A LONG DAY IN LONDON
The warden had to make use of all his very moderate powers of intrigue
to give his son-in-law the slip, and get out of Barchester without
being stopped on his road. No schoolboy ever ran away from school
with more precaution and more dread of detection; no convict, slipping
down from a prison wall, ever feared to see the gaoler more entirely
than Mr Harding did to see his son-in-law as he drove up in the pony
carriage to the railway station, on the morning of his escape to
London.
The evening before he went he wrote a note to the archdeacon,
explaining that he should start on the morrow on his journey; that
it was his intention to see the attorney-general if possible, and to
decide on his future plans in accordance with what he heard from that
gentleman; he excused himself for giving Dr Grantly no earlier notice,
by stating that his resolve was very sudden; and having entrusted this
note to Eleanor, with the perfect, though not expressed, understanding
that it was to be sent over to Plumstead Episcopi without haste, he
took his departure.
He also prepared and carried with him a note for Sir Abraham
Haphazard, in which he stated his name, explaining that he was the
defendant in the case of "The Queen on behalf of the Wool-carders of
Barchester _v_. Trustees under the will of the late John Hiram," for
so was the suit denominated, and begged the illustrious and learned
gentleman to vouchsafe to him ten minutes' audience at any hour on the
next day. Mr Harding calculated that for that one day he was safe;
his son-in-law, he had no doubt, would arrive in town by an early
train, but not early enough to reach the truant till he should have
escaped from his hotel after breakfast; and could he thus manage to
see the lawyer on that very day, the deed might be done before the
archdeacon could interfere.
On his arrival in town the warden drove, as was his wont, to the
Chapter Hotel and Coffee House, near St Paul's. His visits to London
of late had not been frequent; but in those happy days when "Harding's
Church Music" was going through the press, he had been often there;
and as the publisher's house was in Paternoster Row, and the printer's
press in Fleet Street, the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House had been
convenient. It was a quiet, sombre, clerical house, beseeming such
a man as the warden, and thus he afterwards frequented it. Had he
dared, he would on this occasion have gone elsewhere to throw the
archdeacon further off the scent; but he did not know what violent
steps his son-in-law might take for his recovery if he were not found
at his usual haunt, and he deemed it not prudent to make himself the
object of a hunt through London.
Arrived at his inn, he ordered dinner, and went forth to the
attorney-general's chambers. There he learnt that Sir Abraham was in
Court, and would not probably return that day. He would go direct
from Court to the House; all appointments were, as a rule, made at the
chambers; the clerk could by no means promise an interview for the
next day; was able, on the other hand, to say that such interview was,
he thought, impossible; but that Sir Abraham would certainly be at the
House in the course of the night, where an answer from himself might
possibly be elicited.
To the House Mr Harding went, and left his note, not finding Sir
Abraham there. He added a most piteous entreaty that he might be
favoured with an answer that evening, for which he would return. He
then journeyed back sadly to the Chapter Coffee House, digesting his
great thoughts, as best he might, in a clattering omnibus, wedged in
between a wet old lady and a journeyman glazier returning from his
work with his tools in his lap. In melancholy solitude he discussed
his mutton chop and pint of port. What is there in this world more
melancholy than such a dinner? A dinner, though eaten alone, in a
country hotel may be worthy of some energy; the waiter, if you are
known, will make much of you; the landlord will make you a bow and
perhaps put the fish on the table; if you ring you are attended to,
and there is some life about it. A dinner at a London eating-house is
also lively enough, if it have no other attraction. There is plenty
of noise and stir about it, and the rapid whirl of voices and rattle
of dishes disperses sadness. But a solitary dinner in an old,
respectable, sombre, solid London inn, where nothing makes any noise
but the old waiter's creaking shoes; where one plate slowly goes and
another slowly comes without a sound; where the two or three guests
would as soon think of knocking each other down as of speaking; where
the servants whisper, and the whole household is disturbed if an order
be given above the voice,--what can be more melancholy than a mutton
chop and a pint of port in such a place?
Having gone through this Mr Harding got into another omnibus, and
again returned to the House. Yes, Sir Abraham was there, and was
that moment on his legs, fighting eagerly for the hundred and seventh
clause of the Convent Custody Bill. Mr Harding's note had been
delivered to him; and if Mr Harding would wait some two or three
hours, Sir Abraham could be asked whether there was any answer.
The House was not full, and perhaps Mr Harding might get admittance
into the Strangers' Gallery, which admission, with the help of five
shillings, Mr Harding was able to effect.
This bill of Sir Abraham's had been read a second time and passed into
committee. A hundred and six clauses had already been discussed and
had occupied only four mornings and five evening sittings; nine of
the hundred and six clauses were passed, fifty-five were withdrawn
by consent, fourteen had been altered so as to mean the reverse of
the original proposition, eleven had been postponed for further
consideration, and seventeen had been directly negatived. The hundred
and seventh ordered the bodily searching of nuns for jesuitical
symbols by aged clergymen, and was considered to be the real mainstay
of the whole bill. No intention had ever existed to pass such a law
as that proposed, but the government did not intend to abandon it
till their object was fully attained by the discussion of this clause.
It was known that it would be insisted on with terrible vehemence by
Protestant Irish members, and as vehemently denounced by the Roman
Catholic; and it was justly considered that no further union between
the parties would be possible after such a battle. The innocent Irish
fell into the trap as they always do, and whiskey and poplins became a
drug in the market.
A florid-faced gentleman with a nice head of hair, from the south of
Ireland, had succeeded in catching the speaker's eye by the time that
Mr Harding had got into the gallery, and was denouncing the proposed
sacrilege, his whole face glowing with a fine theatrical frenzy.
"And this is a Christian country?" said he. (Loud cheers; counter
cheers from the ministerial benches. "Some doubt as to that," from
a voice below the gangway.) "No, it can be no Christian country,
in which the head of the bar, the lagal adviser (loud laughter and
cheers)--yes, I say the lagal adviser of the crown (great cheers and
laughter)--can stand up in his seat in this house (prolonged cheers
and laughter), and attempt to lagalise indacent assaults on the bodies
of religious ladies." (Deafening cheers and laughter, which were
prolonged till the honourable member resumed his seat.)
When Mr Harding had listened to this and much more of the same kind
for about three hours, he returned to the door of the House, and
received back from the messenger his own note, with the following
words scrawled in pencil on the back of it: "To-morrow, 10 P.M.--my
chambers.--A. H."
He was so far successful;--but 10 P.M.: what an hour Sir Abraham had
named for a legal interview! Mr Harding felt perfectly sure that long
before that Dr Grantly would be in London. Dr Grantly could not,
however, know that this interview had been arranged, nor could he
learn it unless he managed to get hold of Sir Abraham before that
hour; and as this was very improbable, Mr Harding determined to
start from his hotel early, merely leaving word that he should dine
out, and unless luck were much against him, he might still escape the
archdeacon till his return from the attorney-general's chambers.
He was at breakfast at nine, and for the twentieth time consulted his
Bradshaw, to see at what earliest hour Dr Grantly could arrive from
Barchester. As he examined the columns, he was nearly petrified
by the reflection that perhaps the archdeacon might come up by the
night-mail train! His heart sank within him at the horrid idea,
and for a moment he felt himself dragged back to Barchester without
accomplishing any portion of his object. Then he remembered that had
Dr Grantly done so, he would have been in the hotel, looking for him
long since.
"Waiter," said he, timidly.
The waiter approached, creaking in his shoes, but voiceless.
"Did any gentleman,--a clergyman, arrive here by the night-mail
train?"
"No, sir, not one," whispered the waiter, putting his mouth nearly
close to the warden's ear.
Mr Harding was reassured.
"Waiter," said he again, and the waiter again creaked up. "If anyone
calls for me, I am going to dine out, and shall return about eleven
o'clock."
The waiter nodded, but did not this time vouchsafe any reply; and Mr
Harding, taking up his hat, proceeded out to pass a long day in the
best way he could, somewhere out of sight of the archdeacon.
Bradshaw had told him twenty times that Dr Grantly could not be at
Paddington station till 2 P.M., and our poor friend might therefore
have trusted to the shelter of the hotel for some hours longer with
perfect safety; but he was nervous. There was no knowing what steps
the archdeacon might take for his apprehension: a message by electric
telegraph might desire the landlord of the hotel to set a watch upon
him; some letter might come which he might find himself unable to
disobey; at any rate, he could not feel himself secure in any place
at which the archdeacon could expect to find him; and at 10 A.M. he
started forth to spend twelve hours in London.
Mr Harding had friends in town had he chosen to seek them; but he felt
that he was in no humour for ordinary calls, and he did not now wish
to consult with anyone as to the great step which he had determined
to take. As he had said to his daughter, no one knows where the shoe
pinches but the wearer. There are some points on which no man can be
contented to follow the advice of another,--some subjects on which
a man can consult his own conscience only. Our warden had made up
his mind that it was good for him at any cost to get rid of this
grievance; his daughter was the only person whose concurrence appeared
necessary to him, and she did concur with him most heartily. Under
such circumstances he would not, if he could help it, consult anyone
further, till advice would be useless. Should the archdeacon catch
him, indeed, there would be much advice, and much consultation of a
kind not to be avoided; but he hoped better things; and as he felt
that he could not now converse on indifferent subjects, he resolved
to see no one till after his interview with the attorney-general.
He determined to take sanctuary in Westminster Abbey, so he again went
thither in an omnibus, and finding that the doors were not open for
morning service, he paid his twopence, and went in as a sightseer.
It occurred to him that he had no definite place of rest for the day,
and that he should be absolutely worn out before his interview if he
attempted to walk about from 10 A.M. to 10 P.M., so he sat himself
down on a stone step, and gazed up at the figure of William Pitt, who
looks as though he had just entered the church for the first time in
his life and was anything but pleased at finding himself there.
He had been sitting unmolested about twenty minutes when the verger
asked him whether he wouldn't like to walk round. Mr Harding didn't
want to walk anywhere, and declined, merely observing that he was
waiting for the morning service. The verger, seeing that he was a
clergyman, told him that the doors of the choir were now open, and
showed him into a seat. This was a great point gained; the archdeacon
would certainly not come to morning service at Westminster Abbey, even
though he were in London; and here the warden could rest quietly, and,
when the time came, duly say his prayers.
He longed to get up from his seat, and examine the music-books of the
choristers, and the copy of the litany from which the service was
chanted, to see how far the little details at Westminster corresponded
with those at Barchester, and whether he thought his own voice would
fill the church well from the Westminster precentor's seat. There
would, however, be impropriety in such meddling, and he sat perfectly
still, looking up at the noble roof, and guarding against the coming
fatigues of the day.
By degrees two or three people entered; the very same damp old woman
who had nearly obliterated him in the omnibus, or some other just like
her; a couple of young ladies with their veils down, and gilt crosses
conspicuous on their prayer-books; an old man on crutches; a party who
were seeing the abbey, and thought they might as well hear the service
for their twopence, as opportunity served; and a young woman with her
prayer-book done up in her handkerchief, who rushed in late, and, in
her hurried entry, tumbled over one of the forms, and made such a
noise that everyone, even the officiating minor canon, was startled,
and she herself was so frightened by the echo of her own catastrophe
that she was nearly thrown into fits by the panic.
Mr Harding was not much edified by the manner of the service. The
minor canon in question hurried in, somewhat late, in a surplice not
in the neatest order, and was followed by a dozen choristers, who were
also not as trim as they might have been: they all jostled into their
places with a quick hurried step, and the service was soon commenced.
Soon commenced and soon over,--for there was no music, and time was
not unnecessarily lost in the chanting. On the whole Mr Harding was
of opinion that things were managed better at Barchester, though even
there he knew that there was room for improvement.
It appears to us a question whether any clergyman can go through our
church service with decorum, morning after morning, in an immense
building, surrounded by not more than a dozen listeners. The best
actors cannot act well before empty benches, and though there is, of
course, a higher motive in one case than the other, still even the
best of clergymen cannot but be influenced by their audience; and to
expect that a duty should be well done under such circumstances, would
be to require from human nature more than human power.
When the two ladies with the gilt crosses, the old man with his
crutch, and the still palpitating housemaid were going, Mr Harding
found himself obliged to go too. The verger stood in his way, and
looked at him and looked at the door, and so he went. But he returned
again in a few minutes, and re-entered with another twopence. There
was no other sanctuary so good for him.
As he walked slowly down the nave, and then up one aisle, and then
again down the nave and up the other aisle, he tried to think gravely
of the step he was about to take. He was going to give up eight
hundred a year voluntarily; and doom himself to live for the rest of
his life on about a hundred and fifty. He knew that he had hitherto
failed to realise this fact as he ought to do. Could he maintain
his own independence and support his daughter on a hundred and fifty
pounds a year without being a burden on anyone? His son-in-law was
rich, but nothing could induce him to lean on his son-in-law after
acting, as he intended to do, in direct opposition to his son-in-law's
counsel. The bishop was rich, but he was about to throw away the
bishop's best gift, and that in a manner to injure materially the
patronage of the giver: he could neither expect nor accept anything
further from the bishop. There would be not only no merit, but
positive disgrace, in giving up his wardenship, if he were not
prepared to meet the world without it. Yes, he must from this time
forward bound all his human wishes for himself and his daughter to
the poor extent of so limited an income. He knew he had not thought
sufficiently of this, that he had been carried away by enthusiasm,
and had hitherto not brought home to himself the full reality of his
position.
He thought most about his daughter, naturally. It was true that she
was engaged, and he knew enough of his proposed son-in-law to be sure
that his own altered circumstances would make no obstacle to such a
marriage; nay, he was sure that the very fact of his poverty would
induce Bold more anxiously to press the matter; but he disliked
counting on Bold in this emergency, brought on, as it had been, by
his doing. He did not like saying to himself, Bold has turned me
out of my house and income, and, therefore, he must relieve me of my
daughter; he preferred reckoning on Eleanor as the companion of his
poverty and exile,--as the sharer of his small income.
Some modest provision for his daughter had been long since made. His
life was insured for three thousand pounds, and this sum was to go to
Eleanor. The archdeacon, for some years past, had paid the premium,
and had secured himself by the immediate possession of a small
property which was to have gone to Mrs Grantly after her father's
death. This matter, therefore, had been taken out of the warden's
hands long since, as, indeed, had all the business transactions of
his family, and his anxiety was, therefore, confined to his own life
income.
Yes. A hundred and fifty per annum was very small, but still it might
suffice; but how was he to chant the litany at the cathedral on Sunday
mornings, and get the service done at Crabtree Parva? True, Crabtree
Church was not quite a mile and a half from the cathedral; but he
could not be in two places at once. Crabtree was a small village,
and afternoon service might suffice, but still this went against his
conscience; it was not right that his parishioners should be robbed
of any of their privileges on account of his poverty. He might, to
be sure, make some arrangements for doing week-day service at the
cathedral; but he had chanted the litany at Barchester so long, and
had a conscious feeling that he did it so well, that he was unwilling
to give up the duty.
Thinking of such things, turning over in his own mind together small
desires and grave duties, but never hesitating for a moment as to the
necessity of leaving the hospital, Mr Harding walked up and down the
abbey, or sat still meditating on the same stone step, hour after
hour. One verger went and another came, but they did not disturb him;
every now and then they crept up and looked at him, but they did so
with a reverential stare, and, on the whole, Mr Harding found his
retreat well chosen. About four o'clock his comfort was disturbed
by an enemy in the shape of hunger. It was necessary that he should
dine, and it was clear that he could not dine in the abbey: so he left
his sanctuary not willingly, and betook himself to the neighbourhood
of the Strand to look for food.
His eyes had become so accustomed to the gloom of the church, that
they were dazed when he got out into the full light of day, and he
felt confused and ashamed of himself, as though people were staring at
him. He hurried along, still in dread of the archdeacon, till he came
to Charing Cross, and then remembered that in one of his passages
through the Strand he had seen the words "Chops and Steaks" on a
placard in a shop window. He remembered the shop distinctly; it was
next door to a trunk-seller's, and there was a cigar shop on the other
side. He couldn't go to his hotel for dinner, which to him hitherto
was the only known mode of dining in London at his own expense; and,
therefore, he would get a steak at the shop in the Strand. Archdeacon
Grantly would certainly not come to such a place for his dinner.
He found the house easily,--just as he had observed it, between the
trunks and the cigars. He was rather daunted by the huge quantity
of fish which he saw in the window. There were barrels of oysters,
hecatombs of lobsters, a few tremendous-looking crabs, and a tub full
of pickled salmon; not, however, being aware of any connection between
shell-fish and iniquity, he entered, and modestly asked a slatternly
woman, who was picking oysters out of a great watery reservoir,
whether he could have a mutton chop and a potato.
The woman looked somewhat surprised, but answered in the affirmative,
and a slipshod girl ushered him into a long back room, filled with
boxes for the accommodation of parties, in one of which he took his
seat. In a more miserably forlorn place he could not have found
himself: the room smelt of fish, and sawdust, and stale tobacco smoke,
with a slight taint of escaped gas; everything was rough and dirty,
and disreputable; the cloth which they put before him was abominable;
the knives and forks were bruised, and hacked, and filthy; and
everything was impregnated with fish. He had one comfort, however:
he was quite alone; there was no one there to look on his dismay; nor
was it probable that anyone would come to do so. It was a London
supper-house. About one o'clock at night the place would be lively
enough, but at the present time his seclusion was as deep as it had
been in the abbey.
In about half an hour the untidy girl, not yet dressed for her evening
labours, brought him his chop and potatoes, and Mr Harding begged for
a pint of sherry. He was impressed with an idea, which was generally
prevalent a few years since, and is not yet wholly removed from the
minds of men, that to order a dinner at any kind of inn, without also
ordering a pint of wine for the benefit of the landlord, was a kind of
fraud,--not punishable, indeed, by law, but not the less abominable
on that account. Mr Harding remembered his coming poverty, and
would willingly have saved his half-crown, but he thought he had no
alternative; and he was soon put in possession of some horrid mixture
procured from the neighbouring public-house.
His chop and potatoes, however, were eatable, and having got over
as best he might the disgust created by the knives and forks, he
contrived to swallow his dinner. He was not much disturbed: one
young man, with pale face and watery fishlike eyes, wearing his hat
ominously on one side, did come in and stare at him, and ask the
girl, audibly enough, "Who that old cock was;" but the annoyance went
no further, and the warden was left seated on his wooden bench in
peace, endeavouring to distinguish the different scents arising from
lobsters, oysters, and salmon.
Unknowing as Mr Harding was in the ways of London, he felt that he had
somehow selected an ineligible dining-house, and that he had better
leave it. It was hardly five o'clock;--how was he to pass the time
till ten? Five miserable hours! He was already tired, and it was
impossible that he should continue walking so long. He thought of
getting into an omnibus, and going out to Fulham for the sake of
coming back in another: this, however, would be weary work, and as he
paid his bill to the woman in the shop, he asked her if there were any
place near where he could get a cup of coffee. Though she did keep a
shellfish supper-house, she was very civil, and directed him to the
cigar divan on the other side of the street.
Mr Harding had not a much correcter notion of a cigar divan than he
had of a London dinner-house, but he was desperately in want of rest,
and went as he was directed. He thought he must have made some
mistake when he found himself in a cigar shop, but the man behind the
counter saw immediately that he was a stranger, and understood what he
wanted. "One shilling, sir,--thank ye, sir,--cigar, sir?--ticket for
coffee, sir;--you'll only have to call the waiter. Up those stairs,
if you please, sir. Better take the cigar, sir,--you can always give
it to a friend, you know. Well, sir, thank ye, sir;--as you are so
good, I'll smoke it myself." And so Mr Harding ascended to the divan,
with his ticket for coffee, but minus the cigar.
The place seemed much more suitable to his requirements than the
room in which he had dined: there was, to be sure, a strong smell of
tobacco, to which he was not accustomed; but after the shell-fish, the
tobacco did not seem disagreeable. There were quantities of books,
and long rows of sofas. What on earth could be more luxurious than a
sofa, a book, and a cup of coffee? An old waiter came up to him, with
a couple of magazines and an evening paper. Was ever anything so
civil? Would he have a cup of coffee, or would he prefer sherbet?
Sherbet! Was he absolutely in an Eastern divan, with the slight
addition of all the London periodicals? He had, however, an idea that
sherbet should be drunk sitting cross-legged, and as he was not quite
up to this, he ordered the coffee.
The coffee came, and was unexceptionable. Why, this divan was a
paradise! The civil old waiter suggested to him a game of chess:
though a chess player he was not equal to this, so he declined, and,
putting up his weary legs on the sofa, leisurely sipped his coffee,
and turned over the pages of his Blackwood. He might have been so
engaged for about an hour, for the old waiter enticed him to a second
cup of coffee, when a musical clock began to play. Mr Harding then
closed his magazine, keeping his place with his finger, and lay,
listening with closed eyes to the clock. Soon the clock seemed to
turn into a violoncello, with piano accompaniments, and Mr Harding
began to fancy the old waiter was the Bishop of Barchester; he was
inexpressibly shocked that the bishop should have brought him his
coffee with his own hands; then Dr Grantly came in, with a basket full
of lobsters, which he would not be induced to leave downstairs in the
kitchen; and then the warden couldn't quite understand why so many
people would smoke in the bishop's drawing-room; and so he fell fast
asleep, and his dreams wandered away to his accustomed stall in
Barchester Cathedral, and the twelve old men he was so soon about to
leave for ever.
He was fatigued, and slept soundly for some time. Some sudden stop in
the musical clock woke him at length, and he jumped up with a start,
surprised to find the room quite full: it had been nearly empty when
his nap began. With nervous anxiety he pulled out his watch, and
found that it was half-past nine. He seized his hat, and, hurrying
downstairs, started at a rapid pace for Lincoln's Inn.
It still wanted twenty minutes to ten when the warden found himself
at the bottom of Sir Abraham's stairs, so he walked leisurely up and
down the quiet inn to cool himself. It was a beautiful evening at
the end of August. He had recovered from his fatigue; his sleep and
the coffee had refreshed him, and he was surprised to find that he
was absolutely enjoying himself, when the inn clock struck ten. The
sound was hardly over before he knocked at Sir Abraham's door, and
was informed by the clerk who received him that the great man would
be with him immediately.