THE WARDEN RESIGNS
The party met the next morning at breakfast; and a very sombre affair
it was,--very unlike the breakfasts at Plumstead Episcopi.
There were three thin, small, dry bits of bacon, each an inch long,
served up under a huge old plated cover; there were four three-cornered
bits of dry toast, and four square bits of buttered toast; there was
a loaf of bread, and some oily-looking butter; and on the sideboard
there were the remains of a cold shoulder of mutton. The archdeacon,
however, had not come up from his rectory to St Paul's Churchyard to
enjoy himself, and therefore nothing was said of the scanty fare.
The guests were as sorry as the viands;--hardly anything was said over
the breakfast-table. The archdeacon munched his toast in ominous
silence, turning over bitter thoughts in his deep mind. The warden
tried to talk to his daughter, and she tried to answer him; but they
both failed. There were no feelings at present in common between
them. The warden was thinking only of getting back to Barchester, and
calculating whether the archdeacon would expect him to wait for him;
and Mrs Grantly was preparing herself for a grand attack which she was
to make on her father, as agreed upon between herself and her husband
during their curtain confabulation of that morning.
When the waiter had creaked out of the room with the last of the
teacups, the archdeacon got up and went to the window as though to
admire the view. The room looked out on a narrow passage which runs
from St Paul's Churchyard to Paternoster Row; and Dr Grantly patiently
perused the names of the three shopkeepers whose doors were in view.
The warden still kept his seat at the table, and examined the pattern
of the tablecloth; and Mrs Grantly, seating herself on the sofa, began
to knit.
After a while the warden pulled his Bradshaw out of his pocket, and
began laboriously to consult it. There was a train for Barchester at
10 A.M. That was out of the question, for it was nearly ten already.
Another at 3 P.M.; another, the night-mail train, at 9 P.M. The three
o'clock train would take him home to tea, and would suit very well.
"My dear," said he, "I think I shall go back home at three o'clock
to-day. I shall get home at half-past eight. I don't think there's
anything to keep me in London."
"The archdeacon and I return by the early train to-morrow, papa; won't
you wait and go back with us?"
"Why, Eleanor will expect me tonight; and I've so much to do; and--"
"Much to do!" said the archdeacon sotto voce; but the warden heard
him.
"You'd better wait for us, papa."
"Thank ye, my dear! I think I'll go this afternoon." The tamest
animal will turn when driven too hard, and even Mr Harding was
beginning to fight for his own way.
"I suppose you won't be back before three?" said the lady, addressing
her husband.
"I must leave this at two," said the warden.
"Quite out of the question," said the archdeacon, answering his wife,
and still reading the shopkeepers' names; "I don't suppose I shall be
back till five."
There was another long pause, during which Mr Harding continued to
study his Bradshaw.
"I must go to Cox and Cummins," said the archdeacon at last.
"Oh, to Cox and Cummins," said the warden. It was quite a matter of
indifference to him where his son-in-law went. The names of Cox and
Cummins had now no interest in his ears. What had he to do with Cox
and Cummins further, having already had his suit finally adjudicated
upon in a court of conscience, a judgment without power of appeal
fully registered, and the matter settled so that all the lawyers in
London could not disturb it. The archdeacon could go to Cox and
Cummins, could remain there all day in anxious discussion; but what
might be said there was no longer matter of interest to him, who was
so soon to lay aside the name of warden of Barchester Hospital.
The archdeacon took up his shining new clerical hat, and put on his
black new clerical gloves, and looked heavy, respectable, decorous,
and opulent, a decided clergyman of the Church of England, every
inch of him. "I suppose I shall see you at Barchester the day after
to-morrow," said he.
The warden supposed he would.
"I must once more beseech you to take no further steps till you see my
father; if you owe me nothing," and the archdeacon looked as though he
thought a great deal were due to him, "at least you owe so much to my
father;" and, without waiting for a reply, Dr Grantly wended his way
to Cox and Cummins.
Mrs Grantly waited till the last fall of her husband's foot was heard,
as he turned out of the court into St Paul's Churchyard, and then
commenced her task of talking her father over.
"Papa," she began, "this is a most serious business."
"Indeed it is," said the warden, ringing the bell.
"I greatly feel the distress of mind you must have endured."
"I am sure you do, my dear;"--and he ordered the waiter to bring him
pen, ink, and paper.
"Are you going to write, papa?"
"Yes, my dear;--I am going to write my resignation to the bishop."
"Pray, pray, papa, put it off till our return;--pray put it off till
you have seen the bishop;--dear papa! for my sake, for Eleanor's!--"
"It is for your sake and Eleanor's that I do this. I hope, at least,
that my children may never have to be ashamed of their father."
"How can you talk about shame, papa?" and she stopped while the waiter
creaked in with the paper, and then slowly creaked out again; "how can
you talk about shame? you know what all your friends think about this
question."
The warden spread his paper on the table, placing it on the
meagre blotting-book which the hotel afforded, and sat himself
down to write.
"You won't refuse me one request, papa?" continued his
daughter; "you won't refuse to delay your letter for two short
days? Two days can make no possible difference."
"My dear," said he naïvely, "if I waited till I got to Barchester, I
might, perhaps, be prevented."
"But surely you would not wish to offend the bishop?" said she.
"God forbid! The bishop is not apt to take offence, and knows me too
well to take in bad part anything that I may be called on to do."
"But, papa--"
"Susan," said he, "my mind on this subject is made up; it is not
without much repugnance that I act in opposition to the advice of such
men as Sir Abraham Haphazard and the archdeacon; but in this matter
I can take no advice, I cannot alter the resolution to which I have
come."
"But two days, papa--"
"No;--nor can I delay it. You may add to my present unhappiness by
pressing me, but you cannot change my purpose; it will be a comfort
to me if you will let the matter rest": and, dipping his pen into the
inkstand, he fixed his eyes intently on the paper.
There was something in his manner which taught his daughter to
perceive that he was in earnest; she had at one time ruled supreme in
her father's house, but she knew that there were moments when, mild
and meek as he was, he would have his way, and the present was an
occasion of the sort. She returned, therefore, to her knitting, and
very shortly after left the room.
The warden was now at liberty to compose his letter, and, as it was
characteristic of the man, it shall be given at full length. The
official letter, which, when written, seemed to him to be too formally
cold to be sent alone to so dear a friend, was accompanied by a
private note; and both are here inserted.
The letter of resignation ran as follows:--
CHAPTER HOTEL, ST. PAUL's,
LONDON,
August, 18--
My LORD BISHOP,
It is with the greatest pain that I feel myself constrained
to resign into your Lordship's hands the wardenship of the
hospital at Barchester, which you so kindly conferred upon
me, now nearly twelve years since.
I need not explain the circumstances which have made this
step appear necessary to me. You are aware that a question
has arisen as to the right of the warden to the income which
has been allotted to the wardenship; it has seemed to me
that this right is not well made out, and I hesitate to
incur the risk of taking an income to which my legal claim
appears doubtful.
The office of precentor of the cathedral is, as your
Lordship is aware, joined to that of the warden; that is to
say, the precentor has for many years been the warden of the
hospital; there is, however, nothing to make the junction of
the two offices necessary, and, unless you or the dean and
chapter object to such an arrangement, I would wish to keep
the precentorship. The income of this office will now be
necessary to me; indeed, I do not know why I should be
ashamed to say that I should have difficulty in supporting
myself without it.
Your Lordship, and such others as you may please to consult
on the matter, will at once see that my resignation of
the wardenship need offer not the slightest bar to its
occupation by another person. I am thought in the wrong by
all those whom I have consulted in the matter; I have very
little but an inward and an unguided conviction of my own
to bring me to this step, and I shall, indeed, be hurt to
find that any slur is thrown on the preferment which your
kindness bestowed on me, by my resignation of it. I, at
any rate for one, shall look on any successor whom you may
appoint as enjoying a clerical situation of the highest
respectability, and one to which your Lordship's nomination
gives an indefeasible right.
I cannot finish this official letter without again thanking
your Lordship for all your great kindness, and I beg to
subscribe myself--
Your Lordship's most obedient servant,
SEPTIMUS HARDING,
Warden of Barchester Hospital,
and Precentor of the Cathedral.
He then wrote the following private note:--
My DEAR BISHOP,
I cannot send you the accompanying official letter without
a warmer expression of thanks for all your kindness than
would befit a document which may to a certain degree be
made public. You, I know, will understand the feeling,
and, perhaps, pity the weakness which makes me resign
the hospital. I am not made of calibre strong enough to
withstand public attack. Were I convinced that I stood
on ground perfectly firm, that I was certainly justified
in taking eight hundred a year under Hiram's will, I
should feel bound by duty to retain the position, however
unendurable might be the nature of the assault; but, as I
do not feel this conviction, I cannot believe that you will
think me wrong in what I am doing.
I had at one time an idea of keeping only some moderate
portion of the income; perhaps three hundred a year, and of
remitting the remainder to the trustees; but it occurred to
me, and I think with reason, that by so doing I should place
my successors in an invidious position, and greatly damage
your patronage.
My dear friend, let me have a line from you to say that
you do not blame me for what I am doing, and that the
officiating vicar of Crabtree Parva will be the same to
you as the warden of the hospital.
I am very anxious about the precentorship: the archdeacon
thinks it must go with the wardenship; I think not, and,
that, having it, I cannot be ousted. I will, however, be
guided by you and the dean. No other duty will suit me so
well, or come so much within my power of adequate
performance.
I thank you from my heart for the preferment which I am now
giving up, and for all your kindness, and am, dear bishop,
now as always--
Yours most sincerely,
SEPTIMUS HARDING
LONDON,--AUGUST, 18--
Having written these letters and made a copy of the former one for the
benefit of the archdeacon, Mr Harding, whom we must now cease to call
the warden, he having designated himself so for the last time, found
that it was nearly two o'clock, and that he must prepare for his
journey. Yes, from this time he never again admitted the name by
which he had been so familiarly known, and in which, to tell the
truth, he had rejoiced. The love of titles is common to all men,
and a vicar or fellow is as pleased at becoming Mr Archdeacon or
Mr Provost, as a lieutenant at getting his captaincy, or a city
tallow-chandler in becoming Sir John on the occasion of a Queen's
visit to a new bridge. But warden he was no longer, and the name of
precentor, though the office was to him so dear, confers in itself
no sufficient distinction; our friend, therefore, again became Mr
Harding.
Mrs Grantly had gone out; he had, therefore, no one to delay him by
further entreaties to postpone his journey; he had soon arranged his
bag, and paid his bill, and, leaving a note for his daughter, in which
he put the copy of his official letter, he got into a cab and drove
away to the station with something of triumph in his heart.
Had he not cause for triumph? Had he not been supremely successful?
Had he not for the first time in his life held his own purpose
against that of his son-in-law, and manfully combated against great
odds,--against the archdeacon's wife as well as the archdeacon? Had
he not gained a great victory, and was it not fit that he should step
into his cab with triumph?
He had not told Eleanor when he would return, but she was on the
look-out for him by every train by which he could arrive, and the
pony-carriage was at the Barchester station when the train drew up
at the platform.
"My dear," said he, sitting beside her, as she steered her little
vessel to one side of the road to make room for the clattering omnibus
as they passed from the station into the town, "I hope you'll be able
to feel a proper degree of respect for the vicar of Crabtree."
"Dear papa," said she, "I am so glad."
There was great comfort in returning home to that pleasant house,
though he was to leave it so soon, and in discussing with his daughter
all that he had done, and all that he had to do. It must take some
time to get out of one house into another; the curate at Crabtree
could not be abolished under six months, that is, unless other
provision could be made for him; and then the furniture:--the most of
that must be sold to pay Sir Abraham Haphazard for sitting up till
twelve at night. Mr Harding was strangely ignorant as to lawyers'
bills; he had no idea, from twenty pounds to two thousand, as to the
sum in which he was indebted for legal assistance. True, he had
called in no lawyer himself; true, he had been no consenting party to
the employment of either Cox and Cummins, or Sir Abraham; he had never
been consulted on such matters;--the archdeacon had managed all this
himself, never for a moment suspecting that Mr Harding would take upon
him to end the matter in a way of his own. Had the lawyers' bills
been ten thousand pounds, Mr Harding could not have helped it; but
he was not on that account disposed to dispute his own liability.
The question never occurred to him; but it did occur to him that he
had very little money at his banker's, that he could receive nothing
further from the hospital, and that the sale of the furniture was his
only resource.
"Not all, papa," said Eleanor pleadingly.
"Not quite all, my dear," said he; "that is, if we can help it. We
must have a little at Crabtree,--but it can only be a little; we
must put a bold front on it, Nelly; it isn't easy to come down from
affluence to poverty."
And so they planned their future mode of life; the father taking
comfort from the reflection that his daughter would soon be freed from
it, and she resolving that her father would soon have in her own house
a ready means of escape from the solitude of the Crabtree vicarage.
When the archdeacon left his wife and father-in-law at the Chapter
Coffee House to go to Messrs Cox and Cummins, he had no very defined
idea of what he had to do when he got there. Gentlemen when at law,
or in any way engaged in matters requiring legal assistance, are very
apt to go to their lawyers without much absolute necessity;--gentlemen
when doing so, are apt to describe such attendance as quite
compulsory, and very disagreeable. The lawyers, on the other hand,
do not at all see the necessity, though they quite agree as to the
disagreeable nature of the visit;--gentlemen when so engaged are
usually somewhat gravelled at finding nothing to say to their learned
friends; they generally talk a little politics, a little weather, ask
some few foolish questions about their suit, and then withdraw, having
passed half an hour in a small dingy waiting-room, in company with
some junior assistant-clerk, and ten minutes with the members of the
firm; the business is then over for which the gentleman has come up
to London, probably a distance of a hundred and fifty miles. To be
sure he goes to the play, and dines at his friend's club, and has a
bachelor's liberty and bachelor's recreation for three or four days;
and he could not probably plead the desire of such gratifications as
a reason to his wife for a trip to London.
Married ladies, when your husbands find they are positively obliged to
attend their legal advisers, the nature of the duty to be performed is
generally of this description.
The archdeacon would not have dreamt of leaving London without going
to Cox and Cummins; and yet he had nothing to say to them. The game
was up; he plainly saw that Mr Harding in this matter was not to be
moved; his only remaining business on this head was to pay the bill
and have done with it; and I think it may be taken for granted,
that whatever the cause may be that takes a gentleman to a lawyer's
chambers, he never goes there to pay his bill.
Dr Grantly, however, in the eyes of Messrs Cox and Cummins,
represented the spiritualities of the diocese of Barchester, as Mr
Chadwick did the temporalities, and was, therefore, too great a man to
undergo the half-hour in the clerk's room. It will not be necessary
that we should listen to the notes of sorrow in which the archdeacon
bewailed to Mr Cox the weakness of his father-in-law, and the end
of all their hopes of triumph; nor need we repeat the various
exclamations of surprise with which the mournful intelligence was
received. No tragedy occurred, though Mr Cox, a short and somewhat
bull-necked man, was very near a fit of apoplexy when he first
attempted to ejaculate that fatal word--resign!
Over and over again did Mr Cox attempt to enforce on the archdeacon
the propriety of urging on Mr Warden the madness of the deed he was
about to do.
"Eight hundred a year!" said Mr Cox.
"And nothing whatever to do!" said Mr Cummins, who had joined the
conference.
"No private fortune, I believe," said Mr Cox.
"Not a shilling," said Mr Cummins, in a very low voice, shaking his
head.
"I never heard of such a case in all my experience," said Mr Cox.
"Eight hundred a year, and as nice a house as any gentleman could wish
to hang up his hat in," said Mr Cummins.
"And an unmarried daughter, I believe," said Mr Cox, with much moral
seriousness in his tone. The archdeacon only sighed as each separate
wail was uttered, and shook his head, signifying that the fatuity of
some people was past belief.
"I'll tell you what he might do," said Mr Cummins, brightening up.
"I'll tell you how you might save it:--let him exchange."
"Exchange where?" said the archdeacon.
"Exchange for a living. There's Quiverful, of Puddingdale;--he has
twelve children, and would be delighted to get the hospital. To
be sure Puddingdale is only four hundred, but that would be saving
something out of the fire: Mr Harding would have a curate, and still
keep three hundred or three hundred and fifty."
The archdeacon opened his ears and listened; he really thought the
scheme might do.
"The newspapers," continued Mr Cummins, "might hammer away at
Quiverful every day for the next six months without his minding
them."
The archdeacon took up his hat, and returned to his hotel, thinking
the matter over deeply. At any rate he would sound Quiverful. A man
with twelve children would do much to double his income.