THE EX-WARDEN REJOICES IN HIS PROBABLE RETURN TO THE HOSPITAL
Among the ladies in Barchester who have hitherto acknowledged Mr
Slope as their spiritual director, must not be reckoned either the
widow Bold, or her sister-in-law. On the first outbreak of the
wrath of the denizens of the close, none had been more animated
against the intruder than those two ladies. And this was natural.
Who could be so proud of the musical distinction of their own
cathedral as the favourite daughter of the precentor? Who would be
so likely to resent an insult offered to the old choir? And in such
matters Miss Bold and her sister-in-law had but one opinion.
This wrath, however, has in some degree been mitigated, and I
regret to say that these ladies allowed Mr Slope to be his own
apologist. About a fortnight after the sermon had been preached,
they were both of them not a little surprised by hearing Mr Slope
announced, as the page in buttons opened Mrs Bold's drawing-room
door. Indeed, what living man could, by a mere morning visit, have
surprised them more? Here was the great enemy of all that was good
in Barchester coming into their own drawing-room, and they had not
strong arm, no ready tongue near at hand for their protection. The
widow snatched her baby out of its cradle into her lap, and Mary
Bold stood up ready to die manfully in that baby's behalf, should,
under any circumstances, such a sacrifice be necessary.
In this manner was Mr Slope received. But when he left, he was
allowed by each lady to take her hand, and to make his adieux as
gentlemen do who have been graciously entertained! Yes; he shook
hands with them, and was curtseyed out courteously, the buttoned
page opening the door, as he would have done for the best canon of
them all. He had touched the baby's little hand and blessed him
with a fervid blessing; he had spoken to the widow of her early
sorrows, and Eleanor's silent tears had not rebuked him; he had
told Mary Bold that her devotion would be rewarded, and Mary Bold
had heard the praise without disgust. And how had he done all this?
How had he so quickly turned aversion into, at any rate,
acquaintance? How had he overcome the enmity with which those
ladies had been ready to receive him, and made his peace with them
so easily?
My readers will guess from what I have written that I myself do not
like Mr Slope; but I am constrained to admit that he is a man of
parts. He knows how to say a soft word in the proper place; he
knows how to adapt his flattery to the ears of his hearers; he
knows the wiles of the serpent and he uses them. Could Mr Slope
have adapted his manners to men as well as to women, could he ever
have learnt the ways of a gentleman, he might have risen to great
things.
He commenced his acquaintance with Eleanor by praising her father.
He had, he said, become aware that he had unfortunately offended
the feelings of a man of whom he could not speak too highly; he
would not now allude to a subject which was probably too serious
for drawing-room conversation, but he would say, that it had been
very far from him to utter a word in disparagement of a man, of
whom all the world, at least the clerical world, spoke of so highly
as it did of Mr Harding. And so he went on, unsaying a great deal
of his sermon, expressing his highest admiration for the
precentor's musical talents, eulogising the father and the daughter
and the sister-in-law, speaking in that low silky whisper which he
always had specially prepared for feminine ears, and, ultimately,
gaining his object. When he left, he expressed a hope that he might
again be allowed to call; and though Eleanor gave no verbal assent
to this, she did not express dissent; and so Mr Slope's right to
visit at the widow's house was established.
The day after this visit Eleanor told her father of it, and
expressed an opinion that Mr Slope was not quite so black as he had
been painted. Mr Harding opened he eyes rather wider than usual
when he heard what had occurred, but he said little; he could not
agree in any praise of Mr Slope, and it was not his practice to say
much evil of any one. He did not, however, like the visit, and
simple-minded as he was, he felt sure that Mr Slope had some deeper
motive than the mere pleasure of making soft speeches to two
ladies.
Mr Harding, however, had come to see his daughter with other
purpose than that of speaking either good or evil of Mr Slope. He
had come to tell her that the place of warden in Hiram's hospital
was again to be filled up, and that in all probability he would
once more return to his old house and his twelve bedesmen.
'But,' he said, laughing, 'I shall be greatly shorn of my ancient
glory.'
'Why so, papa?'
'This new act of parliament, that is to put us all on our feet
again,' continued he, 'settles my income at four hundred and fifty
pounds per annum.'
'Four hundred and fifty,' said she, 'instead of eight hundred!
Well; that is rather shabby. But still, papa, you'll have the dear
old house and garden?'
'My dear,' said he, 'it's worth twice the money;' and as he spoke
he showed a jaunty kind of satisfaction in his tone and manner, and
in the quick, pleasant way in which he paced Eleanor's
drawing-room. 'It's worth twice the money. I shall have the house
and the garden, and a larger income than I can possibly want.'
'At any rate, you'll have no extravagant daughter to provide for;'
and as she spoke, the young widow put her arm within his, and made
him sit on the sofa beside her; 'at any rate you'll not have that
expense.'
'No, my dear; and I shall be rather lonely without her; but we
won't think of that now. As regards income I shall have plenty for
all I want. I shall have my old house; and I don't mind owning now
that I have felt sometimes the inconvenience of living in a
lodging. Lodgings are very nice for young men, but at my time of
life there is a want of--I hardly know what to call it, perhaps not
respectability--'
'Oh, papa! I'm sure there's been nothing like that. Nobody has
thought it; nobody in all Barchester has been more respected than
you have been since you took those rooms in High Street. Nobody!
Not the dean in his deanery, or the archdeacon at Plumstead.'
'The archdeacon would not be much obliged to you if he heard you,'
said he, smiling somewhat at the exclusive manner in which his
daughter confined her illustration to the church dignitaries of the
chapter of Barchester; 'but at any rate, I shall be glad to get
back to the old house. Since I heard that it was all settled, I
have begun to fancy that I can't be comfortable without my two
sitting-rooms.'
'Come and stay with me, papa, till it is settled--there's a dear
papa.'
'Thank ye, Nelly. But no; I won't do that. It would make two
movings. I shall be very glad to get back to my old men again.
Alas! Alas! There have six of them gone in the few last years. Six
out of twelve! And the others I fear have had but a sorry life of
it there. Poor Bunce, poor old Bunce!'
Bunce was one of the surviving recipients of Hiram's charity; and
old man, now over ninety, who had long been a favourite of Mr
Harding's.
'How happy old Bunce will be,' said Mrs Bold, clapping her soft
hands softly. 'How happy they all will be to have you back again.'
You may be sure there will soon be friendship among them again when
you are there.'
'But,' said he, half laughing, 'I am to have new troubles, which
will be terrible to me. There are to be twelve old women, and a
matron. How shall I manage twelve women and a matron!'
'The matron will manage the women of course.'
'And who'll manage the matron?' said he.
'She won't want to be managed. She'll be a great lady herself, I
suppose. But, papa, where will the matron live? She is not to live
in the warden's house with you, is she?'
'Well, I hope not, my dear.'
'Oh, papa, I tell you fairly. I won't have a matron for a new
step-mother.'
'You shan't, my dear; that is if I can help it. But they are going
to build another house for the matron and the women; and I believe
they haven't even fixed yet on the site of the building.'
'And have they appointed the matron?' said Eleanor.
'They haven't appointed the warden yet,' replied he.
'But there's no doubt about that, I suppose,' said his daughter.
Mr Harding explained that he thought there was no doubt; that the
archdeacon had declared as much, saying that the bishop and his
chaplain between them had not the power to appoint any once else,
even if they had the will to do so, and sufficient impudence to
carry out such a will. The archdeacon was of the opinion, that
though Mr Harding had resigned his wardenship, and had done so
unconditionally, he had done so under circumstances which left the
bishop no choice as to his re-appointment, now that the affair of
the hospital had been settled on a new basis by act of parliament.
Such was the archdeacon's opinion, and his father-in-law received
it without a shadow of doubt.
Dr Grantly had always been strongly opposed to Mr Harding's
resignation of the place. He had done all in his power to dissuade
him from it. He had considered that Mr Harding was bound to
withstand the popular clamour with which he was attacked for
receiving so large an income as eight hundred a year from such a
charity, and was not even satisfied that his father-in-law's
conduct had not been pusillanimous and undignified. He looked also
on this reduction of the warden's income as a paltry scheme on the
part of government for escaping from a difficulty into which it had
been brought by the public press. Dr Grantly observed that the
government had no more right to dispose of a sum of four hundred
and fifty pounds a year out of the income of Hiram's legacy, than
of nine hundred; whereas, as he said, the bishop, dean and chapter
clearly had a right to settle what sum should be paid. He also
declared that the government had no more right to saddle the
charity with twelve old women than with twelve hundred; and he was,
therefore, very indignant on the matter. He probably forgot when so
talking that government had done nothing of the kind, and had never
assumed any such might or any such right. He made the common
mistake of attributing to the government, which in such matters is
powerless, the doings of parliament, which in such matters is
omnipotent.
But though he felt that the glory and honour of the situation of
warden of Barchester hospital was indeed curtailed by the new
arrangement; that the whole establishment had to a certain degree
been made vile by the touch of Whig commissioners; that the place
with the lessened income, its old women, and other innovations, was
very different from the hospital of former days; still the
archdeacon was too practical a man of the world to wish that his
father-in-law, who had at present little more than L 200 per annum
for all his wants, should refuse the situation, defiled,
undignified, and commission-ridden as it was.
Mr Harding had, accordingly, made up his mind that he would return
to his old house at the hospital, and to tell the truth, had
experienced almost a childish pleasure in the idea of doing so. The
diminished income was to him not even the source of momentary
regret. The matron and the old women did rather go against the
grain; but he was able to console himself with the reflection,
that, after all, such an arrangement might be of real service to
the poor of the city. The thought that he must receive his
re-appointment as the gift of the new bishop, and probably through
the hands of Mr Slope, annoyed him a little; but his mind was set
at rest by the assurance of the archdeacon that there would be no
favour in such a presentation. The re-appointment of the old warden
would be regarded by all the world as a matter of course. Mr
Harding, therefore, felt no hesitation in telling his daughter that
they might look upon his return to his old quarters as a settled
matter.
'And you won't have to ask for it, papa.'
'Certainly not, my dear. There is no ground on which I could ask
for any favour from the bishop, whom, indeed, I hardly know. Nor
would I ask a favour, that granting of which might possibly be made
a question to be settled by Mr Slope. No,' said he, moved for a
moment by a spirit very unlike his own, 'I certainly shall be very
glad to go back to the hospital; but I should never go there, if it
were necessary that my doing so should be the subject of a request
to Mr Slope.'
This little outbreak of her father's anger jarred on the present
tone of Eleanor's mind. She had not learnt to like Mr Slope, but
she had learnt to think that he had much respect for her father;
and she would, therefore, willingly use her efforts to induce
something like good feeling between them.
'Papa,' said she, 'I think you somewhat mistake Mr Slope's
character.'
'Do I?' said he, placidly.
'I think you do, papa. I think he intended no personal disrespect
to you when he preached the sermon which made the archdeacon and
the dean so angry.!'
'I never supposed that he did, my dear. I hope I never inquired
within myself whether he did or no. Such a matter would be unworthy
of any inquiry, and very unworthy of the consideration of the
chapter. But I fear he intended disrespect to the ministration's of
God's services, as conducted in conformity with the rules of the
Church of England.'
'But might it not be that he thought it his duty to express his
dissent from that which you, and the dean, and all of us here
approve?'
'It can hardly be the duty of any young man rudely to assail the
religious convictions of his elders of the church. Courtesy should
have kept him silent, even if neither charity nor modesty could do
so.'
'But Mr Slope would say that on such a subject the commands of his
heavenly Master do not admit of his being silent.'
'Nor of being courteous, Eleanor?'
'He did not say that, papa.'
'Believe me, my child, that Christian ministers are never called on
by God's word to insult the convictions, or even the prejudices, of
their brethren; and that religion is at any rate not less
susceptible to urbane and courteous conduct among men, than any
other study which men take up. I am sorry to say that I cannot
defend Mr Slope's sermon in the cathedral. But come, my dear, put
on your bonnet, and let us walk round the dear old gardens at the
hospital. I have never yet had the heart to go beyond the
court-yard since we left the place. Now I think I can venture to
enter.'
Eleanor rang the bell, and gave a variety of imperative charges as
to the welfare of the precious baby, whom, all but unwillingly, she
was about to leave for an hour or so, and then sauntered forth with
her father to revisit the old hospital. It had been forbidden ground
to her as well as to him since the day on which they had walked
forth together from its walk.