THE WARDEN'S TEA PARTY
After much painful doubting, on one thing only could Mr Harding
resolve. He determined that at any rate he would take no offence, and
that he would make this question no cause of quarrel either with Bold
or with the bedesmen. In furtherance of this resolution, he himself
wrote a note to Mr Bold, the same afternoon, inviting him to meet a
few friends and hear some music on an evening named in the next week.
Had not this little party been promised to Eleanor, in his present
state of mind he would probably have avoided such gaiety; but the
promise had been given, the invitations were to be written, and when
Eleanor consulted her father on the subject, she was not ill pleased
to hear him say, "Oh, I was thinking of Bold, so I took it into my
head to write to him myself, but you must write to his sister."
Mary Bold was older than her brother, and, at the time of our story,
was just over thirty. She was not an unattractive young woman, though
by no means beautiful. Her great merit was the kindliness of her
disposition. She was not very clever, nor very animated, nor had she
apparently the energy of her brother; but she was guided by a high
principle of right and wrong; her temper was sweet, and her faults
were fewer in number than her virtues. Those who casually met Mary
Bold thought little of her; but those who knew her well loved her
well, and the longer they knew her the more they loved her. Among
those who were fondest of her was Eleanor Harding; and though Eleanor
had never openly talked to her of her brother, each understood the
other's feelings about him. The brother and sister were sitting
together when the two notes were brought in.
"How odd," said Mary, "that they should send two notes. Well, if Mr
Harding becomes fashionable, the world is going to change."
Her brother understood immediately the nature and intention of the
peace-offering; but it was not so easy for him to behave well in the
matter, as it was for Mr Harding. It is much less difficult for the
sufferer to be generous than for the oppressor. John Bold felt that
he could not go to the warden's party: he never loved Eleanor better
than he did now; he had never so strongly felt how anxious he was
to make her his wife as now, when so many obstacles to his doing
so appeared in view. Yet here was her father himself, as it were,
clearing away those very obstacles, and still he felt that he could
not go to the house any more as an open friend.
As he sat thinking of these things with the note in his hand, his
sister was waiting for his decision.
"Well," said she, "I suppose we must write separate answers, and both
say we shall be very happy."
"You'll go, of course, Mary," said he; to which she readily assented.
"I cannot," he continued, looking serious and gloomy. "I wish I
could, with all my heart."
"And why not, John?" said she. She had as yet heard nothing of the
new-found abuse which her brother was about to reform;--at least
nothing which connected it with her brother's name.
He sat thinking for a while till he determined that it would be best
to tell her at once what it was that he was about: it must be done
sooner or later.
"I fear I cannot go to Mr Harding's house any more as a friend, just
at present."
"Oh, John! Why not? Ah, you've quarrelled with Eleanor!"
"No, indeed," said he; "I've no quarrel with her as yet."
"What is it, John?" said she, looking at him with an anxious, loving
face, for she knew well how much of his heart was there in that house
which he said he could no longer enter.
"Why," said he at last, "I've taken up the case of these twelve
old men of Hiram's Hospital, and of course that brings me into
contact with Mr Harding. I may have to oppose him, interfere with
him,--perhaps injure him."
Mary looked at him steadily for some time before she committed
herself to reply, and then merely asked him what he meant to do
for the old men.
"Why, it's a long story, and I don't know that I can make you
understand it. John Hiram made a will, and left his property in
charity for certain poor old men, and the proceeds, instead of going
to the benefit of these men, go chiefly into the pocket of the warden
and the bishop's steward."
"And you mean to take away from Mr Harding his share of it?"
"I don't know what I mean yet. I mean to inquire about it. I mean to
see who is entitled to this property. I mean to see, if I can, that
justice be done to the poor of the city of Barchester generally, who
are, in fact, the legatees under the will. I mean, in short, to put
the matter right, if I can."
"And why are you to do this, John?"
"You might ask the same question of anybody else," said he; "and
according to that the duty of righting these poor men would belong to
nobody. If we are to act on that principle, the weak are never to be
protected, injustice is never to be opposed, and no one is to struggle
for the poor!" And Bold began to comfort himself in the warmth of his
own virtue.
"But is there no one to do this but you, who have known Mr Harding so
long? Surely, John, as a friend, as a young friend, so much younger
than Mr Harding--"
"That's woman's logic, all over, Mary. What has age to do with it?
Another man might plead that he was too old; and as to his friendship,
if the thing itself be right, private motives should never be allowed
to interfere. Because I esteem Mr Harding, is that a reason that I
should neglect a duty which I owe to these old men? or should I give
up a work which my conscience tells me is a good one, because I regret
the loss of his society?"
"And Eleanor, John?" said the sister, looking timidly into her
brother's face.
"Eleanor, that is, Miss Harding, if she thinks fit,--that is, if
her father--or, rather, if she--or, indeed, he,--if they find it
necessary--but there is no necessity now to talk about Eleanor
Harding; but this I will say, that if she has the kind of spirit for
which I give her credit, she will not condemn me for doing what I
think to be a duty." And Bold consoled himself with the consolation
of a Roman.
Mary sat silent for a while, till at last her brother reminded her
that the notes must be answered, and she got up, and placed her desk
before her, took out her pen and paper, wrote on it slowly:
PAKENHAM VILLAS
Tuesday morning
MY DEAR ELEANOR,
I--
and then stopped, and looked at her brother.
"Well, Mary, why don't you write it?"
"Oh, John," said she, "dear John, pray think better of this."
"Think better of what?" said he.
"Of this about the hospital,--of all this about Mr Harding,--of what
you say about those old men. Nothing can call upon you,--no duty can
require you to set yourself against your oldest, your best friend.
Oh, John, think of Eleanor. You'll break her heart, and your own."
"Nonsense, Mary; Miss Harding's heart is as safe as yours."
"Pray, pray, for my sake, John, give it up. You know how dearly you
love her." And she came and knelt before him on the rug. "Pray
give it up. You are going to make yourself, and her, and her father
miserable: you are going to make us all miserable. And for what? For
a dream of justice. You will never make those twelve men happier than
they now are."
"You don't understand it, my dear girl," said he, smoothing her hair
with his hand.
"I do understand it, John. I understand that this is a chimera,--a
dream that you have got. I know well that no duty can require you to
do this mad--this suicidal thing. I know you love Eleanor Harding
with all your heart, and I tell you now that she loves you as well.
If there was a plain, a positive duty before you, I would be the last
to bid you neglect it for any woman's love; but this--; oh, think
again, before you do anything to make it necessary that you and Mr
Harding should be at variance." He did not answer, as she knelt
there, leaning on his knees, but by his face she thought that he was
inclined to yield. "At any rate let me say that you will go to this
party. At any rate do not break with them while your mind is in
doubt." And she got up, hoping to conclude her note in the way she
desired.
"My mind is not in doubt," at last he said, rising. "I could never
respect myself again were I to give way now, because Eleanor Harding
is beautiful. I do love her: I would give a hand to hear her tell
me what you have said, speaking on her behalf; but I cannot for her
sake go back from the task which I have commenced. I hope she may
hereafter acknowledge and respect my motives, but I cannot now go as
a guest to her father's house." And the Barchester Brutus went out
to fortify his own resolution by meditations on his own virtue.
Poor Mary Bold sat down, and sadly finished her note, saying that she
would herself attend the party, but that her brother was unavoidably
prevented from doing so. I fear that she did not admire as she should
have done the self-devotion of his singular virtue.
The party went off as such parties do. There were fat old ladies, in
fine silk dresses, and slim young ladies, in gauzy muslin frocks; old
gentlemen stood up with their backs to the empty fire-place, looking
by no means so comfortable as they would have done in their own
arm-chairs at home; and young gentlemen, rather stiff about the neck,
clustered near the door, not as yet sufficiently in courage to attack
the muslin frocks, who awaited the battle, drawn up in a semicircular
array. The warden endeavoured to induce a charge, but failed
signally, not having the tact of a general; his daughter did what she
could to comfort the forces under her command, who took in refreshing
rations of cake and tea, and patiently looked for the coming
engagement: but she herself, Eleanor, had no spirit for the work; the
only enemy whose lance she cared to encounter was not there, and she
and others were somewhat dull.
Loud above all voices was heard the clear sonorous tones of the
archdeacon as he dilated to brother parsons of the danger of the
church, of the fearful rumours of mad reforms even at Oxford, and of
the damnable heresies of Dr Whiston.
Soon, however, sweeter sounds began timidly to make themselves
audible. Little movements were made in a quarter notable for round
stools and music stands. Wax candles were arranged in sconces, big
books were brought from hidden recesses, and the work of the evening
commenced.
How often were those pegs twisted and re-twisted before our friend
found that he had twisted them enough; how many discordant scrapes
gave promise of the coming harmony. How much the muslin fluttered
and crumpled before Eleanor and another nymph were duly seated at the
piano; how closely did that tall Apollo pack himself against the wall,
with his flute, long as himself, extending high over the heads of his
pretty neighbours; into how small a corner crept that round and florid
little minor canon, and there with skill amazing found room to tune
his accustomed fiddle!
And now the crash begins: away they go in full flow of harmony
together,--up hill and down dale,--now louder and louder, then
lower and lower; now loud, as though stirring the battle; then low,
as though mourning the slain. In all, through all, and above all,
is heard the violoncello. Ah, not for nothing were those pegs so
twisted and re-twisted;--listen, listen! Now alone that saddest
of instruments tells its touching tale. Silent, and in awe, stand
fiddle, flute, and piano, to hear the sorrows of their wailing
brother. 'Tis but for a moment: before the melancholy of those low
notes has been fully realised, again comes the full force of all the
band;--down go the pedals, away rush twenty fingers scouring over the
bass notes with all the impetus of passion. Apollo blows till his
stiff neckcloth is no better than a rope, and the minor canon works
with both arms till he falls in a syncope of exhaustion against the
wall.
How comes it that now, when all should be silent, when courtesy, if
not taste, should make men listen,--how is it at this moment the
black-coated corps leave their retreat and begin skirmishing? One by
one they creep forth, and fire off little guns timidly, and without
precision. Ah, my men, efforts such as these will take no cities,
even though the enemy should be never so open to assault. At length a
more deadly artillery is brought to bear; slowly, but with effect, the
advance is made; the muslin ranks are broken, and fall into confusion;
the formidable array of chairs gives way; the battle is no longer
between opposing regiments, but hand to hand, and foot to foot with
single combatants, as in the glorious days of old, when fighting was
really noble. In corners, and under the shadow of curtains, behind
sofas and half hidden by doors, in retiring windows, and sheltered
by hanging tapestry, are blows given and returned, fatal, incurable,
dealing death.
Apart from this another combat arises, more sober and more serious.
The archdeacon is engaged against two prebendaries, a pursy full-blown
rector assisting him, in all the perils and all the enjoyments of
short whist. With solemn energy do they watch the shuffled pack, and,
all-expectant, eye the coming trump. With what anxious nicety do they
arrange their cards, jealous of each other's eyes! Why is that lean
doctor so slow,--cadaverous man with hollow jaw and sunken eye, ill
beseeming the richness of his mother church! Ah, why so slow, thou
meagre doctor? See how the archdeacon, speechless in his agony,
deposits on the board his cards, and looks to heaven or to the ceiling
for support. Hark, how he sighs, as with thumbs in his waistcoat
pocket he seems to signify that the end of such torment is not yet
even nigh at hand! Vain is the hope, if hope there be, to disturb
that meagre doctor. With care precise he places every card,
weighs well the value of each mighty ace, each guarded king, and
comfort-giving queen; speculates on knave and ten, counts all his
suits, and sets his price upon the whole. At length a card is led,
and quick three others fall upon the board. The little doctor leads
again, while with lustrous eye his partner absorbs the trick. Now
thrice has this been done,--thrice has constant fortune favoured
the brace of prebendaries, ere the archdeacon rouses himself to the
battle; but at the fourth assault he pins to the earth a prostrate
king, laying low his crown and sceptre, bushy beard, and lowering
brow, with a poor deuce.
"As David did Goliath," says the archdeacon, pushing over the four
cards to his partner. And then a trump is led, then another trump;
then a king,--and then an ace,--and then a long ten, which brings
down from the meagre doctor his only remaining tower of strength--his
cherished queen of trumps.
"What, no second club?" says the archdeacon to his partner.
"Only one club," mutters from his inmost stomach the pursy rector, who
sits there red-faced, silent, impervious, careful, a safe but not a
brilliant ally.
But the archdeacon cares not for many clubs, or for none. He dashes
out his remaining cards with a speed most annoying to his antagonists,
pushes over to them some four cards as their allotted portion, shoves
the remainder across the table to the red-faced rector; calls out "two
by cards and two by honours, and the odd trick last time," marks a
treble under the candle-stick, and has dealt round the second pack
before the meagre doctor has calculated his losses.
And so went off the warden's party, and men and women arranging shawls
and shoes declared how pleasant it had been; and Mrs Goodenough, the
red-faced rector's wife, pressing the warden's hand, declared she had
never enjoyed herself better; which showed how little pleasure she
allowed herself in this world, as she had sat the whole evening
through in the same chair without occupation, not speaking, and
unspoken to. And Matilda Johnson, when she allowed young Dickson of
the bank to fasten her cloak round her neck, thought that two hundred
pounds a year and a little cottage would really do for happiness;
besides, he was sure to be manager some day. And Apollo, folding his
flute into his pocket, felt that he had acquitted himself with honour;
and the archdeacon pleasantly jingled his gains; but the meagre doctor
went off without much audible speech, muttering ever and anon as he
went, "three and thirty points!" "three and thirty points!"
And so they all were gone, and Mr Harding was left alone with his
daughter.
What had passed between Eleanor Harding and Mary Bold need not
be told. It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that neither the
historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by their heroes
or heroines, or how would three volumes or twenty suffice! In the
present case so little of this sort have I overheard, that I live
in hopes of finishing my work within 300 pages, and of completing
that pleasant task--a novel in one volume; but something had passed
between them, and as the warden blew out the wax candles, and put his
instrument into its case, his daughter stood sad and thoughtful by the
empty fire-place, determined to speak to her father, but irresolute as
to what she would say.
"Well, Eleanor," said he, "are you for bed?"
"Yes," said she, moving, "I suppose so; but papa--Mr Bold was not here
tonight; do you know why not?"
"He was asked; I wrote to him myself," said the warden.
"But do you know why he did not come, papa?"
"Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it's no use guessing at such
things, my dear. What makes you look so earnest about it?"
"Oh, papa, do tell me," she exclaimed, throwing her arms round him,
and looking into his face; "what is it he is going to do? What is it
all about? Is there any--any--any--" she didn't well know what word
to use--"any danger?"
"Danger, my dear, what sort of danger?"
"Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and of--Oh, papa, why
haven't you told me of all this before?"
Mr Harding was not the man to judge harshly of anyone, much less of
the daughter whom he now loved better than any living creature; but
still he did judge her wrongly at this moment. He knew that she loved
John Bold; he fully sympathised in her affection; day after day he
thought more of the matter, and, with the tender care of a loving
father, tried to arrange in his own mind how matters might be so
managed that his daughter's heart should not be made the sacrifice to
the dispute which was likely to exist between him and Bold. Now, when
she spoke to him for the first time on the subject, it was natural
that he should think more of her than of himself, and that he should
imagine that her own cares, and not his, were troubling her.
He stood silent before her awhile, as she gazed up into his face, and
then kissing her forehead he placed her on the sofa.
"Tell me, Nelly," he said (he only called her Nelly in his kindest,
softest, sweetest moods, and yet all his moods were kind and sweet),
"tell me, Nelly, do you like Mr Bold--much?"
She was quite taken aback by the question. I will not say that she
had forgotten herself, and her own love in thinking about John Bold,
and while conversing with Mary: she certainly had not done so. She
had been sick at heart to think that a man of whom she could not but
own to herself that she loved him, of whose regard she had been so
proud, that such a man should turn against her father to ruin him.
She had felt her vanity hurt, that his affection for her had not kept
him from such a course; had he really cared for her, he would not have
risked her love by such an outrage. But her main fear had been for
her father, and when she spoke of danger, it was of danger to him and
not to herself.
She was taken aback by the question altogether: "Do I like him, papa?"
"Yes, Nelly, do you like him? Why shouldn't you like him? but that's
a poor word;--do you love him?" She sat still in his arms without
answering him. She certainly had not prepared herself for an avowal
of affection, intending, as she had done, to abuse John Bold herself,
and to hear her father do so also. "Come, my love," said he, "let us
make a clean breast of it: do you tell me what concerns yourself, and
I will tell you what concerns me and the hospital."
And then, without waiting for an answer, he described to her, as he
best could, the accusation that was made about Hiram's will; the
claims which the old men put forward; what he considered the strength
and what the weakness of his own position; the course which Bold had
taken, and that which he presumed he was about to take; and then
by degrees, without further question, he presumed on the fact of
Eleanor's love, and spoke of that love as a feeling which he could in
no way disapprove: he apologised for Bold, excused what he was doing;
nay, praised him for his energy and intentions; made much of his good
qualities, and harped on none of his foibles; then, reminding his
daughter how late it was, and comforting her with much assurance which
he hardly felt himself, he sent her to her room, with flowing eyes and
a full heart.
When Mr Harding met his daughter at breakfast the next morning, there
was no further discussion on the matter, nor was the subject mentioned
between them for some days. Soon after the party Mary Bold called at
the hospital, but there were various persons in the drawing-room at
the time, and she therefore said nothing about her brother. On the
day following, John Bold met Miss Harding in one of the quiet, sombre,
shaded walks of the close. He was most anxious to see her, but
unwilling to call at the warden's house, and had in truth waylaid her
in her private haunts.
"My sister tells me," said he, abruptly hurrying on with his
premeditated speech, "my sister tells me that you had a delightful
party the other evening. I was so sorry I could not be there."
"We were all sorry," said Eleanor, with dignified composure.
"I believe, Miss Harding, you understand why, at this moment--" And
Bold hesitated, muttered, stopped, commenced his explanation again,
and again broke down.
Eleanor would not help him in the least.
"I think my sister explained to you, Miss Harding?"
"Pray don't apologise, Mr Bold; my father will, I am sure, always be
glad to see you, if you like to come to the house now as formerly;
nothing has occurred to alter his feelings: of your own views you are,
of course, the best judge."
"Your father is all that is kind and generous; he always was so; but
you, Miss Harding, yourself--I hope you will not judge me harshly,
because--"
"Mr Bold," said she, "you may be sure of one thing; I shall always
judge my father to be right, and those who oppose him I shall judge
to be wrong. If those who do not know him oppose him, I shall have
charity enough to believe that they are wrong, through error of
judgment; but should I see him attacked by those who ought to know
him, and to love him, and revere him, of such I shall be constrained
to form a different opinion." And then curtseying low she sailed on,
leaving her lover in anything but a happy state of mind.