfast at nine, and for the twentieth time consulted hisBradshaw, to see at what earliest hour Dr Grantly could arrive fromBarchester. As he examined the columns, he was nearly petrifiedby the reflection that perhaps the archdeacon might come up by thenight-mail train! His heart sank within him at the horrid idea, and for a moment he felt himself dragged back to Barchester withoutaccomplishing any portion of his object. Then he remembered that hadDr Grantly done so, he would have been in the hotel, looking for himlong since. 

"Waiter, " said he, timidly. 

The waiter approached, creaking in his shoes, but voiceless. 

"Did any gentleman, --a clergyman, arrive here by the night-mailtrain?"

"No, sir, not one, " whispered the waiter, putting his mouth nearlyclose to the warden's ear. 

Mr Harding was reassured. 

"Waiter, " said he again, and the waiter again creaked up. "If anyonecalls for me, I am going to dine out, and shall return about eleveno'clock. "

The waiter nodded, but did not this time vouchsafe any reply; and MrHarding, taking up his hat, proceeded out to pass a long day in thebest way he could, somewhere out of sight of the archdeacon. 

Bradshaw had told him twenty times that Dr Grantly could not be atPaddington station till 2 P. M. , and our poor friend might thereforehave trusted to the shelter of the hotel for some hours longer withperfect safety; but he was nervous. There was no knowing what stepsthe archdeacon might take for his apprehension: a message by electrictelegraph might desire the landlord of the hotel to set a watch uponhim; some letter might come which he might find himself unable todisobey; at any rate, he could not feel himself secure in any placeat which the archdeacon could expect to find him; and at 10 A. M. Hestarted forth to spend twelve hours in London. 

Mr Harding had friends in town had he chosen to seek them; but he feltthat he was in no humour for ordinary calls, and he did not now wishto consult with anyone as to the great step which he had determinedto take. As he had said to his daughter, no one knows where the shoepinches but the wearer. There are some points on which no man can becontented to follow the advice of another, --some subjects on whicha man can consult his own conscience only. Our warden had made uphis mind that it was good for him at any cost to get rid of thisgrievance; his daughter was the only person whose concurrence appearednecessary to him, and she did concur with him most heartily. Undersuch circumstances he would not, if he could help it, consult anyonefurther, till advice would be useless. Should the archdeacon catchhim, indeed, there would be much advice, and much consultation of akind not to be avoided; but he hoped better things; and as he feltthat he could not now converse on indifferent subjects, he resolvedto see no one till after his interview with the attorney-general. 

He determined to take sanctuary in Westminster Abbey, so he again wentthither in an omnibus, and finding that the doors were not open formorning 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 heattempted to walk about from 10 A. M. To 10 P. M. , so he sat himselfdown on a stone step, and gazed up at the figure of William Pitt, wholooks as though he had just entered the church for the first time inhis life and was anything but pleased at finding himself there. 

He had been sitting unmolested about twenty minutes when the vergerasked him whether he wouldn't like to walk round. Mr Harding didn'twant to walk anywhere, and declined, merely observing that he waswaiting for the morning service. The verger, seeing that he was aclergyman, told him that the doors of the choir were now open, andshowed him into a seat. This was a great point gained; the archdeaconwould certainly not come to morning service at Westminster Abbey, eventhough 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 thechoristers, and the copy of the litany from which the service waschanted, to see how far the little details at Westminster correspondedwith those at Barchester, and whether he thought his own voice wouldfill the church well from the Westminster precentor's seat. Therewould, however, be impropriety in such meddling, and he sat perfectlystill, looking up at the noble roof, and guarding against the comingfatigues of the day. 

By degrees two or three people entered; the very same damp old womanwho had nearly obliterated him in the omnibus, or some other just likeher; a couple of young ladies with their veils down, and gilt crossesconspicuous on their prayer-books; an old man on crutches; a party whowere seeing the abbey, and thought they might as well hear the servicefor their twopence, as opportunity served; and a young woman with herprayer-book done up in her handkerchief, who rushed in late, and, inher hurried entry, tumbled over one of the forms, and made such anoise that everyone, even the officiating minor canon, was startled, and she herself was so frightened by the echo of her own catastrophethat she was nearly thrown into fits by the panic. 

Mr Harding was not much edified by the manner of the service. Theminor canon in question hurried in, somewhat late, in a surplice notin the neatest order, and was followed by a dozen choristers, who werealso not as trim as they might have been: they all jostled into theirplaces with a quick hurried step, and the service was soon commenced. Soon commenced and soon over, --for there was no music, and time wasnot unnecessarily lost in the chanting. On the whole Mr Harding wasof opinion that things were managed better at Barchester, though eventhere he knew that there was room for improvement. 

It appears to us a question whether any clergyman can go through ourchurch service with decorum, morning after morning, in an immensebuilding, surrounded by not more than a dozen listeners. The bestactors cannot act well before empty benches, and though there is, ofcourse, a higher motive in one case than the other, still even thebest of clergymen cannot but be influenced by their audience; and toexpect that a duty should be well done under such circumstances, wouldbe to require from human nature more than human power. 

When the two ladies with the gilt crosses, the old man with hiscrutch, and the still palpitating housemaid were going, Mr Hardingfound himself obliged to go too. The verger stood in his way, andlooked at him and looked at the door, and so he went. But he returnedagain in a few minutes, and re-entered with another twopence. Therewas no other sanctuary so good for him. 

As he walked slowly down the nave, and then up one aisle, and thenagain down the nave and up the other aisle, he tried to think gravelyof the step he was about to take. He was going to give up eighthundred a year voluntarily; and doom himself to live for the rest ofhis life on about a hundred and fifty. He knew that he had hithertofailed to realise this fact as he ought to do. Could he maintainhis own independence and support his daughter on a hundred and fiftypounds a year without being a burden on anyone? His son-in-law wasrich, but nothing could induce him to lean on his son-in-law afteracting, as he intended to do, in direct opposition to his son-in-law'scounsel. The bishop was rich, but he was about to throw away thebishop's best gift, and that in a manner to injure materially thepatronage of the giver: he could neither expect nor accept anythingfurther from the bishop. There would be not only no merit, butpositive disgrace, in giving up his wardenship, if he were notprepared to meet the world without it. Yes, he must from this timeforward bound all his human wishes for himself and his daughter tothe poor extent of so limited an income. He knew he had not thoughtsufficiently of this, that he had been carried away by enthusiasm, and had hitherto not brought home to himself the full reality of hisposition. 

He thought most about his daughter, naturally. It was true that shewas engaged, and he knew enough of his proposed son-in-law to be surethat his own altered circumstances would make no obstacle to such amarriage; nay, he was sure that the very fact of his poverty wouldinduce Bold more anxiously to press the matter; but he dislikedcounting on Bold in this emergency, brought on, as it had been, byhis doing. He did not like saying to himself, Bold has turned meout of my house and income, and, therefore, he must relieve me of mydaughter; he preferred reckoning on Eleanor as the companion of hispoverty and exile, --as the sharer of his small income. 

Some modest provision for his daughter had been long since made. Hislife was insured for three thousand pounds, and this sum was to go toEleanor. The archdeacon, for some years past, had paid the premium, and had secured himself by the immediate possession of a smallproperty which was to have gone to Mrs Grantly after her father'sdeath. This matter, therefore, had been taken out of the warden'shands long since, as, indeed, had all the business transactions ofhis family, and his anxiety was, therefore, confined to his own lifeincome. 

Yes. A hundred and fifty per annum was very small, but still it mightsuffice; but how was he to chant the litany at the cathedral on Sundaymornings, and get the service done at Crabtree Parva? True, CrabtreeChurch was not quite a mile and a half from the cathedral; but hecould not be in two places at once. Crabtree was a small village, and afternoon service might suffice, but still this went against hisconscience; it was not right that his parishioners should be robbedof any of their privileges on account of his poverty. He might, tobe sure, make some arrangements for doing week-day service at thecathedral; but he had chanted the litany at Barchester so long, andhad a conscious feeling that he did it so well, that he was unwillingto give up the duty. 

Thinking of such things, turning over in his own mind together smalldesires and grave duties, but never hesitating for a moment as to thenecessity of leaving the hospital, Mr Harding walked up and down theabbey, or sat still meditating on the same stone step, hour afterhour. 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 sowith a reverential stare, and, on the whole, Mr Harding found hisretreat well chosen. About four o'clock his comfort was disturbedby an enemy in the shape of hunger. It was necessary that he shoulddine, and it was clear that he could not dine in the abbey: so he lefthis sanctuary not willingly, and betook himself to the neighbourhoodof the Strand to look for food. 

His eyes had become so accustomed to the gloom of the church, thatthey were dazed when he got out into the full light of day, and hefelt confused and ashamed of himself, as though people were staring athim. He hurried along, still in dread of the archdeacon, till he cameto Charing Cross, and then remembered that in one of his passagesthrough the Strand he had seen the words "Chops and Steaks" on aplacard in a shop window. He remembered the shop distinctly; it wasnext door to a trunk-seller's, and there was a cigar shop on the otherside. He couldn't go to his hotel for dinner, which to him hithertowas 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. ArchdeaconGrantly would certainly not come to such a place for his dinner. 

He found the house easily, --just as he had observed it, between thetrunks and the cigars. He was rather daunted by the huge quantityof fish which he saw in the window. There were barrels of oysters, hecatombs of lobsters, a few tremendous-looking crabs, and a tub fullof pickled salmon; not, however, being aware of any connection betweenshell-fish and iniquity, he entered, and modestly asked a slatternlywoman, 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 withboxes for the accommodation of parties, in one of which he took hisseat. In a more miserably forlorn place he could not have foundhimself: 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; andeverything was impregnated with fish. He had one comfort, however:he was quite alone; there was no one there to look on his dismay; norwas it probable that anyone would come to do so. It was a Londonsupper-house. About one o'clock at night the place would be livelyenough, but at the present time his seclusion was as deep as it hadbeen in the abbey. 

In about half an hour the untidy girl, not yet dressed for her eveninglabours, brought him his chop and potatoes, and Mr Harding begged fora pint of sherry. He was impressed with an idea, which was generallyprevalent a few years since, and is not yet wholly removed from theminds of men, that to order a dinner at any kind of inn, without alsoordering a pint of wine for the benefit of the landlord, was a kind offraud, --not punishable, indeed, by law, but not the less abominableon that account. Mr Harding remembered his coming poverty, andwould willingly have saved his half-crown, but he thought he had noalternative; and he was soon put in possession of some horrid mixtureprocured from the neighbouring public-house. 

His chop and potatoes, however, were eatable, and having got overas best he might the disgust created by the knives and forks, hecontrived to swallow his dinner. He was not much disturbed: oneyoung man, with pale face and watery fishlike eyes, wearing his hatominously on one side, did come in and stare at him, and ask thegirl, audibly enough, "Who that old cock was;" but the annoyance wentno further, and the warden was left seated on his wooden bench inpeace, endeavouring to distinguish the different scents arising fromlobsters, oysters, and salmon. 

Unknowing as Mr Harding was in the ways of London, he felt that he hadsomehow selected an ineligible dining-house, and that he had betterleave it. It was hardly five o'clock;--how was he to pass the timetill ten? Five miserable hours! He was already tired, and it wasimpossible that he should continue walking so long. He thought ofgetting into an omnibus, and going out to Fulham for the sake ofcoming back in another: this, however, would be weary work, and as hepaid his bill to the woman in the shop, he asked her if there were anyplace near where he could get a cup of coffee. Though she did keep ashellfish supper-house, she was very civil, and directed him to thecigar divan on the other side of the street. 

Mr Harding had not a much correcter notion of a cigar divan than hehad 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 somemistake when he found himself in a cigar shop, but the man behind thecounter saw immediately that he was a stranger, and understood what hewanted. "One shilling, sir, --thank ye, sir, --cigar, sir?--ticket forcoffee, sir;--you'll only have to call the waiter. Up those stairs, if you please, sir. Better take the cigar, sir, --you can always giveit to a friend, you know. Well, sir, thank ye, sir;--as you are sogood, 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 theroom in which he had dined: there was, to be sure, a strong smell oftobacco, to which he was not accustomed; but after the shell-fish, thetobacco did not seem disagreeable. There were quantities of books, and long rows of sofas. What on earth could be more luxurious than asofa, a book, and a cup of coffee? An old waiter came up to him, witha couple of magazines and an evening paper. Was ever anything socivil? Would he have a cup of coffee, or would he prefer sherbet?Sherbet! Was he absolutely in an Eastern divan, with the slightaddition of all the London periodicals? He had, however, an idea thatsherbet should be drunk sitting cross-legged, and as he was not quiteup to this, he ordered the coffee. 

The coffee came, and was unexceptionable. Why, this divan was aparadise! 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 soengaged for about an hour, for the old waiter enticed him to a secondcup of coffee, when a musical clock began to play. Mr Harding thenclosed his magazine, keeping his place with his finger, and lay, listening with closed eyes to the clock. Soon the clock seemed toturn into a violoncello, with piano accompaniments, and Mr Hardingbegan to fancy the old waiter was the Bishop of Barchester; he wasinexpressibly shocked that the bishop should have brought him hiscoffee with his own hands; then Dr Grantly came in, with a basket fullof lobsters, which he would not be induced to leave downstairs in thekitchen; and then the warden couldn't quite understand why so manypeople would smoke in the bishop's drawing-room; and so he fell fastasleep, and his dreams wandered away to his accustomed stall inBarchester Cathedral, and the twelve old men he was so soon about toleave for ever. 

He was fatigued, and slept soundly for some time. Some sudden stop inthe 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 whenhis nap began. With nervous anxiety he pulled out his watch, andfound that it was half-past nine. He seized his hat, and, hurryingdownstairs, started at a rapid pace for Lincoln's Inn. 

It still wanted twenty minutes to ten when the warden found himselfat the bottom of Sir Abraham's stairs, so he walked leisurely up anddown the quiet inn to cool himself. It was a beautiful evening atthe end of August. He had recovered from his fatigue; his sleep andthe coffee had refreshed him, and he was surprised to find that hewas absolutely enjoying himself, when the inn clock struck ten. Thesound was hardly over before he knocked at Sir Abraham's door, andwas informed by the clerk who received him that the great man wouldbe with him immediately. 

Chapter XVII

SIR ABRAHAM HAPHAZARD

Mr Harding was shown into a comfortable inner sitting-room, lookingmore like a gentleman's book-room than a lawyer's chambers, and therewaited for Sir Abraham. Nor was he kept waiting long: in ten orfifteen minutes he heard a clatter of voices speaking quickly in thepassage, and then the attorney-general entered. 

"Very sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Warden, " said Sir Abraham, shakinghands with him; "and sorry, too, to name so disagreeable an hour;but your notice was short, and as you said to-day, I named the veryearliest hour that was not disposed of. "

Mr Harding assured him that he was aware that it was he that shouldapologise. 

Sir Abraham was a tall thin man, with hair prematurely gray, butbearing no other sign of age; he had a slight stoop, in his neckrather than his back, acquired by his constant habit of leaningforward as he addressed his various audiences. He might be fiftyyears old, and would have looked young for his age, had not constantwork hardened his features, and given him the appearance of a machinewith a mind. His face was full of intellect, but devoid of naturalexpression. You would say he was a man to use, and then have donewith; a man to be sought for on great emergencies, but ill-adapted forordinary services; a man whom you would ask to defend your property, but to whom you would be sorry to confide your love. He was brightas a diamond, and as cutting, and also as unimpressionable. He kneweveryone whom to know was an honour, but he was without a friend; hewanted none, however, and knew not the meaning of the word in otherthan its parliamentary sense. A friend! Had he not always beensufficient to himself, and now, at fifty, was it likely that he shouldtrust another? He was married, indeed, and had children, but whattime had he for the soft idleness of conjugal felicity? His workingdays or term times were occupied from his time of rising to the latehour at which he went to rest, and even his vacations were more fullof labour than the busiest days of other men. He never quarrelledwith 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 bea peeress, and she really thought Sir Abraham the best of husbands. 

Sir Abraham was a man of wit, and sparkled among the brightest atthe 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, nounhappy soul ever dropped a portion of its burden at his door. 

With him success alone was praiseworthy, and he knew none sosuccessful as himself. No one had thrust him forward; no powerfulfriends had pushed him along on his road to power. No; he wasattorney-general, and would, in all human probability, be lordchancellor by sheer dint of his own industry and his own talent. Whoelse in all the world rose so high with so little help? A premier, indeed! Who had ever been premier without mighty friends? Anarchbishop! Yes, the son or grandson of a great noble, or else, probably, his tutor. But he, Sir Abraham, had had no mighty lordat his back; his father had been a country apothecary, his mother afarmer's daughter. Why should he respect any but himself? And so heglitters along through the world, the brightest among the bright; andwhen his glitter is gone, and he is gathered to his fathers, no eyewill be dim with a tear, no heart will mourn for its lost friend. 

"And so, Mr Warden, " said Sir Abraham, "all our trouble about thislawsuit is at an end. "

Mr Harding said he hoped so, but he didn't at all understand what SirAbraham meant. Sir Abraham, with all his sharpness, could not havelooked into his heart and read his intentions. 

"All over. You need trouble yourself no further about it; of coursethey must pay the costs, and the absolute expense to you and DrGrantly will be trifling, --that is, compared with what it might havebeen 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 havewithdrawn 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 hadbeen talked of; and he also at length succeeded in making Sir Abrahamunderstand that even this did not satisfy him. The attorney-generalstood up, put his hands into his breeches' pockets, and raised hiseyebrows, as Mr Harding proceeded to detail the grievance from whichhe 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 isconcerned in it, I thought I might venture to seek your advice. "

Sir Abraham bowed, and declared his clients were entitled to the bestadvice he could give them; particularly a client so respectable inevery way as the Warden of Barchester Hospital. 

"A spoken word, Sir Abraham, is often of more value than volumes ofwritten advice. The truth is, I am ill-satisfied with this matteras it stands at present. I do see--I cannot help seeing, that theaffairs of the hospital are not arranged according to the will of thefounder. "

"None of such institutions are, Mr Harding, nor can they be; thealtered circumstances in which we live do not admit of it. "

"Quite true--that is quite true; but I can't see that those alteredcircumstances give me a right to eight hundred a year. I don't knowwhether I ever read John Hiram's will, but were I to read it now Icould not understand it. What I want you, Sir Abraham, to tell me, is this:--am I, as warden, legally and distinctly entitled to theproceeds of the property, after the due maintenance of the twelvebedesmen?"

Sir Abraham declared that he couldn't exactly say in so many wordsthat Mr Harding was legally entitled to, &c. , &c. , &c. , and ended inexpressing a strong opinion that it would be madness to raise anyfurther 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 animaginary violoncello. 

"Nay, my dear sir, " continued the attorney-general, "there is nofurther ground for any question; I don't see that you have the powerof raising it. "

"I can resign, " said Mr Harding, slowly playing away with his righthand, as though the bow were beneath the chair in which he wassitting. 

"What! throw it up altogether?" said the attorney-general, gazing withutter 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, cowedinto such an act of extreme weakness by a newspaper article, was toSir Abraham so contemptible an object, that he hardly knew how to talkto him as to a rational being. 

"Hadn't you better wait, " said he, "till Dr Grantly is in town withyou? Wouldn't it be better to postpone any serious step till you canconsult with him?"

Mr Harding declared vehemently that he could not wait, and Sir Abrahambegan seriously to doubt his sanity. 

"Of course, " said the latter, "if you have private means sufficientfor 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 tokeep 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 thetwo were hardly compatible; but perhaps he might effect an exchange. And then, recollecting that the attorney-general would hardly care tohear how the service of a cathedral church is divided among the minorcanons, 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 seriousstep, --one for which, in my opinion, there is not the slightestnecessity; and, as you have done me the honour of asking my advice, Imust 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 mybread till my death than read such another article as those two thathave appeared, and feel, as I do, that the writer has truth on hisside. "

"Have you not a daughter, Mr Harding--an unmarried daughter?"

"I have, " said he, now standing also, but still playing away on hisfiddle with his hand behind his back. "I have, Sir Abraham; and sheand I are completely agreed on this subject. "

"Pray excuse me, Mr Harding, if what I say seems impertinent; butsurely 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 andsixty 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; andthen, irresolute what to say, took another turn to the window. Theattorney-general was really extremely patient, but he was beginning tothink that the interview had been long enough. 

"But if this income be not justly mine, what if she and I have both tobeg?" said the warden at last, sharply, and in a voice so differentfrom that he had hitherto used, that Sir Abraham was startled. "Ifso, 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 allwitnesses against me;--I question it myself. My God knows whether orno I love my daughter; but I would sooner that she and I should bothbeg, than that she should live in comfort on money which is truly theproperty of the poor. It may seem strange to you, Sir Abraham, it isstrange to myself, that I should have been ten years in that happyhome, and not have thought of these things till they were so roughlydinned into my ears. I cannot boast of my conscience, when itrequired the violence of a public newspaper to awaken it; but, nowthat it is awake, I must obey it. When I came here, I did not knowthat the suit was withdrawn by Mr Bold, and my object was to begyou to abandon my defence. As there is no action, there can be nodefence; but it is, at any rate, as well that you should know thatfrom to-morrow I shall cease to be the warden of the hospital. Myfriends and I differ on this subject, Sir Abraham, and that adds muchto my sorrow; but it cannot be helped. " And, as he finished what hehad to say, he played up such a tune as never before had graced thechambers of any attorney-general. He was standing up, gallantlyfronting Sir Abraham, and his right arm passed with bold and rapidsweeps before him, as though he were embracing some huge instrument, which allowed him to stand thus erect; and with the fingers of hisleft hand he stopped, with preternatural velocity, a multitude ofstrings, which ranged from the top of his collar to the bottom ofthe lappet of his coat. Sir Abraham listened and looked in wonder. As he had never before seen Mr Harding, the meaning of these wildgesticulations was lost upon him; but he perceived that the gentlemanwho had a few minutes since been so subdued as to be unable to speakwithout hesitation, was now impassioned, --nay, almost violent. 

"You'll sleep on this, Mr Harding, and to-morrow--"

"I have done more than sleep upon it, " said the warden; "I have lainawake upon it, and that night after night. I found I could not sleepupon it: now I hope to do so. "

The attorney-general had no answer to make to this; so he expresseda quiet hope that whatever settlement was finally made would besatisfactory; and Mr Harding withdrew, thanking the great man forhis kind attention. 

Mr Harding was sufficiently satisfied with the interview to feel aglow of comfort as he descended into the small old square of Lincoln'sInn. It was a calm, bright, beautiful night, and by the light ofthe moon, even the chapel of Lincoln's Inn, and the sombre row ofchambers, which surround the quadrangle, looked well. He stood stilla moment to collect his thoughts, and reflect on what he had done, and was about to do. He knew that the attorney-general regarded himas little better than a fool, but that he did not mind; he and theattorney-general had not much in common between them; he knew alsothat 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, hetrusted, would sympathise with him. 

In the meantime he had to meet the archdeacon, and so he walked slowlydown Chancery Lane and along Fleet Street, feeling sure that his workfor the night was not yet over. When he reached the hotel he rang thebell quietly, and with a palpitating heart; he almost longed to escaperound the corner, and delay the coming storm by a further walk roundSt Paul's Churchyard, but he heard the slow creaking shoes of the oldwaiter 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 wellopen, "and Mrs Grantly. They have a sitting-room above, and arewaiting up for you. "

There was something in the tone of the man's voice which seemed toindicate 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-lawwas there; but how much would he have preferred that they should bothhave been safe at Plumstead Episcopi! However, upstairs he went, the waiter slowly preceding him; and on the door being opened thearchdeacon was discovered standing in the middle of the room, erect, indeed, as usual, but oh! how sorrowful! and on the dingy sofa behindhim reclined his patient wife. 

"Papa, I thought you were never coming back, " said the lady; "it'stwelve o'clock. "

"Yes, my dear, " said the warden. "The attorney-general named ten formy 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, andagain tried to look unconcerned. 

"And you have absolutely been with the attorney-general?" asked thearchdeacon. 

Mr Harding signified that he had. 

"Good heavens, how unfortunate!" And the archdeacon raised his hugehands in the manner in which his friends are so accustomed to see himexpress disapprobation and astonishment. "What will Sir Abraham thinkof it? Did you not know that it is not customary for clients to godirect to their counsel?"

"Isn't it?" asked the warden, innocently. "Well, at any rate, I'vedone 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. Hecouldn'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 wouldhave envied, and the galleries have applauded with a couple of rounds. "Resigned it! Good heavens!" And the dignitary of the church sankback horrified into a horsehair arm-chair. 

"At least I told Sir Abraham that I would resign; and of course I mustnow do so. "

"Not at all, " said the archdeacon, catching a ray of hope. "Nothingthat you say in such a way to your own counsel can be in any waybinding on you; of course you were there to ask his advice. I'm sureSir 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 reverendcross-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 justwhere we were before. "

Mr Harding was now standing on the rug, moving uneasily from one footto the other. He made no distinct answer to the archdeacon's lastproposition, for his mind was chiefly engaged on thinking how he couldescape to bed. That his resignation was a thing finally fixed on, afact all but completed, was not in his mind a matter of any doubt; heknew his own weakness; he knew how prone he was to be led; but he wasnot weak enough to give way now, to go back from the position to whichhis conscience had driven him, after having purposely come to Londonto declare his determination: he did not in the least doubt hisresolution, but he greatly doubted his power of defending it againsthis son-in-law. 

"You must be very tired, Susan, " said he: "wouldn't you like to go tobed?"

But Susan didn't want to go till her husband went. She had an ideathat her papa might be bullied if she were away: she wasn't tired atall, or at least she said so. 

The archdeacon was pacing the room, expressing, by certain nods of hishead, his opinion of the utter fatuity of his father-in-law. 

"Why, " at last he said, --and angels might have blushed at the rebukeexpressed in his tone and emphasis, --"Why did you go off fromBarchester so suddenly? Why did you take such a step without givingus notice, after what had passed at the palace?"

The warden hung his head, and made no reply: he could not condescendto say that he had not intended to give his son-in-law the slip; andas 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, "Goodheavens!" 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 withoutconsultation, " said the archdeacon. Mr Harding made no answer, butslowly proceeded to light his candle. 

"Of course, " continued the other, "such a declaration as that you madeto Sir Abraham means nothing. Come, warden, promise me this. Thewhole affair, you see, is already settled, and that with very littletrouble or expense. Bold has been compelled to abandon his action, and all you have to do is to remain quiet at the hospital. " MrHarding still made no reply, but looked meekly into his son-in-law'sface. The archdeacon thought he knew his father-in-law, but he wasmistaken; he thought that he had already talked over a vacillating manto resign his promise. "Come, " said he, "promise Susan to give upthis idea of resigning the wardenship. "

The warden looked at his daughter, thinking probably at the momentthat if Eleanor were contented with him, he need not so much regardhis other child, and said, "I am sure Susan will not ask me to breakmy word, or to do what I know to be wrong. "

"Papa, " said she, "it would be madness in you to throw up yourpreferment. What are you to live on?"

"God, that feeds the young ravens, will take care of me also, " said MrHarding, with a smile, as though afraid of giving offence by makinghis reference to scripture too solemn. 

"Pish!" said the archdeacon, turning away rapidly. "If the ravenspersisted in refusing the food prepared for them, they wouldn't befed. " A clergyman generally dislikes to be met in argument by anyscriptural quotation; he feels as affronted as a doctor does, whenrecommended by an old woman to take some favourite dose, or as alawyer when an unprofessional man attempts to put him down by aquibble. 

"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 wasprepared to argue this point, and began to do so, but Dr Grantlystopped 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 anyinconvenient 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 talkof 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 throughthat of her father, "what is Eleanor to do if you throw away yourincome?"

A hot tear stood in each of the warden's eyes as he looked round uponhis married daughter. Why should one sister who was so rich predictpoverty for another? Some such idea as this was on his mind, but hegave no utterance to it. Then he thought of the pelican feeding itsyoung with blood from its own breast, but he gave no utterance tothat either; and then of Eleanor waiting for him at home, waiting tocongratulate 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 movedbeyond her usual calm composure. 

"It can never be rash to do right, " said he. "I shall certainlyresign this wardenship. "

"Then, Mr Harding, there is nothing before you but ruin, " said thearchdeacon, now moved beyond all endurance. "Ruin both for you andEleanor. How do you mean to pay the monstrous expenses of thisaction?"

Mrs Grantly suggested that, as the action was abandoned, the costswould not be heavy. 

"Indeed they will, my dear, " continued he. "One cannot have theattorney-general up at twelve o'clock at night for nothing;--but ofcourse 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 thehouse, --with nothing to do. The very place for him. And to throwthat up because some scoundrel writes an article in a newspaper!Well;--I have done my duty. If he chooses to ruin his child I cannothelp it;" and he stood still at the fire-place, and looked at himselfin a dingy mirror which stood on the chimney-piece. 

There was a pause for about a minute, and then the warden, findingthat 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, heheard the well-known ejaculation, --slower, lower, more solemn, moreponderous than ever, --"Good heavens!"

Chapter XIX

THE WARDEN RESIGNS

The party met the next morning at breakfast; and a very sombre affairit 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-corneredbits of dry toast, and four square bits of buttered toast; there wasa loaf of bread, and some oily-looking butter; and on the sideboardthere were the remains of a cold shoulder of mutton. The archdeacon, however, had not come up from his rectory to St Paul's Churchyard toenjoy himself, and therefore nothing was said of the scanty fare. 

The guests were as sorry as the viands;--hardly anything was said overthe breakfast-table. The archdeacon munched his toast in ominoussilence, turning over bitter thoughts in his deep mind. The wardentried to talk to his daughter, and she tried to answer him; but theyboth failed. There were no feelings at present in common betweenthem. The warden was thinking only of getting back to Barchester, andcalculating whether the archdeacon would expect him to wait for him;and Mrs Grantly was preparing herself for a grand attack which she wasto make on her father, as agreed upon between herself and her husbandduring their curtain confabulation of that morning. 

When the waiter had creaked out of the room with the last of theteacups, the archdeacon got up and went to the window as though toadmire the view. The room looked out on a narrow passage which runsfrom St Paul's Churchyard to Paternoster Row; and Dr Grantly patientlyperused the names of the three shopkeepers whose doors were in view. The warden still kept his seat at the table, and examined the patternof the tablecloth; and Mrs Grantly, seating herself on the sofa, beganto knit. 

After a while the warden pulled his Bradshaw out of his pocket, andbegan laboriously to consult it. There was a train for Barchester at10 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 threeo'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'clockto-day. I shall get home at half-past eight. I don't think there'sanything to keep me in London. "

"The archdeacon and I return by the early train to-morrow, papa; won'tyou 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 heardhim. 

"You'd better wait for us, papa. "

"Thank ye, my dear! I think I'll go this afternoon. " The tamestanimal will turn when driven too hard, and even Mr Harding wasbeginning to fight for his own way. 

"I suppose you won't be back before three?" said the lady, addressingher 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 beback till five. "

There was another long pause, during which Mr Harding continued tostudy 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 ofindifference to him where his son-in-law went. The names of Cox andCummins had now no interest in his ears. What had he to do with Coxand Cummins further, having already had his suit finally adjudicatedupon in a court of conscience, a judgment without power of appealfully registered, and the matter settled so that all the lawyers inLondon could not disturb it. The archdeacon could go to Cox andCummins, could remain there all day in anxious discussion; but whatmight be said there was no longer matter of interest to him, who wasso soon to lay aside the name of warden of Barchester Hospital. 

The archdeacon took up his shining new clerical hat, and put on hisblack new clerical gloves, and looked heavy, respectable, decorous, and opulent, a decided clergyman of the Church of England, everyinch of him. "I suppose I shall see you at Barchester the day afterto-morrow, " said he. 

The warden supposed he would. 

"I must once more beseech you to take no further steps till you see myfather; if you owe me nothing, " and the archdeacon looked as though hethought a great deal were due to him, "at least you owe so much to myfather;" and, without waiting for a reply, Dr Grantly wended his wayto 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 thencommenced 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 himpen, 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 tillyou 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 waitercreaked in with the paper, and then slowly creaked out again; "how canyou talk about shame? you know what all your friends think about thisquestion. "

The warden spread his paper on the table, placing it on themeagre blotting-book which the hotel afforded, and sat himselfdown to write. 

"You won't refuse me one request, papa?" continued hisdaughter; "you won't refuse to delay your letter for two shortdays? Two days can make no possible difference. "

"My dear, " said he naïvely, "if I waited till I got to Barchester, Imight, 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 toowell 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 notwithout much repugnance that I act in opposition to the advice of suchmen as Sir Abraham Haphazard and the archdeacon; but in this matterI can take no advice, I cannot alter the resolution to which I havecome. "

"But two days, papa--"

"No;--nor can I delay it. You may add to my present unhappiness bypressing me, but you cannot change my purpose; it will be a comfortto me if you will let the matter rest": and, dipping his pen into theinkstand, he fixed his eyes intently on the paper. 

There was something in his manner which taught his daughter toperceive that he was in earnest; she had at one time ruled supreme inher father's house, but she knew that there were moments when, mildand meek as he was, he would have his way, and the present was anoccasion of the sort. She returned, therefore, to her knitting, andvery shortly after left the room. 

The warden was now at liberty to compose his letter, and, as it wascharacteristic of the man, it shall be given at full length. Theofficial letter, which, when written, seemed to him to be too formallycold to be sent alone to so dear a friend, was accompanied by aprivate 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 thebenefit of the archdeacon, Mr Harding, whom we must now cease to callthe warden, he having designated himself so for the last time, foundthat it was nearly two o'clock, and that he must prepare for hisjourney. Yes, from this time he never again admitted the name bywhich he had been so familiarly known, and in which, to tell thetruth, he had rejoiced. The love of titles is common to all men, and a vicar or fellow is as pleased at becoming Mr Archdeacon orMr Provost, as a lieutenant at getting his captaincy, or a citytallow-chandler in becoming Sir John on the occasion of a Queen'svisit to a new bridge. But warden he was no longer, and the name ofprecentor, though the office was to him so dear, confers in itselfno sufficient distinction; our friend, therefore, again became MrHarding. 

Mrs Grantly had gone out; he had, therefore, no one to delay him byfurther entreaties to postpone his journey; he had soon arranged hisbag, and paid his bill, and, leaving a note for his daughter, in whichhe put the copy of his official letter, he got into a cab and droveaway 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 purposeagainst that of his son-in-law, and manfully combated against greatodds, --against the archdeacon's wife as well as the archdeacon? Hadhe not gained a great victory, and was it not fit that he should stepinto his cab with triumph?

He had not told Eleanor when he would return, but she was on thelook-out for him by every train by which he could arrive, and thepony-carriage was at the Barchester station when the train drew upat the platform. 

"My dear, " said he, sitting beside her, as she steered her littlevessel to one side of the road to make room for the clattering omnibusas they passed from the station into the town, "I hope you'll be ableto 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 daughterall that he had done, and all that he had to do. It must take sometime to get out of one house into another; the curate at Crabtreecould not be abolished under six months, that is, unless otherprovision could be made for him; and then the furniture:--the most ofthat must be sold to pay Sir Abraham Haphazard for sitting up tilltwelve at night. Mr Harding was strangely ignorant as to lawyers'bills; he had no idea, from twenty pounds to two thousand, as to thesum in which he was indebted for legal assistance. True, he hadcalled in no lawyer himself; true, he had been no consenting party tothe employment of either Cox and Cummins, or Sir Abraham; he had neverbeen consulted on such matters;--the archdeacon had managed all thishimself, never for a moment suspecting that Mr Harding would take uponhim to end the matter in a way of his own. Had the lawyers' billsbeen ten thousand pounds, Mr Harding could not have helped it; buthe was not on that account disposed to dispute his own liability. The question never occurred to him; but it did occur to him that hehad very little money at his banker's, that he could receive nothingfurther from the hospital, and that the sale of the furniture was hisonly resource. 

"Not all, papa, " said Eleanor pleadingly. 

"Not quite all, my dear, " said he; "that is, if we can help it. Wemust have a little at Crabtree, --but it can only be a little; wemust put a bold front on it, Nelly; it isn't easy to come down fromaffluence to poverty. "

And so they planned their future mode of life; the father takingcomfort from the reflection that his daughter would soon be freed fromit, and she resolving that her father would soon have in her own housea ready means of escape from the solitude of the Crabtree vicarage. 

When the archdeacon left his wife and father-in-law at the ChapterCoffee House to go to Messrs Cox and Cummins, he had no very definedidea 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 veryapt to go to their lawyers without much absolute necessity;--gentlemenwhen doing so, are apt to describe such attendance as quitecompulsory, and very disagreeable. The lawyers, on the other hand, do not at all see the necessity, though they quite agree as to thedisagreeable nature of the visit;--gentlemen when so engaged areusually somewhat gravelled at finding nothing to say to their learnedfriends; they generally talk a little politics, a little weather, asksome few foolish questions about their suit, and then withdraw, havingpassed half an hour in a small dingy waiting-room, in company withsome junior assistant-clerk, and ten minutes with the members of thefirm; the business is then over for which the gentleman has come upto London, probably a distance of a hundred and fifty miles. To besure he goes to the play, and dines at his friend's club, and has abachelor's liberty and bachelor's recreation for three or four days;and he could not probably plead the desire of such gratifications asa reason to his wife for a trip to London. 

Married ladies, when your husbands find they are positively obliged toattend their legal advisers, the nature of the duty to be performed isgenerally of this description. 

The archdeacon would not have dreamt of leaving London without goingto Cox and Cummins; and yet he had nothing to say to them. The gamewas up; he plainly saw that Mr Harding in this matter was not to bemoved; his only remaining business on this head was to pay the billand 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'schambers, 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 MrChadwick did the temporalities, and was, therefore, too great a man toundergo the half-hour in the clerk's room. It will not be necessarythat we should listen to the notes of sorrow in which the archdeaconbewailed to Mr Cox the weakness of his father-in-law, and the endof all their hopes of triumph; nor need we repeat the variousexclamations of surprise with which the mournful intelligence wasreceived. No tragedy occurred, though Mr Cox, a short and somewhatbull-necked man, was very near a fit of apoplexy when he firstattempted to ejaculate that fatal word--resign!

Over and over again did Mr Cox attempt to enforce on the archdeaconthe propriety of urging on Mr Warden the madness of the deed he wasabout to do. 

"Eight hundred a year!" said Mr Cox. 

"And nothing whatever to do!" said Mr Cummins, who had joined theconference. 

"No private fortune, I believe, " said Mr Cox. 

"Not a shilling, " said Mr Cummins, in a very low voice, shaking hishead. 

"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 wishto hang up his hat in, " said Mr Cummins. 

"And an unmarried daughter, I believe, " said Mr Cox, with much moralseriousness in his tone. The archdeacon only sighed as each separatewail was uttered, and shook his head, signifying that the fatuity ofsome 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 hastwelve children, and would be delighted to get the hospital. Tobe sure Puddingdale is only four hundred, but that would be savingsomething out of the fire: Mr Harding would have a curate, and stillkeep three hundred or three hundred and fifty. "

The archdeacon opened his ears and listened; he really thought thescheme might do. 

"The newspapers, " continued Mr Cummins, "might hammer away atQuiverful every day for the next six months without his mindingthem. "

The archdeacon took up his hat, and returned to his hotel, thinkingthe matter over deeply. At any rate he would sound Quiverful. A manwith 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 fromthe bishop full of affection, condolence, and praise. "Pray come tome at once, " wrote the bishop, "that we may see what had better bedone; as to the hospital, I will not say a word to dissuade you; but Idon'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 theconsultation between the two old friends. There they sat togetherthe whole long day, plotting to get the better of the archdeacon, andto carry out little schemes of their own, which they knew would beopposed 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 manyof our ladies and gentlemen do starve on incomes from one to fivehundred a year; not that he would be starved as regarded dress coats, port wine, and pocket-money; but that he would positively perish ofinanition for want of bread. 

"How is a man to live, when he gives up all his income?" said thebishop to himself. And then the good-natured little man began toconsider how his friend might be best rescued from a death so horridand painful. 

His first proposition to Mr Harding was, that they should livetogether at the palace. He, the bishop, positively assured Mr Hardingthat he wanted another resident chaplain, --not a young workingchaplain, but a steady, middle-aged chaplain; one who would dine anddrink a glass of wine with him, talk about the archdeacon, and pokethe fire. The bishop did not positively name all these duties, buthe gave Mr Harding to understand that such would be the nature of theservice required. 

It was not without much difficulty that Mr Harding made his friend seethat this would not suit him; that he could not throw up the bishop'spreferment, and then come and hang on at the bishop's table; that hecould not allow people to say of him that it was an easy matter toabandon his own income, as he was able to sponge on that of anotherperson. He succeeded, however, in explaining that the plan would notdo, and then the bishop brought forward another which he had in hissleeve. He, the bishop, had in his will left certain moneys to MrHarding's two daughters, imagining that Mr Harding would himself wantno such assistance during his own lifetime. This legacy amounted tothree thousand pounds each, duty free; and he now pressed it as a gifton his friend. 

"The girls, you know, " said he, "will have it just the same whenyou're gone, --and they won't want it sooner;--and as for the interestduring my lifetime, it isn't worth talking about. I have more thanenough. "

With much difficulty and heartfelt sorrow, Mr Harding refused alsothis offer. No; his wish was to support himself, however poorly, --notto be supported on the charity of anyone. It was hard to make thebishop understand this; it was hard to make him comprehend thatthe only real favour he could confer was the continuation of hisindependent 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 itcould be held without the other situation, --an opinion from which noone differed; and it was therefore soon settled among all the partiesconcerned, that Mr Harding should still be the precentor of thecathedral. 

On the day following Mr Harding's return, the archdeacon reachedPlumstead full of Mr Cummins's scheme regarding Puddingdale and MrQuiverful. On the very next morning he drove over to Puddingdale, and obtained the full consent of the wretched clerical Priam, who wasendeavouring to feed his poor Hecuba and a dozen of Hectors on thesmall proceeds of his ecclesiastical kingdom. Mr Quiverful had nodoubts as to the legal rights of the warden; his conscience would bequite clear as to accepting the income; and as to _The Jupiter_, hebegged to assure the archdeacon that he was quite indifferent to anyemanations from the profane portion of the periodical press. 

Having so far succeeded, he next sounded the bishop; but here he wasastonished by most unexpected resistance. The bishop did not thinkit would do. "Not do, why not?" and seeing that his father was notshaken, he repeated the question in a severer form: "Why not do, mylord?"

His lordship looked very unhappy, and shuffled about in his chair, but still didn't give way; he thought Puddingdale wouldn't do for MrHarding; 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 thehospital; such an exchange wouldn't look well at such a time; and, when pressed harder, he declared he didn't think Mr Harding wouldaccept 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 theslightest 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. Tohis eyes it had no attraction; it savoured of simony, and was likelyto bring down upon him harder and more deserved strictures than any hehad yet received: he positively declined to become vicar ofPuddingdale under any circumstances. 

The archdeacon waxed wroth, talked big, and looked bigger; he saidsomething about dependence and beggary, spoke of the duty every manwas under to earn his bread, made passing allusions to the follies ofyouth and waywardness of age, as though Mr Harding were afflicted byboth, and ended by declaring that he had done. He felt that he hadleft no stone unturned to arrange matters on the best and easiestfooting; that he had, in fact, so arranged them, that he had somanaged that there was no further need of any anxiety in the matter. And how had he been paid? His advice had been systematicallyrejected; he had been not only slighted, but distrusted and avoided;he and his measures had been utterly thrown over, as had been SirAbraham, who, he had reason to know, was much pained at what hadoccurred. He now found it was useless to interfere any further, andhe should retire. If any further assistance were required from him, he would probably be called on, and should be again happy to comeforward. And so he left the hospital, and has not since entered itfrom that day to this. 

And here we must take leave of Archdeacon Grantly. We fear that he isrepresented in these pages as being worse than he is; but we have hadto do with his foibles, and not with his virtues. We have seen onlythe weak side of the man, and have lacked the opportunity of bringinghim forward on his strong ground. That he is a man somewhat too fondof his own way, and not sufficiently scrupulous in his manner ofachieving it, his best friends cannot deny. That he is bigoted infavour, 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 thatsits near his heart. Nevertheless, the archdeacon is a gentleman anda man of conscience; he spends his money liberally, and does the workhe has to do with the best of his ability; he improves the tone ofsociety of those among whom he lives. His aspirations are of ahealthy, if not of the highest, kind. Though never an austere man, he upholds propriety of conduct both by example and precept. Heis generous to the poor, and hospitable to the rich; in matters ofreligion he is sincere, and yet no Pharisee; he is in earnest, and yetno fanatic. On the whole, the Archdeacon of Barchester is a man doingmore good than harm, --a man to be furthered and supported, thoughperhaps also to be controlled; and it is matter of regret to us thatthe course of our narrative has required that we should see more ofhis weakness than his strength. 

Mr Harding allowed himself no rest till everything was prepared forhis departure from the hospital. It may be as well to mention that hewas not driven to the stern necessity of selling all his furniture: hehad been quite in earnest in his intention to do so, but it was soonmade known to him that the claims of Messrs Cox and Cummins made nosuch step obligatory. The archdeacon had thought it wise to make useof the threat of the lawyer's bill, to frighten his father-in-law intocompliance; 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 consciousnesson the part of his lordship. A great part of his furniture he didresolve to sell, having no other means to dispose of it; and theponies and carriage were transferred, by private contract, to the useof an old maiden lady in the city. 

For his present use Mr Harding took a lodging in Barchester, andthither were conveyed such articles as he wanted for daily use:--hismusic, books, and instruments, his own arm-chair, and Eleanor's petsofa; her teapoy and his cellaret, and also the slender but stillsufficient contents of his wine-cellar. Mrs Grantly had much wishedthat her sister would reside at Plumstead, till her father's houseat Crabtree should be ready for her; but Eleanor herself stronglyresisted this proposal. It was in vain urged upon her, that a ladyin lodgings cost more than a gentleman; and that, under her father'spresent circumstances, such an expense should be avoided. Eleanor hadnot pressed her father to give up the hospital in order that she mightlive at Plumstead Rectory and he alone in his Barchester lodgings;nor did Eleanor think that she would be treating a certain gentlemanvery fairly, if she betook herself to the house which he would be theleast desirous of entering of any in the county. So she got a littlebedroom for herself behind the sitting-room, and just over the littleback parlour of the chemist, with whom they were to lodge. There wassomewhat 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 allBarchester were in a state of excitement on the subject. Opinionwas much divided as to the propriety of Mr Harding's conduct. Themercantile part of the community, the mayor and corporation, andcouncil, also most of the ladies, were loud in his praise. Nothingcould be more noble, nothing more generous, nothing more upright. But the gentry were of a different way of thinking, --especially thelawyers and the clergymen. They said such conduct was very weak andundignified; that Mr Harding evinced a lamentable want of _esprit decorps_, as well as courage; and that such an abdication must do muchharm, and could do but little good. 

On the evening before he left, he summoned all the bedesmen into hisparlour to wish them good-bye. With Bunce he had been in frequentcommunication since his return from London, and had been at muchpains to explain to the old man the cause of his resignation, withoutin any way prejudicing the position of his successor. The others, also, he had seen more or less frequently; and had heard from most ofthem separately some expression of regret at his departure; but he hadpostponed his farewell till the last evening. 

He now bade the maid put wine and glasses on the table; and had thechairs arranged around the room; and sent Bunce to each of the men torequest they would come and say farewell to their late warden. Soonthe noise of aged scuffling feet was heard upon the gravel and in thelittle hall, and the eleven men who were enabled to leave their roomswere assembled. 

"Come in, my friends, come in, " said the warden;--he was still wardenthen. "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, andthe blind: poor wretches! who had been so happy, had they but knownit! Now their aged faces were covered with shame, and every kind wordfrom their master was a coal of fire burning on their heads. 

When first the news had reached them that Mr Harding was going toleave the hospital, it had been received with a kind of triumph;--hisdeparture was, as it were, a prelude to success. He had admitted hiswant of right to the money about which they were disputing; and as itdid not belong to him, of course, it did to them. The one hundred ayear to each of them was actually becoming a reality; and Abel Handywas a hero, and Bunce a faint-hearted sycophant, worthy neither honournor fellowship. But other tidings soon made their way into the oldmen's rooms. It was first notified to them that the income abandonedby Mr Harding would not come to them; and these accounts wereconfirmed by attorney Finney. They were then informed that MrHarding's place would be at once filled by another. That the newwarden could not be a kinder man they all knew; that he would be aless friendly one most suspected; and then came the bitter informationthat, 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 theirfight for their rights, --of their petition, and their debates, andtheir hopes! They were to change the best of masters for a possiblebad one, and to lose twopence a day each man! No; unfortunate as thiswas, it was not the worst, or nearly the worst, as will just now beseen. 

"Sit down, sit down, my friends, " said the warden; "I want to say aword to you and to drink your healths, before I leave you. Come uphere, Moody, here is a chair for you; come, Jonathan Crumple;"--and bydegrees he got the men to be seated. It was not surprising that theyshould hang back with faint hearts, having returned so much kindnesswith such deep ingratitude. Last of all of them came Bunce, and withsorrowful mien and slow step got into his accustomed seat near thefire-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 downagain. "My dear old friends, " said he, "you all know that I am goingto leave you. "

There was a sort of murmur ran round the room, intended, perhaps, toexpress regret at his departure; but it was but a murmur, and mighthave meant that or anything else. 

"There has been lately some misunderstanding between us. You havethought, I believe, that you did not get all that you were entitledto, and that the funds of the hospital have not been properly disposedof. As for me, I cannot say what should be the disposition of thesemoneys, or how they should be managed, and I have therefore thought itbest to go. "

"We never wanted to drive your reverence out of it, " said Handy. 

"No, indeed, your reverence, " said Skulpit. "We never thought itwould come to this. When I signed the petition, --that is, I didn'tsign it, because--"

"Let his reverence speak, can't you?" said Moody. 

"No, " continued Mr Harding; "I am sure you did not wish to turn meout; but I thought it best to leave you. I am not a very good hand ata lawsuit, as you may all guess; and when it seemed necessary that ourordinary quiet mode of living should be disturbed, I thought it betterto go. I am neither angry nor offended with any man in the hospital. "

Here Bunce uttered a kind of groan, very clearly expressive ofdisagreement. 

"I am neither angry nor displeased with any man in the hospital, "repeated Mr Harding, emphatically. "If any man has been wrong, --andI don't say any man has, --he has erred through wrong advice. In thiscountry all are entitled to look for their own rights, and you havedone no more. As long as your interests and my interests were atvariance, I could give you no counsel on this subject; but theconnection between us has ceased; my income can no longer depend onyour doings, and therefore, as I leave you, I venture to offer to youmy advice. "

The men all declared that they would from henceforth be entirelyguided by Mr Harding's opinion in their affairs. 

"Some gentleman will probably take my place here very soon, and Istrongly advise you to be prepared to receive him in a kindly spiritand to raise no further question among yourselves as to the amount ofhis income. Were you to succeed in lessening what he has to receive, you would not increase your own allowance. The surplus would not goto you; your wants are adequately provided for, and your positioncould 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 fromunder the same roof with them such a master as not one of them willever know again, --now that they're like to be in sore want of afriend. "

"Come, come, Bunce, " said Mr Harding, blowing his nose and manoeuvringto wipe his eyes at the same time. 

"Oh, as to that, " said Handy, "we none of us never wanted to do MrHarding no harm; if he's going now, it's not along of us; and I don'tsee 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 drinka 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 ifever you want any other, why after all I'm not going so far off butthat I shall sometimes see you;" and then, having finished his speech, Mr Harding filled all the glasses, and himself handed each a glass tothe 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 JesusChrist, and thankful to Almighty God For the good things he has givenyou. God bless you, my friends!" and Mr Harding drank his wine. 

Another murmur, somewhat more articulate than the first, passed roundthe circle, and this time it was intended to imply a blessing on MrHarding. It had, however, but little cordiality in it. Poor oldmen! how could they be cordial with their sore consciences and shamedfaces? how could they bid God bless him with hearty voices and a truebenison, knowing, as they did, that their vile cabal had driven himfrom his happy home, and sent him in his old age to seek shelter undera strange roof-tree? They did their best, however; they drank theirwine, and withdrew. 

As they left the hall-door, Mr Harding shook hands with each of themen, and spoke a kind word to them about their individual cases andailments; and so they departed, answering his questions in the fewestwords, and retreated to their dens, a sorrowful repentant crew. 

All but Bunce, who still remained to make his own farewell. "There'spoor old Bell, " said Mr Harding; "I mustn't go without saying a wordto 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 manpropped up as usual in his bed. 

"I've come to say good-bye to you, Bell, " said Mr Harding, speakingloud, 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 maypart friends, as we lived, you know. "

The old man took the proffered glass in his shaking hands, and drankit eagerly. "God bless you, Bell!" said Mr Harding; "good-bye, my oldfriend. "

"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 hisown, and the warden thought that he had met with something like warmthof feeling in the one of all his subjects from whom it was the leastlikely to be expected; for poor old Bell had nearly outlived all humanfeelings. "And your reverence, " said he, and then he paused, whilehis old palsied head shook horribly, and his shrivelled cheeks sanklower within his jaws, and his glazy eye gleamed with a momentarylight; "and your reverence, shall we get the hundred a year, then?"

How gently did Mr Harding try to extinguish the false hope of moneywhich had been so wretchedly raised to disturb the quiet of the dyingman! One other week and his mortal coil would be shuffled off; inone short week would God resume his soul, and set it apart for itsirrevocable doom; seven more tedious days and nights of senselessinactivity, and all would be over for poor Bell in this world; andyet, 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 hearton what he had seen, and Bunce with him. We will not describe theparting of these two good men, for good men they were. It was invain that the late warden endeavoured to comfort the heart of the oldbedesman; poor old Bunce felt that his days of comfort were gone. Thehospital 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 beensupplied, and he had been a happy man. He wept grievously as heparted 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 lastsqueeze to Mr Harding's hand; "I have now to forgive those who haveinjured me;--and to die. "

And so the old man went out, and then Mr Harding gave way to his griefand he too wept aloud. 

Chapter XXI

CONCLUSION

Our tale is now done, and it only remains to us to collect thescattered threads of our little story, and to tie them into a seemlyknot. This will not be a work of labour, either to the author orto his readers; we have not to deal with many personages, or withstirring events, and were it not for the custom of the thing, we mightleave it to the imagination of all concerned to conceive how affairsat Barchester arranged themselves. 

On the morning after the day last alluded to, Mr Harding, at an earlyhour, walked out of the hospital, with his daughter under his arm, andsat down quietly to breakfast at his lodgings over the chemist's shop. There was no parade about his departure; no one, not even Bunce, wasthere to witness it; had he walked to the apothecary's thus early toget a piece of court plaster, or a box of lozenges, he could not havedone it with less appearance of an important movement. There was atear in Eleanor's eye as she passed through the big gateway and overthe bridge; but Mr Harding walked with an elastic step, and enteredhis new abode with a pleasant face. 

"Now, my dear, " said he, "you have everything ready, and you canmake tea here just as nicely as in the parlour at the hospital. " SoEleanor took off her bonnet and made the tea. After this manner didthe late Warden of Barchester Hospital accomplish his flitting, andchange his residence. 

It was not long before the archdeacon brought his father to discussthe subject of a new warden. Of course he looked upon the nominationas 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 couldnot be brought to bear. How can I describe the astonishment whichconfounded him, when his father declared that he would appoint nosuccessor to Mr Harding? "If we can get the matter set to rights, MrHarding will return, " said the bishop; "and if we cannot, it will bewrong to put any other gentleman into so cruel a position. "

It was in vain that the archdeacon argued and lectured, and eventhreatened; in vain he my-lorded his poor father in his sternestmanner; in vain his "good heavens!" were ejaculated in a tone thatmight have moved a whole synod, let alone one weak and aged bishop. Nothing could induce his father to fill up the vacancy caused by MrHarding's retirement. 

Even John Bold would have pitied the feelings with which thearchdeacon returned to Plumstead: the church was falling, nay, alreadyin ruins; its dignitaries were yielding without a struggle before theblows of its antagonists; and one of its most respected bishops, hisown father, --the man considered by all the world as being in suchmatters under his, Dr Grantly's, control, --had positively resolved tocapitulate, and own himself vanquished!

And how fared the hospital under this resolve of its visitor? Badlyindeed. It is now some years since Mr Harding left it, and thewarden's house is still tenantless. Old Bell has died, and BillyGazy; the one-eyed Spriggs has drunk himself to death, and threeothers of the twelve have been gathered into the churchyard mould. Six have gone, and the six vacancies remain unfilled! Yes, six havedied, with no kind friend to solace their last moments, with nowealthy neighbour to administer comforts and ease the stings of death. Mr Harding, indeed, did not desert them; from him they had suchconsolation as a dying man may receive from his Christian pastor; butit 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; andthen they began to understand that soon one among them would be thelast, --some one wretched being would be alone there in that nowcomfortless hospital, --the miserable relic of what had once been sogood and so comfortable. 

The building of the hospital itself has not been allowed to go toruins. Mr Chadwick, who still holds his stewardship, and pays theaccruing rents into an account opened at a bank for the purpose, seesto that; but the whole place has become disordered and ugly. Thewarden's garden is a wretched wilderness, the drive and paths arecovered with weeds, the flower-beds are bare, and the unshorn lawn isnow a mass of long damp grass and unwholesome moss. The beauty of theplace is gone; its attractions have withered. Alas! a very few yearssince it was the prettiest spot in Barchester, and now it is adisgrace to the city. 

Mr Harding did not go out to Crabtree Parva. An arrangement was madewhich respected the homestead of Mr Smith and his happy family, andput Mr Harding into possession of a small living within the walls ofthe city. It is the smallest possible parish, containing a part ofthe Cathedral Close and a few old houses adjoining. The church is asingular little Gothic building, perched over a gateway, through whichthe Close is entered, and is approached by a flight of stone stepswhich leads down under the archway of the gate. It is no biggerthan an ordinary room, --perhaps twenty-seven feet long by eighteenwide, --but still it is a perfect church. It contains an old carvedpulpit and reading-desk, a tiny altar under a window filled with darkold-coloured glass, a font, some half-dozen pews, and perhaps a dozenseats for the poor; and also a vestry. The roof is high pitched, andof black old oak, and the three large beams which support it run downto the side walls, and terminate in grotesquely carved faces, --twodevils 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 Hardingbecame rector, with a clear income of seventy-five pounds a year. 

Here he performs afternoon service every Sunday, and administers theSacrament once in every three months. His audience is not large; and, had they been so, he could not have accommodated them: but enough cometo fill his six pews, and on the front seat of those devoted to thepoor is always to be seen our old friend Mr Bunce, decently arrayed inhis bedesman's gown. 

Mr Harding is still precentor of Barchester; and it is very rarelythe case that those who attend the Sunday morning service miss thegratification of hearing him chant the Litany, as no other man inEngland can do it. He is neither a discontented nor an unhappyman; he still inhabits the lodgings to which he went on leaving thehospital, but he now has them to himself. Three months after thattime Eleanor became Mrs Bold, and of course removed to her husband'shouse. 

There were some difficulties to be got over on the occasion of themarriage. The archdeacon, who could not so soon overcome his grief, would not be persuaded to grace the ceremony with his presence, but heallowed his wife and children to be there. The marriage took placein the cathedral, and the bishop himself officiated. It was the lastoccasion on which he ever did so; and, though he still lives, it isnot probable that he will ever do so again. 

Not long after the marriage, perhaps six months, when Eleanor'sbridal-honours were fading, and persons were beginning to call her MrsBold without twittering, the archdeacon consented to meet John Bold ata dinner-party, and since that time they have become almost friends. The archdeacon firmly believes that his brother-in-law was, as abachelor, an infidel, an unbeliever in the great truths of ourreligion; but that matrimony has opened his eyes, as it has those ofothers. And Bold is equally inclined to think that time has softenedthe asperities of the archdeacon's character. Friends though theyare, they do not often revert to the feud of the hospital. 

Mr Harding, we say, is not an unhappy man: he keeps his lodgings, butthey are of little use to him, except as being the one spot on earthwhich he calls his own. His time is spent chiefly at his daughter'sor at the palace; he is never left alone, even should he wish to beso; and within a twelvemonth of Eleanor's marriage his determinationto live at his own lodging had been so far broken through andabandoned, that he consented to have his violoncello permanentlyremoved to his daughter's house. 

Every other day a message is brought to him from the bishop. "Thebishop's compliments, and his lordship is not very well to-day, andhe hopes Mr Harding will dine with him. " This bulletin as to the oldman'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 andwithout a struggle. Mr Harding does dine with him very often, whichmeans going to the palace at three and remaining till ten; andwhenever he does not the bishop whines, and says that the port wine iscorked, and complains that nobody attends to him, and frets himselfoff to bed an hour before his time. 

It was long before the people of Barchester forgot to call Mr Hardingby his long well-known name of Warden. It had become so customary tosay Mr Warden, that it was not easily dropped. "No, no, " he alwayssays when so addressed, "not warden now, only precentor. "