TRIBULATION
Mr Harding was a sadder man than he had ever yet been when he returned
to his own house. He had been wretched enough on that well-remembered
morning when he was forced to expose before his son-in-law the
publisher's account for ushering into the world his dear book
of sacred music: when after making such payments as he could do
unassisted, he found that he was a debtor of more than three hundred
pounds; but his sufferings then were as nothing to his present
misery;--then he had done wrong, and he knew it, and was able to
resolve that he would not sin in like manner again; but now he could
make no resolution, and comfort himself by no promises of firmness.
He had been forced to think that his lot had placed him in a false
position, and he was about to maintain that position against the
opinion of the world and against his own convictions.
He had read with pity, amounting almost to horror, the strictures
which had appeared from time to time against the Earl of Guildford as
master of St Cross, and the invectives that had been heaped on rich
diocesan dignitaries and overgrown sinecure pluralists. In judging of
them, he judged leniently; the whole bias of his profession had taught
him to think that they were more sinned against than sinning, and
that the animosity with which they had been pursued was venomous
and unjust; but he had not the less regarded their plight as most
miserable. His hair had stood on end and his flesh had crept as
he read the things which had been written; he had wondered how men
could live under such a load of disgrace; how they could face their
fellow-creatures while their names were bandied about so injuriously
and so publicly;--and now this lot was to be his,--he, that shy,
retiring man, who had so comforted himself in the hidden obscurity of
his lot, who had so enjoyed the unassuming warmth of his own little
corner,--he was now dragged forth into the glaring day, and gibbeted
before ferocious multitudes. He entered his own house a crestfallen,
humiliated man, without a hope of overcoming the wretchedness which
affected him.
He wandered into the drawing-room where was his daughter; but he could
not speak to her now, so he left it, and went into the book-room.
He was not quick enough to escape Eleanor's glance, or to prevent her
from seeing that he was disturbed; and in a little while she followed
him. She found him seated in his accustomed chair with no book open
before him, no pen ready in his hand, no ill-shapen notes of blotted
music lying before him as was usual, none of those hospital accounts
with which he was so precise and yet so unmethodical: he was doing
nothing, thinking of nothing, looking at nothing; he was merely
suffering.
"Leave me, Eleanor, my dear," he said; "leave me, my darling, for a
few minutes, for I am busy."
Eleanor saw well how it was, but she did leave him, and glided
silently back to her drawing-room. When he had sat a while, thus
alone and unoccupied, he got up to walk again;--he could make more
of his thoughts walking than sitting, and was creeping out into his
garden, when he met Bunce on the threshold.
"Well, Bunce," said he, in a tone that for him was sharp, "what is it?
do you want me?"
"I was only coming to ask after your reverence," said the old
bedesman, touching his hat; "and to inquire about the news from
London," he added after a pause.
The warden winced, and put his hand to his forehead and felt
bewildered.
"Attorney Finney has been there this morning," continued Bunce, "and
by his looks I guess he is not so well pleased as he once was, and it
has got abroad somehow that the archdeacon has had down great news
from London, and Handy and Moody are both as black as devils. And I
hope," said the man, trying to assume a cheery tone, "that things are
looking up, and that there'll be an end soon to all this stuff which
bothers your reverence so sorely."
"Well, I wish there may be, Bunce."
"But about the news, your reverence?" said the old man, almost
whispering.
Mr Harding walked on, and shook his head impatiently. Poor Bunce
little knew how he was tormenting his patron.
"If there was anything to cheer you, I should be so glad to know it,"
said he, with a tone of affection which the warden in all his misery
could not resist.
He stopped, and took both the old man's hands in his. "My friend,"
said he, "my dear old friend, there is nothing; there is no news to
cheer me;--God's will be done": and two small hot tears broke away
from his eyes and stole down his furrowed cheeks.
"Then God's will be done," said the other solemnly; "but they told
me that there was good news from London, and I came to wish your
reverence joy; but God's will be done;" and so the warden again walked
on, and the bedesman, looking wistfully after him and receiving no
encouragement to follow, returned sadly to his own abode.
For a couple of hours the warden remained thus in the garden, now
walking, now standing motionless on the turf, and then, as his legs
got weary, sitting unconsciously on the garden seats, and then walking
again. And Eleanor, hidden behind the muslin curtains of the window,
watched him through the trees as he now came in sight, and then again
was concealed by the turnings of the walk; and thus the time passed
away till five, when the warden crept back to the house and prepared
for dinner.
It was but a sorry meal. The demure parlour-maid, as she handed the
dishes and changed the plates, saw that all was not right, and was
more demure than ever: neither father nor daughter could eat, and the
hateful food was soon cleared away, and the bottle of port placed upon
the table.
"Would you like Bunce to come in, papa?" said Eleanor, thinking that
the company of the old man might lighten his sorrow.
"No, my dear, thank you, not 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 of
sadness here; I am not more exempt than another: but kiss me, dearest,
and go now; I will, if possible, be more sociable when you return."
And Eleanor was again banished from her father's sorrow. Ah! her
desire now was not to find him happy, but to be allowed to share his
sorrows; not to force him to be sociable, but to persuade him to be
trustful.
She put on her bonnet as desired, and went up to Mary Bold; this was
now her daily haunt, for John Bold was up in London among lawyers and
church reformers, diving deep into other questions than that of the
wardenship of Barchester; supplying information to one member of
Parliament, and dining with another; subscribing to funds for the
abolition of clerical incomes, and seconding at that great national
meeting at the Crown and Anchor a resolution to the effect, that no
clergyman of the Church of England, be he who he might, should have
more than a thousand a year, and none less than two hundred and fifty.
His speech on this occasion was short, for fifteen had to speak, and
the room was hired for two hours only, at the expiration of which
the Quakers and Mr Cobden were to make use of it for an appeal to
the public in aid of the Emperor of Russia; but it was sharp and
effective; at least he was told so by a companion with whom he now
lived much, and on whom he greatly depended,--one Tom Towers, a very
leading genius, and supposed to have high employment on the staff of
_The Jupiter_.
So Eleanor, as was now her wont, went up to Mary Bold, and Mary
listened kindly, while the daughter spoke much of her father, and,
perhaps kinder still, found a listener in Eleanor, while she spoke
about her brother. In the meantime the warden sat alone, leaning on
the arm of his chair; he had poured out a glass of wine, but had done
so merely from habit, for he left it untouched; there he sat gazing
at the open window, and thinking, if he can be said to have thought,
of the happiness of his past life. All manner of past delights came
before his mind, which at the time he had enjoyed without considering
them; his easy days, his absence of all kind of hard work, his
pleasant shady home, those twelve old neighbours whose welfare till
now had been the source of so much pleasant care, the excellence
of his children, the friendship of the dear old bishop, the solemn
grandeur of those vaulted aisles, through which he loved to hear his
own voice pealing; and then that friend of friends, that choice ally
that had never deserted him, that eloquent companion that would
always, when asked, discourse such pleasant music, that violoncello
of his;--ah, how happy he had been! but it was over now; his easy
days and absence of work had been the crime which brought on him his
tribulation; his shady home was pleasant no longer; maybe it was no
longer his; the old neighbours, whose welfare had been so desired by
him, were his enemies; his daughter was as wretched as himself; and
even the bishop was made miserable by his position. He could never
again lift up his voice boldly as he had hitherto done among his
brethren, for he felt that he was disgraced; and he feared even to
touch his bow, for he knew how grievous a sound of wailing, how
piteous a lamentation, it would produce.
He was still sitting in the same chair and the same posture, having
hardly moved a limb for two hours, when Eleanor came back to tea, and
succeeded in bringing him with her into the drawing-room.
The tea seemed as comfortless as the dinner, though the warden, who
had hitherto eaten nothing all day, devoured the plateful of bread and
butter, unconscious of what he was doing.
Eleanor had made up her mind to force him to talk to her, but she
hardly knew how to commence: she must wait till the urn was gone, till
the servant would no longer be coming in and out.
At last everything was gone, and the drawing-room door was permanently
closed; then Eleanor, getting up and going round to her father, put
her arm round his neck, and said, "Papa, won't you tell me what it
is?"
"What what is, my dear?"
"This new sorrow that torments you; I know you are unhappy, papa."
"New sorrow! it's no new sorrow, my dear; we have all our cares
sometimes;" and he tried to smile, but it was a ghastly failure; "but
I shouldn't be so dull a companion; come, we'll have some music."
"No, papa, not tonight,--it would only trouble you tonight;" and she
sat upon his knee, as she sometimes would in their gayest moods, and
with her arm round his neck, she said: "Papa, I will not leave you
till you talk to me; oh, if you only knew how much good it would do
to you, to tell me of it all."
The father kissed his daughter, and pressed her to his heart; but
still he said nothing: it was so hard to him to speak of his own
sorrows; he was so shy a man even with his own child!
"Oh, papa, do tell me what it is; I know it is about the hospital, and
what they are doing up in London, and what that cruel newspaper has
said; but if there be such cause for sorrow, let us be sorrowful
together; we are all in all to each other now: dear, dear papa, do
speak to me."
Mr Harding could not well speak now, for the warm tears were running
down his cheeks like rain in May, but he held his child close to his
heart, and squeezed her hand as a lover might, and she kissed his
forehead and his wet cheeks, and lay upon his bosom, and comforted him
as a woman only can do.
"My own child," he said, as soon as his tears would let him speak, "my
own, own child, why should you too be unhappy before it is necessary?
It may come to that, that we must leave this place, but till that time
comes, why should your young days be clouded?"
"And is that all, papa? If that be all, let us leave it, and have
light hearts elsewhere: if that be all, let us go. Oh, papa, you and
I could be happy if we had only bread to eat, so long as our hearts
were light."
And Eleanor's face was lighted up with enthusiasm as she told her
father how he might banish all his care; and a gleam of joy shot
across his brow as this idea of escape again presented itself, and
he again fancied for a moment that he could spurn away from him the
income which the world envied him; that he could give the lie to that
wielder of the tomahawk who had dared to write such things of him in
_The Jupiter_; that he could leave Sir Abraham, and the archdeacon,
and Bold, and the rest of them with their lawsuit among them, and
wipe his hands altogether of so sorrow-stirring a concern. Ah, what
happiness might there be in the distance, with Eleanor and him in some
small cottage, and nothing left of their former grandeur but their
music! Yes, they would walk forth with their music books, and their
instruments, and shaking the dust from off their feet as they went,
leave the ungrateful place. Never did a poor clergyman sigh for a warm
benefice more anxiously than our warden did now to be rid of his.
"Give it up, papa," she said again, jumping from his knees and
standing on her feet before him, looking boldly into his face; "give
it up, papa."
Oh, it was sad to see how that momentary gleam of joy passed away;
how the look of hope was dispersed from that sorrowful face, as the
remembrance of the archdeacon came back upon our poor warden, and he
reflected that he could not stir from his now hated post. He was as
a man bound with iron, fettered with adamant: he was in no respect a
free agent; he had no choice. "Give it up!" Oh if he only could:
what an easy way that were out of all his troubles!
"Papa, don't doubt about it," she continued, thinking that his
hesitation arose from his unwillingness to abandon so comfortable
a home; "is it on my account that you would stay here? Do you
think that I cannot be happy without a pony-carriage and a fine
drawing-room? Papa, I never can be happy here, as long as there is a
question as to your honour in staying here; but I could be gay as the
day is long in the smallest tiny little cottage, if I could see you
come in and go out with a light heart. Oh! papa, your face tells so
much; though you won't speak to me with your voice, I know how it is
with you every time I look at you."
How he pressed her to his heart again with almost a spasmodic
pressure! How he kissed her as the tears fell like rain from his old
eyes! How he blessed her, and called her by a hundred soft sweet
names which now came new to his lips! How he chid himself for ever
having been unhappy with such a treasure in his house, such a jewel on
his bosom, with so sweet a flower in the choice garden of his heart!
And then the floodgates of his tongue were loosed, and, at length,
with unsparing detail of circumstances, he told her all that he
wished, and all that he could not do. He repeated those arguments
of the archdeacon, not agreeing in their truth, but explaining his
inability to escape from them;--how it had been declared to him that
he was bound to remain where he was by the interests of his order,
by gratitude to the bishop, by the wishes of his friends, by a sense
of duty, which, though he could not understand it, he was fain to
acknowledge. He told her how he had been accused of cowardice, and
though he was not a man to make much of such a charge before the
world, now in the full candour of his heart he explained to her that
such an accusation was grievous to him; that he did think it would be
unmanly to desert his post, merely to escape his present sufferings,
and that, therefore, he must bear as best he might the misery which
was prepared for him.
And did she find these details tedious? Oh, no; she encouraged him
to dilate on every feeling he expressed, till he laid bare the inmost
corners of his heart to her. They spoke together of the archdeacon,
as two children might of a stern, unpopular, but still respected
schoolmaster, and of the bishop as a parent kind as kind could be, but
powerless against an omnipotent pedagogue.
And then when they had discussed all this, when the father had told
all to the child, she could not be less confiding than he had been;
and as John Bold's name was mentioned between them, she owned how well
she had learned to love him,--"had loved him once," she said, "but she
would not, could not do so now--no, even had her troth been plighted
to him, she would have taken it back again;--had she sworn to love
him as his wife, she would have discarded him, and not felt herself
forsworn, when he proved himself the enemy of her father."
But the warden declared that Bold was no enemy of his, and encouraged
her love; and gently rebuked, as he kissed her, the stern resolve she
had made to cast him off; and then he spoke to her of happier days
when their trials would all be over; and declared that her young heart
should not be torn asunder to please either priest or prelate, dean or
archdeacon. No, not if all Oxford were to convocate together, and
agree as to the necessity of the sacrifice.
And so they greatly comforted each other;--and in what sorrow will not
such mutual confidence give consolation!--and with a last expression
of tender love they parted, and went comparatively happy to their
rooms.