NEAR THE CLOSE.
[Illustration]
I wonder whether any one will read these pages who has never known
anything of the bitterness of a family quarrel? If so, I shall have a
reader very fortunate, or else very cold-blooded. It would be wrong
to say that love produces quarrels; but love does produce those
intimate relations of which quarrelling is too often one of the
consequences,--one of the consequences which frequently seem to be so
natural, and sometimes seem to be unavoidable. One brother rebukes
the other,--and what brothers ever lived together between whom there
was no such rebuking?--then some warm word is misunderstood and
hotter words follow and there is a quarrel. The husband tyrannizes,
knowing that it is his duty to direct, and the wife disobeys, or only
partially obeys, thinking that a little independence will become
her,--and so there is a quarrel. The father, anxious only for his
son's good, looks into that son's future with other eyes than those
of his son himself,--and so there is a quarrel. They come very
easily, these quarrels, but the quittance from them is sometimes
terribly difficult. Much of thought is necessary before the angry man
can remember that he too in part may have been wrong; and any attempt
at such thinking is almost beyond the power of him who is carefully
nursing his wrath, lest it cool! But the nursing of such quarrelling
kills all happiness. The very man who is nursing his wrath, lest it
cool,--his wrath against one whom he loves perhaps the best of all
whom it has been given him to love,--is himself wretched as long as
it lasts. His anger poisons every pleasure of his life. He is sullen
at his meals, and cannot understand his book as he turns its pages.
His work, let it be what it may, is ill done. He is full of his
quarrel,--nursing it. He is telling himself how much he has loved
that wicked one, how many have been his sacrifices for that wicked
one, and that now that wicked one is repaying him simply with
wickedness! And yet the wicked one is at that very moment dearer to
him than ever. If that wicked one could only be forgiven how sweet
would the world be again! And yet he nurses his wrath.
So it was in these days with Archdeacon Grantly. He was very angry
with his son. It is hardly too much to say that in every moment of
his life, whether waking or sleeping, he was thinking of the injury
that his son was doing him. He had almost come to forget the fact
that his anger had first been roused by the feeling that his son was
about to do himself an injury,--to cut his own throat. Various other
considerations had now added themselves to that, and filled not only
his mind but his daily conversation with his wife. How terrible
would be the disgrace to Lord Hartletop, how incurable the injury to
Griselda, the marchioness, should the brother-in-law of the one, and
the brother of the other, marry the daughter of a convicted thief!
"Of himself he would say nothing." So he declared constantly, though
of himself he did say a great deal. "Of himself he would say nothing,
though of course such a marriage would ruin him in the county." "My
dear," said his wife, "that is nonsense. That really is nonsense. I
feel sure there is not a single person in the county who would think
of the marriage in such a light." Then the archdeacon would have
quarrelled with his wife too, had she not been too wise to admit
such a quarrel. Mrs. Grantly was very wise and knew that it took two
persons to make a quarrel. He told her over and over again that she
was in league with her son,--that she was encouraging her son to
marry Grace Crawley. "I believe that in your heart you wish it," he
once said to her. "No, my dear, I do not wish it. I do not think it a
becoming marriage. But if he does marry her, I should wish to receive
his wife in my house, and certainly should not quarrel with him." "I
will never receive her," the archdeacon had replied; "and as for him,
I can only say that in such case I will make no provision for his
family."
It will be remembered that the archdeacon had on a former occasion
instructed his wife to write to their son and tell him of his
father's determination. Mrs. Grantly had so manoeuvred that a little
time had been gained, and that those instructions had not been
insisted upon in all their bitterness. Since that time Major Grantly
had renewed his assurance that he would marry Grace Crawley if Grace
Crawley would accept him,--writing on this occasion direct to his
father,--and had asked his father whether, in such case, he was to
look forward to be disinherited. "It is essential that I should
know," the major had said, "because in such case I must take
immediate measures for leaving this place." His father had sent him
back his letter, writing a few words at the bottom of it. "If you do
as you propose above, you must expect nothing from me." The words
were written in large round handwriting, very hurriedly, and the son
when he received them perfectly understood the mood of his father's
mind when he wrote them.
Then there came tidings, addressed on this occasion to Mrs. Grantly,
that Cosby Lodge was to be given up. Lady-day had come, and the
notice, necessarily to be given at that period, was so given. "I know
this will grieve you," Major Grantly had said, "but my father has
driven me to it." This, in itself, was a cause of great sorrow, both
to the archdeacon and to Mrs. Grantly, as there were circumstances
connected with Cosby Lodge which made them think that it was a very
desirable residence for their son. "I shall sell everything about the
place and go abroad at once," he said in a subsequent letter. "My
present idea is that I shall settle myself at Pau, as my income will
suffice for me to live there, and education for Edith will be cheap.
At any rate I will not continue in England. I could never be happy
here in circumstances so altered. Of course I should not have left my
profession, unless I had understood from my father that the income
arising from it would not be necessary to me. I do not, however, mean
to complain, but simply tell you that I shall go." There were many
letters between the mother and son in those days. "I shall stay till
after the trial," he said. "If she will then go with me, well and
good; but whether she will or not, I shall not remain here." All this
seemed to Mrs. Grantly to be peculiarly unfortunate, for, had he not
resolved to go, things might even yet have righted themselves. From
what she could now understand of the character of Miss Crawley, whom
she did not know personally, she thought it probable that Grace,
in the event of her father being found guilty by the jury, would
absolutely and persistently refuse the offer made to her. She would
be too good, as Mrs. Grantly put it to herself, to bring misery and
disgrace into another family. But should Mr. Crawley be acquitted,
and should the marriage then take place, the archdeacon himself might
probably be got to forgive it. In either case there would be no
necessity for breaking up the house at Cosby Lodge. But her dear son
Henry, her best beloved, was obstinate and stiff-necked, and would
take no advice. "He is even worse than his father," she said, in her
short-lived anger, to her own father, to whom alone at this time she
could unburden her griefs, seeking consolation and encouragement.
It was her habit to go over to the deanery at any rate twice a week
at this time, and on the occasion of one of the visits so made, she
expressed very strongly her distress at the family quarrel which had
come among them. The old man took his grandson's part through and
through. "I do not at all see why he should not marry the young lady
if he likes her. As for money, there ought to be enough without his
having to look for a wife with a fortune."
"It is not a question of money, papa."
"And as to rank," continued Mr. Harding, "Henry will not at any rate
be going lower than his father did when he married you;--not so low
indeed, for at that time I was only a minor canon, and Mr. Crawley is
in possession of a benefice."
"Papa, all that is nonsense. It is, indeed."
"Very likely, my dear."
"It is not because Mr. Crawley is only perpetual curate of
Hogglestock, that the archdeacon objects to the marriage. It has
nothing to do with that at all. At the present moment he is in
disgrace."
"Under a cloud, my dear. Let us pray that it may be only a passing
cloud."
"All the world thinks that he was guilty. And then he is such a
man:--so singular, so unlike anybody else! You know, papa, that I
don't think very much of money, merely as money."
"I hope not, my dear. Money is worth thinking of, but it is not worth
very much thought."
"But it does give advantages, and the absence of such advantages must
be very much felt in the education of a girl. You would hardly wish
Henry to marry a young woman who, from want of money, had not been
brought up among ladies. It is not Miss Crawley's fault, but such has
been her lot. We cannot ignore these deficiencies, papa."
"Certainly not, my dear."
"You would not, for instance, wish that Henry should marry a
kitchen-maid."
"But is Miss Crawley a kitchen-maid, Susan?"
"I don't quite say that."
"I am told that she has been educated infinitely better than most of
the young ladies in the neighbourhood," said Mr. Harding.
"I believe that her father has taught her Greek; and I suppose she
has learned something of French at that school at Silverbridge."
"Then the kitchen-maid theory is sufficiently disposed of," said Mr.
Harding, with mild triumph.
"You know what I mean, papa. But the fact is, that it is impossible
to deal with men. They will never be reasonable. A marriage such as
this would be injurious to Henry; but it will not be ruinous; and as
to disinheriting him for it, that would be downright wicked."
"I think so," said Mr. Harding.
"But the archdeacon will look at it as though it would destroy Henry
and Edith altogether, while you speak of it as though it were the
best thing in the world."
"If the young people love each other, I think it would be the best
thing in the world," said Mr. Harding.
"But, papa, you cannot but think that his father's wish should go for
something," said Mrs. Grantly, who, desirous as she was on the one
side to support her son, could not bear that her husband should, on
the other side, be declared to be altogether in the wrong.
"I do not know, my dear," said Mr. Harding; "but I do think, that if
the two young people are fond of each other, and if there is anything
for them to live upon, it cannot be right to keep them apart. You
know, my dear, she is the daughter of a gentleman." Mrs. Grantly upon
this left her father almost brusquely, without speaking another word
on the subject; for, though she was opposed to the vehement anger of
her husband, she could not endure the proposition now made by her
father.
Mr. Harding was at this time living all alone in the deanery. For
some few years the deanery had been his home, and as his youngest
daughter was the dean's wife, there could be no more comfortable
resting-place for the evening of his life. During the last month or
two the days had gone tediously with him; for he had had the large
house all to himself, and he was a man who did not love solitude.
It is hard to conceive that the old, whose thoughts have been all
thought out, should ever love to live alone. Solitude is surely for
the young, who have time before them for the execution of schemes,
and who can, therefore, take delight in thinking. In these days the
poor old man would wander about the rooms, shambling from one chamber
to another, and would feel ashamed when the servants met him ever on
the move. He would make little apologies for his uneasiness, which
they would accept graciously, understanding, after a fashion, why
it was that he was uneasy. "He ain't got nothing to do," said the
housemaid to the cook, "and as for reading, they say that some of
the young ones can read all day sometimes, and all night too; but,
bless you, when you're nigh eighty, reading don't go for much." The
housemaid was right as to Mr. Harding's reading. He was not one who
had read so much in his earlier days as to enable him to make reading
go far with him now that he was near eighty. So he wandered about the
room, and sat here for a few minutes, and there for a few minutes,
and though he did not sleep much, he made the hours of the night
as many as was possible. Every morning he shambled across from the
deanery to the cathedral, and attended the morning service, sitting
in the stall which he had occupied for fifty years. The distance was
very short, not exceeding, indeed, a hundred yards from a side-door
in the deanery to another side-door into the cathedral; but short as
it was there had come to be a question whether he should be allowed
to go alone. It had been feared that he might fall on his passage and
hurt himself; for there was a step here, and a step there, and the
light was not very good in the purlieus of the old cathedral. A word
or two had been said once, and the offer of an arm to help him had
been made; but he had rejected the proffered assistance,--softly,
indeed, but still firmly,--and every day he tottered off by himself,
hardly lifting his feet as he went, and aiding himself on his journey
by a hand upon the wall when he thought that nobody was looking at
him. But many did see him, and they who knew him,--ladies generally
of the city,--would offer him a hand. Nobody was milder in his
dislikings than Mr. Harding; but there were ladies in Barchester upon
whose arm he would always decline to lean, bowing courteously as he
did so, and saying a word or two of constrained civility. There were
others whom he would allow to accompany him home to the door of the
deanery, with whom he delighted to linger and chat if the morning was
warm, and to whom he would tell little stories of his own doings in
the cathedral services in the old days, when Bishop Grantly had ruled
in the diocese. Never a word did he say against Bishop Proudie, or
against Bishop Proudie's wife; but the many words which he did say in
praise of Bishop Grantly,--who, by his showing, was surely one of the
best of churchmen who ever walked through this vale of sorrow,--were
as eloquent in dispraise of the existing prelate as could have been
any more clearly-pointed phrases. This daily visit to the cathedral,
where he would say his prayers as he had said them for so many years,
and listen to the organ, of which he knew all the power and every
blemish as though he himself had made the stops and fixed the pipes,
was the chief occupation of his life. It was a pity that it could not
have been made to cover a larger portion of the day.
It was sometimes sad enough to watch him as he sat alone. He would
have a book near him, and for a while would keep it in his hands. It
would generally be some volume of good old standard theology with
which he had been, or supposed himself to have been, conversant from
his youth. But the book would soon be laid aside, and gradually he
would move himself away from it, and he would stand about in the
room, looking now out of a window from which he would fancy that he
could not be seen, or gazing up at some print which he had known for
years; and then he would sit down for a while in one chair, and for
a while in another, while his mind was wandering back into old days,
thinking of old troubles and remembering his old joys. And he had a
habit, when he was sure that he was not watched, of creeping up to
a great black wooden case, which always stood in one corner of the
sitting-room which he occupied in the deanery. Mr. Harding, when he
was younger, had been a performer on the violoncello, and in this
case there was still the instrument from which he had been wont to
extract the sounds which he had so dearly loved. Now in these latter
days he never made any attempt to play. Soon after he had come to
the deanery there had fallen upon him an illness, and after that he
had never again asked for his bow. They who were around him,--his
daughter chiefly and her husband,--had given the matter much thought,
arguing with themselves whether or no it would be better to invite
him to resume the task he had so loved; for of all the works of his
life this playing on the violoncello had been the sweetest to him;
but even before that illness his hand had greatly failed him, and the
dean and Mrs. Arabin had agreed that it would be better to let the
matter pass without a word. He had never asked to be allowed to play.
He had expressed no regrets. When he himself would propose that his
daughter should "give them a little music,"--and he would make such a
proposition on every evening that was suitable,--he would never say
a word of those former performances at which he himself had taken a
part. But it had become known to Mrs. Arabin, through the servants,
that he had once dragged the instrument forth from its case when he
had thought the house to be nearly deserted; and a wail of sounds had
been heard, very low, very short-lived, recurring now and again at
fitful intervals. He had at those times attempted to play, as though
with a muffled bow,--so that none should know of his vanity and
folly. Then there had been further consultations at the deanery, and
it had been again agreed that it would be best to say nothing to him
of his music.
In these latter days of which I am now speaking he would never draw
the instrument out of its case. Indeed he was aware that it was too
heavy for him to handle without assistance. But he would open the
prison door, and gaze upon the thing that he loved, and he would
pass his fingers among the broad strings, and ever and anon he would
produce from one of them a low, melancholy, almost unearthly sound.
And then he would pause, never daring to produce two such notes in
succession,--one close upon the other. And these last sad moans of
the old fiddle were now known through the household. They were the
ghosts of the melody of days long past. He imagined that his visits
to the box were unsuspected,--that none knew of the folly of his old
fingers which could not keep themselves from touching the wires; but
the voice of the violoncello had been recognized by the servants
and by his daughter, and when that low wail was heard through the
house,--like the last dying note of a dirge,--they would all know
that Mr. Harding was visiting his ancient friend.
When the dean and Mrs. Arabin had first talked of going abroad for a
long visit, it had been understood that Mr. Harding should pass the
period of their absence with his other daughter at Plumstead; but
when the time came he begged of Mrs. Arabin to be allowed to remain
in his old rooms. "Of course I shall go backwards and forwards," he
had said. "There is nothing I like so much as a change now and then."
The result had been that he had gone once to Plumstead during the
dean's absence. When he had thus remonstrated, begging to be allowed
to remain in Barchester, Mrs. Arabin had declared her intention of
giving up her tour. In telling her father of this she had not said
that her altered purpose had arisen from her disinclination to
leave him alone;--but he had perceived that it was so, and had then
consented to be taken over to Plumstead. There was nothing, he said,
which he would like so much as going over to Plumstead for four or
five months. It had ended in his having his own way altogether. The
Arabins had gone upon their tour, and he was left in possession of
the deanery. "I should not like to die out of Barchester," he said to
himself in excuse to himself for his disinclination to sojourn long
under the archdeacon's roof. But, in truth, the archdeacon, who loved
him well and who, after a fashion, had always been good to him,--who
had always spoken of the connexion which had bound the two families
together as the great blessing of his life,--was too rough in his
greetings for the old man. Mr. Harding had ever mixed something of
fear with his warm affection for his elder son-in-law, and now in
these closing hours of his life he could not avoid a certain amount
of shrinking from that loud voice,--a certain inaptitude to be quite
at ease in that commanding presence. The dean, his second son-in-law,
had been a modern friend in comparison with the archdeacon; but the
dean was more gentle with him; and then the dean's wife had ever been
the dearest to him of human beings. It may be a doubt whether one
of the dean's children was not now almost more dear, and whether in
these days he did not have more free communication with that little
girl than with any other human being. Her name was Susan, but he
had always called her Posy, having himself invented for her that
soubriquet. When it had been proposed to him to pass the winter and
spring at Plumstead, the suggestion had been made alluring by a
promise that Posy also should be taken to Mrs. Grantly's house.
But he, as we have seen, had remained at the deanery, and Posy had
remained with him.
Posy was now five years old, and could talk well, and had her own
ideas of things. Posy's eyes,--hers, and no others besides her
own,--were allowed to see the inhabitant of the big black case; and
now that the deanery was so nearly deserted, Posy's fingers had
touched the strings, and had produced an infantine moan. "Grandpa,
let me do it again." Twang! It was not, however, in truth, a twang,
but a sound as of a prolonged dull, almost deadly, hum-m-m-m-m! On
this occasion the moan was not entirely infantine,--Posy's fingers
having been something too strong,--and the case was closed and
locked, and grandpapa shook his head.
"But Mrs. Baxter won't be angry," said Posy. Mrs. Baxter was the
housekeeper in the deanery, and had Mr. Harding under her especial
charge.
"No, my darling; Mrs. Baxter will not be angry, but we mustn't
disturb the house."
"No," said Posy, with much of important awe in her tone; "we
mustn't disturb the house; must we, grandpapa?" And so she gave
in her adhesion to the closing of the case. But Posy could play
cat's-cradle, and as cat's-cradle did not disturb the house at all,
there was a good deal of cat's-cradle played in these days. Posy's
fingers were so soft and pretty, so small and deft, that the dear old
man delighted in taking the strings from them, and in having them
taken from his own by those tender little digits.
[Illustration: Posy and her Grandpapa.]
On the afternoon after the conversation respecting Grace Crawley
which is recorded in the early part of this chapter, a messenger
from Barchester went over to Plumstead, and a part of his mission
consisted of a note from Mrs. Baxter to Mrs. Grantly, beginning,
"Honoured Madam," and informing Mrs. Grantly, among other things,
that her "respected papa," as Mrs. Baxter called him, was not quite
so well as usual; not that Mrs. Baxter thought there was much the
matter. Mr. Harding had been to the cathedral service, as was usual
with him, but had come home leaning on a lady's arm, who had thought
it well to stay with him at the door till it had been opened for him.
After that "Miss Posy" had found him asleep, and had been unable,--or
if not unable, unwilling, to wake him. "Miss Posy" had come down to
Mrs. Baxter somewhat in a fright, and hence this letter had been
written. Mrs. Baxter thought that there was nothing "to fright" Mrs.
Grantly, and she wasn't sure that she should have written at all only
that Dick was bound to go over to Plumstead with the wool; but as
Dick was going, Mrs. Baxter thought it proper to send her duty, and
to say that to her humble way of thinking perhaps it might be best
that Mr. Harding shouldn't go alone to the cathedral every morning.
"If the dear reverend gentleman was to get a tumble, ma'am," said the
letter, "it would be awkward." Then Mrs. Grantly remembered that she
had left her father almost without a greeting on the previous day,
and she resolved that she would go over very early on the following
morning,--so early that she would be at the deanery before her father
should have gone to the cathedral.
"He ought to have come over here, and not stayed there by himself,"
said the archdeacon, when his wife told him of her intention.
"It is too late to think of that now, my dear; and one can
understand, I think, that he should not like leaving the cathedral as
long as he can attend it. The truth is he does not like being out of
Barchester."
"He would be much better here," said the archdeacon. "Of course you
can have the carriage and go over. We can breakfast at eight; and if
you can bring him back with you, do. I should tell him that he ought
to come." Mrs. Grantly made no answer to this, knowing very well that
she could not bring herself to go beyond the gentlest persuasion with
her father, and on the next morning she was at the deanery by ten
o'clock. Half-past ten was the hour at which the service began. Mrs.
Baxter contrived to meet her before she saw her father, and begged
her not to let it be known that any special tidings of Mr. Harding's
failing strength had been sent from the deanery to Plumstead. "And
how is my father?" asked Mrs. Grantly. "Well, then, ma'am," said
Baxter, "in one sense he's finely. He took a morsel of early lamb
to his dinner yesterday, and relished it ever so well,--only he
gave Miss Posy the best part of it. And then he sat with Miss Posy
quite happy for an hour or so. And then he slept in his chair; and
you know, ma'am, we never wakes him. And after that old Skulpit
toddled up from the hospital,"--this was Hiram's Hospital, of which
establishment, in the city of Barchester, Mr. Harding had once been
the warden and kind master, as has been told in former chronicles
of the city,--"and your papa has said, ma'am, you know, that he is
always to see any of the old men when they come up. And Skulpit is
sly, and no better than he should be, and got money from your father,
ma'am, I know. And then he had just a drop of tea, and after that I
took him his glass of port wine with my own hands. And it touched me,
ma'am, so it did, when he said, 'Oh, Mrs. Baxter, how good you are;
you know well what it is I like.' And then he went to bed. I listened
hard,--not from idle cur'osity, ma'am, as you, who know me, will
believe, but just because it's becoming to know what he's about, as
there might be an accident, you know, ma'am." "You are very good,
Mrs. Baxter, very good." "Thank ye, ma'am, for saying so. And so I
listened hard; but he didn't go to his music, poor gentleman; and
I think he had a quiet night. He doesn't sleep much at nights, poor
gentleman, but he's very quiet; leastwise he was last night." This
was the bulletin which Mrs. Baxter gave to Mrs. Grantly on that
morning before Mrs. Grantly saw her father.
She found him preparing himself for his visit to the cathedral. Some
year or two,--but no more,--before the date of which we are speaking,
he had still taken some small part in the service; and while he had
done so he had of course worn his surplice. Living so close to the
cathedral,--so close that he could almost walk out of the house into
the transept,--he had kept his surplice in his own room, and had gone
down in his vestment. It had been a bitter day to him when he had
first found himself constrained to abandon the white garment which
he loved. He had encountered some failure in the performance of the
slight clerical task allotted to him, and the dean had tenderly
advised him to desist. He did not utter one word of remonstrance.
"It will perhaps be better," the dean had said. "Yes,--it will be
better," Mr. Harding had replied. "Few have had accorded to them
the high privilege of serving their Master in His house for so many
years,--though few more humbly, or with lower gifts." But on the
following morning, and for nearly a week afterwards, he had been
unable to face the minor canon and the vergers, and the old women
who knew him so well, in his ordinary black garments. At last he
went down with the dean, and occupied a stall close to the dean's
seat,--far away from that in which he had sat for so many years,--and
in this seat he had said his prayers ever since that day. And now his
surplices were washed and ironed and folded and put away; but there
were moments in which he would stealthily visit them, as he also
stealthily visited his friend in the black wooden case. This was very
melancholy, and the sadness of it was felt by all those who lived
with him; but he never alluded himself to any of those bereavements
which age brought upon him. Whatever might be his regrets, he kept
them ever within his own breast.
Posy was with him when Mrs. Grantly went up into his room, holding
for him his hat and stick while he was engaged in brushing a
suspicion of dust from his black gaiters. "Grandpapa, here is aunt
Susan," said Posy. The old man looked up with something,--with some
slightest sign of that habitual fear which was always aroused within
his bosom by visitations from Plumstead. Had Mrs. Arabin thoroughly
understood the difference in her father's feeling toward herself and
toward her sister, I think she would hardly have gone forth upon
any tour while he remained with her in the deanery. It is very hard
sometimes to know how intensely we are loved, and of what value our
presence is to those who love us! Mrs. Grantly saw the look,--did not
analyse it, did not quite understand it,--but felt, as she had so
often felt before, that it was not altogether laden with welcome. But
all this had nothing to do with the duty on which she had come; nor
did it, in the slightest degree, militate against her own affection.
"Papa," she said, kissing him, "you are surprised to see me so
early?"
"Well, my dear, yes;--but very glad all the same. I hope everybody is
well at Plumstead?"
"Everybody, thank you, papa."
"That is well. Posy and I are getting ready for church. Are we not,
Posy?"
"Grandpapa is getting ready. Mrs. Baxter won't let me go."
"No, my dear, no;--not yet, Posy. When Posy is a great girl she can
go to cathedral every day. Only then, perhaps, Posy won't want to
go."
"I thought that, perhaps, papa, you would sit with me a little while
this morning, instead of going to morning prayers."
"Certainly, my dear,--certainly. Only I do not like not going;--for
who can say how often I may be able to go again? There is so little
left, Susan,--so very little left."
After that she had not the heart to ask him to stay, and therefore
she went with him. As they passed down the stairs and out of the
doors she was astonished to find how weak were his footsteps,--how
powerless he was against the slightest misadventure. On this very
day he would have tripped at the upward step at the cathedral door
had she not been with him. "Oh, papa," she said, "indeed, indeed,
you should not come here alone." Then he apologized for his little
stumble with many words and much shame, assuring her that anybody
might trip on an occasion. It was purely an accident; and though it
was a comfort to him to have had her arm, he was sure that he should
have recovered himself even had he been alone. He always, he said,
kept quite close to the wall, so that there might be no mistake,--no
possibility of an accident. All this he said volubly, but with
confused words, in the covered stone passage leading into the
transept. And, as he thus spoke, Mrs. Grantly made up her mind that
her father should never again go to the cathedral alone. He never did
go again to the cathedral,--alone.
When they returned to the deanery, Mr. Harding was fluttered, weary,
and unwell. When his daughter left him for a few minutes he told Mrs.
Baxter, in confidence, the story of his accident, and his great grief
that his daughter should have seen it. "Laws amercy, sir, it was
a blessing she was with you," said Mrs. Baxter; "it was, indeed,
Mr. Harding." Then Mr. Harding had been angry, and spoke almost
crossly to Mrs. Baxter; but, before she left the room, he found an
opportunity of begging her pardon,--not in a set speech to that
effect, but by a little word of gentle kindness, which she had
understood perfectly. "Papa," said Mrs. Grantly to him as soon as
she had succeeded in getting both Posy and Mrs. Baxter out of the
room,--against the doing of which, Mr. Harding had manoeuvred with
all his little impotent skill,--"Papa, you must promise me that you
will not go to the cathedral again alone, till Eleanor comes home."
When he heard the sentence he looked at her with blank misery in his
eyes. He made no attempt at remonstrance. He begged for no respite.
The word had gone forth, and he knew that it must be obeyed. Though
he would have hidden the signs of his weakness had he been able, he
would not condescend to plead that he was strong. "If you think it
wrong, my dear, I will not go alone," he said. "Papa, I do; indeed,
I do. Dear papa, I would not hurt you by saying it if I did not know
that I am right." He was sitting with his hand upon the table, and,
as she spoke to him, she put her hand upon his, caressing it. "My
dear," he said, "you are always right."
She then left him again for awhile, having some business out in
the city, and he was alone in his room for an hour. What was there
left to him now in the world? Old as he was, and in some things
almost childish, nevertheless, he thought of this keenly, and some
half-realized remembrance of "the lean and slippered pantaloon"
flitted across his mind, causing him a pang. What was there left to
him now in the world? Posy and cat's-cradle! Then, in the midst of
his regrets, as he sat with his back bent in his old easy-chair, with
one arm over the shoulder of the chair, and the other hanging loose
by his side, on a sudden there came across his face a smile as sweet
as ever brightened the face of man or woman. He had been able to tell
himself that he had no ground for complaint,--great ground rather for
rejoicing and gratitude. Had not the world and all in it been good to
him; had he not children who loved him, who had done him honour, who
had been to him always a crown of glory, never a mark for reproach;
had not his lines fallen to him in very pleasant places; was it not
his happy fate to go and leave it all amidst the good words and kind
loving cares of devoted friends? Whose latter days had ever been more
blessed than his? And for the future--? It was as he thought of this
that that smile came across his face,--as though it were already
the face of an angel. And then he muttered to himself a word or
two. "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace. Lord, now
lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace."
When Mrs. Grantly returned she found him in jocund spirits. And yet
she perceived that he was so weak that when he left his chair he
could barely get across the room without assistance. Mrs. Baxter,
indeed, had not sent to her too soon, and it was well that the
prohibition had come in time to prevent some terrible accident.
"Papa," she said, "I think you had better go with me to Plumstead.
The carriage is here, and I can take you home so comfortably." But he
would not allow himself to be taken on this occasion to Plumstead. He
smiled and thanked her, and put his hand into hers, and repeated his
promise that he would not leave the house on any occasion without
assistance, and declared himself specially thankful to her for
coming to him on that special morning;--but he would not be taken to
Plumstead. "When the summer comes," he said, "then, if you will have
me for a few days!"
He meant no deceit, and yet he had told himself within the last hour
that he should never see another summer. He could not tell even his
daughter that after such a life as this, after more than fifty years
spent in the ministrations of his darling cathedral, it specially
behoved him to die,--as he had lived,--at Barchester. He could not
say this to his eldest daughter; but had his Eleanor been at home, he
could have said it to her. He thought he might yet live to see his
Eleanor once again. If this could be given to him he would ask for
nothing more.
On the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Baxter wrote another letter,
in which she told Mrs. Grantly that her father had declared, at his
usual hour of rising that morning, that as he was not going to the
cathedral he would, he thought, lie in bed a little longer. And then
he had lain in bed the whole day. "And, perhaps, honoured madam,
looking at all things, it's best as he should," said Mrs. Baxter.