DR GRANTLY VISITS THE HOSPITAL
Though doubt and hesitation disturbed the rest of our poor warden, no
such weakness perplexed the nobler breast of his son-in-law. As the
indomitable cock preparing for the combat sharpens his spurs, shakes
his feathers, and erects his comb, so did the archdeacon arrange his
weapons for the coming war, without misgiving and without fear. That
he was fully confident of the justice of his cause let no one doubt.
Many a man can fight his battle with good courage, but with a doubting
conscience. Such was not the case with Dr Grantly. He did not
believe in the Gospel with more assurance than he did in the sacred
justice of all ecclesiastical revenues. When he put his shoulder to
the wheel to defend the income of the present and future precentors
of Barchester, he was animated by as strong a sense of a holy cause,
as that which gives courage to a missionary in Africa, or enables a
sister of mercy to give up the pleasures of the world for the wards
of a hospital. He was about to defend the holy of holies from the
touch of the profane; to guard the citadel of his church from the
most rampant of its enemies; to put on his good armour in the best of
fights, and secure, if possible, the comforts of his creed for coming
generations of ecclesiastical dignitaries. Such a work required no
ordinary vigour; and the archdeacon was, therefore, extraordinarily
vigorous. It demanded a buoyant courage, and a heart happy in its
toil; and the archdeacon's heart was happy, and his courage was
buoyant.
He knew that he would not be able to animate his father-in-law
with feelings like his own, but this did not much disturb him. He
preferred to bear the brunt of the battle alone, and did not doubt
that the warden would resign himself into his hands with passive
submission.
"Well, Mr Chadwick," he said, walking into the steward's office a day
or two after the signing of the petition as commemorated in the last
chapter: "anything from Cox and Cummins this morning?" Mr Chadwick
handed him a letter; which he read, stroking the tight-gaitered calf
of his right leg as he did so. Messrs Cox and Cummins merely said
that they had as yet received no notice from their adversaries;
that they could recommend no preliminary steps; but that should any
proceeding really be taken by the bedesmen, it would be expedient to
consult that very eminent Queen's Counsel, Sir Abraham Haphazard.
"I quite agree with them," said Dr Grantly, refolding the letter.
"I perfectly agree with them. Haphazard is no doubt the best man; a
thorough churchman, a sound conservative, and in every respect the
best man we could get;--he's in the House, too, which is a great
thing."
Mr Chadwick quite agreed.
"You remember how completely he put down that scoundrel Horseman about
the Bishop of Beverley's income; how completely he set them all adrift
in the earl's case." Since the question of St Cross had been mooted
by the public, one noble lord had become "the earl," _par excellence_,
in the doctor's estimation. "How he silenced that fellow at
Rochester. Of course we must have Haphazard; and I'll tell you what,
Mr Chadwick, we must take care to be in time, or the other party will
forestall us."
With all his admiration for Sir Abraham, the doctor seemed to think
it not impossible that that great man might be induced to lend his
gigantic powers to the side of the church's enemies.
Having settled this point to his satisfaction, the doctor stepped down
to the hospital, to learn how matters were going on there; and as he
walked across the hallowed close, and looked up at the ravens who
cawed with a peculiar reverence as he wended his way, he thought with
increased acerbity of those whose impiety would venture to disturb the
goodly grace of cathedral institutions.
And who has not felt the same? We believe that Mr Horseman himself
would relent, and the spirit of Sir Benjamin Hall give way, were those
great reformers to allow themselves to stroll by moonlight round the
towers of some of our ancient churches. Who would not feel charity
for a prebendary when walking the quiet length of that long aisle at
Winchester, looking at those decent houses, that trim grass-plat, and
feeling, as one must, the solemn, orderly comfort of the spot! Who
could be hard upon a dean while wandering round the sweet close of
Hereford, and owning that in that precinct, tone and colour, design
and form, solemn tower and storied window, are all in unison, and all
perfect! Who could lie basking in the cloisters of Salisbury, and
gaze on Jewel's library and that unequalled spire, without feeling
that bishops should sometimes be rich!
The tone of our archdeacon's mind must not astonish us; it has been
the growth of centuries of church ascendancy; and though some fungi
now disfigure the tree, though there be much dead wood, for how much
good fruit have not we to be thankful? Who, without remorse, can
batter down the dead branches of an old oak, now useless, but, ah!
still so beautiful, or drag out the fragments of the ancient forest,
without feeling that they sheltered the younger plants, to which they
are now summoned to give way in a tone so peremptory and so harsh?
The archdeacon, with all his virtues, was not a man of delicate
feeling; and after having made his morning salutations in the warden's
drawing-room, he did not scruple to commence an attack on "pestilent"
John Bold in the presence of Miss Harding, though he rightly guessed
that that lady was not indifferent to the name of his enemy.
"Nelly, my dear, fetch me my spectacles from the back room," said her
father, anxious to save both her blushes and her feelings.
Eleanor brought the spectacles, while her father was trying, in
ambiguous phrases, to explain to her too-practical brother-in-law that
it might be as well not to say anything about Bold before her, and
then retreated. Nothing had been explained to her about Bold and the
hospital; but, with a woman's instinct she knew that things were going
wrong.
"We must soon be doing something," commenced the archdeacon, wiping
his brows with a large, bright-coloured handkerchief, for he had felt
busy, and had walked quick, and it was a broiling summer's day. "Of
course you have heard of the petition?"
Mr Harding owned, somewhat unwillingly, that he had heard of it.
"Well!"--the archdeacon looked for some expressions of opinion, but
none coming, he continued,--"We must be doing something, you know; we
mustn't allow these people to cut the ground from under us while we
sit looking on." The archdeacon, who was a practical man, allowed
himself the use of everyday expressive modes of speech when among his
closest intimates, though no one could soar into a more intricate
labyrinth of refined phraseology when the church was the subject, and
his lower brethren were his auditors.
The warden still looked mutely in his face, making the slightest
possible passes with an imaginary fiddle bow, and stopping, as he
did so, sundry imaginary strings with the fingers of his other hand.
'Twas his constant consolation in conversational troubles. While
these vexed him sorely, the passes would be short and slow, and the
upper hand would not be seen to work; nay, the strings on which it
operated would sometimes lie concealed in the musician's pocket, and
the instrument on which he played would be beneath his chair;--but as
his spirit warmed to the subject,--as his trusting heart looking to
the bottom of that which vexed him, would see its clear way out,--he
would rise to a higher melody, sweep the unseen strings with a bolder
hand, and swiftly fingering the cords from his neck, down along his
waistcoat, and up again to his very ear, create an ecstatic strain of
perfect music, audible to himself and to St Cecilia, and not without
effect.
"I quite agree with Cox and Cummins," continued the archdeacon.
"They say we must secure Sir Abraham Haphazard. I shall not have
the slightest fear in leaving the case in Sir Abraham's hands."
The warden played the slowest and saddest of tunes. It was but a
dirge on one string.
"I think Sir Abraham will not be long in letting Master Bold know what
he's about. I fancy I hear Sir Abraham cross-questioning him at the
Common Pleas."
The warden thought of his income being thus discussed, his modest
life, his daily habits, and his easy work; and nothing issued from
that single cord, but a low wail of sorrow. "I suppose they've sent
this petition up to my father." The warden didn't know; he imagined
they would do so this very day.
"What I can't understand is, how you let them do it, with such a
command as you have in the place, or should have with such a man as
Bunce. I cannot understand why you let them do it."
"Do what?" asked the warden.
"Why, listen to this fellow Bold, and that other low pettifogger,
Finney;--and get up this petition too. Why didn't you tell Bunce to
destroy the petition?"
"That would have been hardly wise," said the warden.
"Wise;--yes, it would have been very wise if they'd done it among
themselves. I must go up to the palace and answer it now, I suppose.
It's a very short answer they'll get, I can tell you."
"But why shouldn't they petition, doctor?"
"Why shouldn't they!" responded the archdeacon, in a loud brazen
voice, as though all the men in the hospital were expected to hear him
through the walls; "why shouldn't they? I'll let them know why they
shouldn't; by the bye, warden, I'd like to say a few words to them all
together."
The warden's mind misgave him, and even for a moment he forgot to
play. He by no means wished to delegate to his son-in-law his place
and authority of warden; he had expressly determined not to interfere
in any step which the men might wish to take in the matter under
dispute; he was most anxious neither to accuse them nor to defend
himself. All these things he was aware the archdeacon would do in his
behalf, and that not in the mildest manner; and yet he knew not how to
refuse the permission requested.
"I'd so much sooner remain quiet in the matter," said he, in an
apologetic voice.
"Quiet!" said the archdeacon, still speaking with his brazen trumpet;
"do you wish to be ruined in quiet?"
"Why, if I am to be ruined, certainly."
"Nonsense, warden; I tell you something must be done;--we must act;
just let me ring the bell, and send the men word that I'll speak to
them in the quad."
Mr Harding knew not how to resist, and the disagreeable order was
given. The quad, as it was familiarly called, was a small quadrangle,
open on one side to the river, and surrounded on the others by the
high wall of Mr Harding's garden, by one gable end of Mr Harding's
house, and by the end of the row of buildings which formed the
residences of the bedesmen. It was flagged all round, and the centre
was stoned; small stone gutters ran from the four corners of the
square to a grating in the centre; and attached to the end of Mr
Harding's house was a conduit with four cocks covered over from the
weather, at which the old men got their water, and very generally
performed their morning toilet. It was a quiet, sombre place, shaded
over by the trees of the warden's garden. On the side towards the
river, there stood a row of stone seats, on which the old men would
sit and gaze at the little fish, as they flitted by in the running
stream. On the other side of the river was a rich, green meadow,
running up to and joining the deanery, and as little open to the
public as the garden of the dean itself. Nothing, therefore, could be
more private than the quad of the hospital; and it was there that the
archdeacon determined to convey to them his sense of their refractory
proceedings.
The servant soon brought in word that the men were assembled in the
quad, and the archdeacon, big with his purpose, rose to address them.
"Well, warden, of course you're coming," said he, seeing that Mr
Harding did not prepare to follow him.
"I wish you'd excuse me," said Mr Harding.
"For heaven's sake, don't let us have division in the camp," replied
the archdeacon: "let us have a long pull and a strong pull, but above
all a pull all together; come, warden, come; don't be afraid of your
duty."
Mr Harding was afraid; he was afraid that he was being led to do that
which was not his duty; he was not, however, strong enough to resist,
so he got up and followed his son-in-law.
The old men were assembled in groups in the quadrangle--eleven of them
at least, for poor old Johnny Bell was bed-ridden, and couldn't come;
he had, however, put his mark to the petition, as one of Handy's
earliest followers. 'Tis true he could not move from the bed where
he lay; 'tis true he had no friend on earth, but those whom the
hospital contained; and of those the warden and his daughter were
the most constant and most appreciated; 'tis true that everything was
administered to him which his failing body could require, or which his
faint appetite could enjoy; but still his dull eye had glistened for a
moment at the idea of possessing a hundred pounds a year "to his own
cheek," as Abel Handy had eloquently expressed it; and poor old Johnny
Bell had greedily put his mark to the petition.
When the two clergymen appeared, they all uncovered their heads.
Handy was slow to do it, and hesitated; but the black coat and
waistcoat of which he had spoken so irreverently in Skulpit's room,
had its effect even on him, and he too doffed his hat. Bunce,
advancing before the others, bowed lowly to the archdeacon, and with
affectionate reverence expressed his wish, that the warden and Miss
Eleanor were quite well; "and the doctor's lady," he added, turning
to the archdeacon, "and the children at Plumstead, and my lord;" and
having made his speech, he also retired among the others, and took
his place with the rest upon the stone benches.
As the archdeacon stood up to make his speech, erect in the middle of
that little square, he looked like an ecclesiastical statue placed
there, as a fitting impersonation of the church militant here on
earth; his shovel hat, large, new, and well-pronounced, a churchman's
hat in every inch, declared the profession as plainly as does the
Quaker's broad brim; his heavy eyebrows, large open eyes, and full
mouth and chin expressed the solidity of his order; the broad chest,
amply covered with fine cloth, told how well to do was its estate; one
hand ensconced within his pocket, evinced the practical hold which our
mother church keeps on her temporal possessions; and the other, loose
for action, was ready to fight if need be in her defence; and, below
these, the decorous breeches, and neat black gaiters showing so
admirably that well-turned leg, betokened the decency, the outward
beauty and grace of our church establishment.
"Now, my men," he began, when he had settled himself well in his
position, "I want to say a few words to you. Your good friend, the
warden here, and myself, and my lord the bishop, on whose behalf I
wish to speak to you, would all be very sorry, very sorry indeed,
that you should have any just ground of complaint. Any just ground
of complaint on your part would be removed at once by the warden, or
by his lordship, or by me on his behalf, without the necessity of
any petition on your part." Here the orator stopped for a moment,
expecting that some little murmurs of applause would show that
the weakest of the men were beginning to give way; but no such
murmurs came. Bunce, himself, even sat with closed lips, mute and
unsatisfactory. "Without the necessity of any petition at all," he
repeated. "I'm told you have addressed a petition to my lord." He
paused for a reply from the men, and after a while, Handy plucked up
courage and said, "Yes, we has."
"You have addressed a petition to my lord, in which, as I am informed,
you express an opinion that you do not receive from Hiram's estate all
that is your due." Here most of the men expressed their assent. "Now
what is it you ask for? What is it you want that you hav'n't got
here? What is it--"
"A hundred a year," muttered old Moody, with a voice as if it came out
of the ground.
"A hundred a year!" ejaculated the archdeacon militant, defying the
impudence of these claimants with one hand stretched out and closed,
while with the other he tightly grasped, and secured within his
breeches pocket, that symbol of the church's wealth which his own
loose half-crowns not unaptly represented. "A hundred a year!
Why, my men, you must be mad; and you talk about John Hiram's will!
When John Hiram built a hospital for worn-out old men, worn-out old
labouring men, infirm old men past their work, cripples, blind,
bed-ridden, and such like, do you think he meant to make gentlemen of
them? Do you think John Hiram intended to give a hundred a year to
old single men, who earned perhaps two shillings or half-a-crown a day
for themselves and families in the best of their time? No, my men,
I'll tell you what John Hiram meant: he meant that twelve poor old
worn-out labourers, men who could no longer support themselves, who
had no friends to support them, who must starve and perish miserably
if not protected by the hand of charity;--he meant that twelve such
men as these should come in here in their poverty and wretchedness,
and find within these walls shelter and food before their death, and a
little leisure to make their peace with God. That was what John Hiram
meant: you have not read John Hiram's will, and I doubt whether those
wicked men who are advising you have done so. I have; I know what his
will was; and I tell you that that was his will, and that that was his
intention."
Not a sound came from the eleven bedesmen, as they sat listening to
what, according to the archdeacon, was their intended estate. They
grimly stared upon his burly figure, but did not then express, by word
or sign, the anger and disgust to which such language was sure to give
rise.
"Now let me ask you," he continued: "do you think you are worse off
than John Hiram intended to make you? Have you not shelter, and food,
and leisure? Have you not much more? Have you not every indulgence
which you are capable of enjoying? Have you not twice better food,
twice a better bed, ten times more money in your pocket than you were
ever able to earn for yourselves before you were lucky enough to get
into this place? And now you send a petition to the bishop, asking
for a hundred pounds a year! I tell you what, my friends; you are
deluded, and made fools of by wicked men who are acting for their
own ends. You will never get a hundred pence a year more than what
you have now: it is very possible that you may get less; it is very
possible that my lord the bishop, and your warden, may make changes--"
"No, no, no," interrupted Mr Harding, who had been listening with
indescribable misery to the tirade of his son-in-law; "no, my friends.
I want no changes,--at least no changes that shall make you worse off
than you now are, as long as you and I live together."
"God bless you, Mr Harding," said Bunce; and "God bless you, Mr
Harding, God bless you, sir: we know you was always our friend," was
exclaimed by enough of the men to make it appear that the sentiment
was general.
The archdeacon had been interrupted in his speech before he had quite
finished it; but he felt that he could not recommence with dignity
after this little ebullition, and he led the way back into the garden,
followed by his father-in-law.
"Well," said he, as soon as he found himself within the cool retreat
of the warden's garden; "I think I spoke to them plainly." And he
wiped the perspiration from his brow; for making a speech under a
broiling mid-day sun in summer, in a full suit of thick black cloth,
is warm work.
"Yes, you were plain enough," replied the warden, in a tone which did
not express approbation.
"And that's everything," said the other, who was clearly well
satisfied with himself; "that's everything: with those sort of people
one must be plain, or one will not be understood. Now, I think they
did understand me;--I think they knew what I meant."
The warden agreed. He certainly thought they had understood to the
full what had been said to them.
"They know pretty well what they have to expect from us; they know how
we shall meet any refractory spirit on their part; they know that we
are not afraid of them. And now I'll just step into Chadwick's, and
tell him what I've done; and then I'll go up to the palace, and answer
this petition of theirs."
The warden's mind was very full,--full nearly to overcharging itself;
and had it done so,--had he allowed himself to speak the thoughts
which were working within him, he would indeed have astonished the
archdeacon by the reprobation he would have expressed as to the
proceeding of which he had been so unwilling a witness. But different
feelings kept him silent; he was as yet afraid of differing from his
son-in-law;--he was anxious beyond measure to avoid even a semblance
of rupture with any of his order, and was painfully fearful of having
to come to an open quarrel with any person on any subject. His life
had hitherto been so quiet, so free from strife; his little early
troubles had required nothing but passive fortitude; his subsequent
prosperity had never forced upon him any active cares,--had never
brought him into disagreeable contact with anyone. He felt that
he would give almost anything,--much more than he knew he ought to
do,--to relieve himself from the storm which he feared was coming.
It was so hard that the pleasant waters of his little stream should be
disturbed and muddied by rough hands; that his quiet paths should be
made a battlefield; that the unobtrusive corner of the world which had
been allotted to him, as though by Providence, should be invaded and
desecrated, and all within it made miserable and unsound.
Money he had none to give; the knack of putting guineas together
had never belonged to him; but how willingly, with what a foolish
easiness, with what happy alacrity, would he have abandoned the half
of his income for all time to come, could he by so doing have quietly
dispelled the clouds that were gathering over him,--could he have thus
compromised the matter between the reformer and the conservative,
between his possible son-in-law, Bold, and his positive son-in-law,
the archdeacon.
And this compromise would not have been made from any prudential
motive of saving what would yet remain, for Mr Harding still felt
little doubt but he should be left for life in quiet possession of the
good things he had, if he chose to retain them. No; he would have
done so from the sheer love of quiet, and from a horror of being made
the subject of public talk. He had very often been moved to pity.--to
that inward weeping of the heart for others' woes; but none had he
ever pitied more than that old lord, whose almost fabulous wealth,
drawn from his church preferments, had become the subject of so much
opprobrium, of such public scorn; that wretched clerical octogenarian
Croesus, whom men would not allow to die in peace,--whom all the world
united to decry and to abhor.
Was he to suffer such a fate? Was his humble name to be bandied in
men's mouths, as the gormandiser of the resources of the poor, as
of one who had filched from the charity of other ages wealth which
had been intended to relieve the old and the infirm? Was he to be
gibbeted in the press, to become a byword for oppression, to be named
as an example of the greed of the English church? Should it ever
be said that he had robbed those old men, whom he so truly and so
tenderly loved in his heart of hearts? As he slowly paced, hour after
hour, under those noble lime-trees, turning these sad thoughts within
him, he became all but fixed in his resolve that some great step must
be taken to relieve him from the risk of so terrible a fate.
In the meanwhile, the archdeacon, with contented mind and unruffled
spirit, went about his business. He said a word or two to Mr
Chadwick, and then finding, as he expected, the petition lying in his
father's library, he wrote a short answer to the men, in which he told
them that they had no evils to redress, but rather great mercies for
which to be thankful; and having seen the bishop sign it, he got into
his brougham and returned home to Mrs Grantly, and Plumstead Episcopi.