Dr. Grantly was standing himself, and he did not ask Bold to sit, and therefore he had to tell his tale standing, leaning on the table, with his hat in his hand. He did, however, manage to tell it; and as the archdeacon never once interrupted him, or even encouraged him by a single word, he was not long in coming to the end of it.
“And so, Mr. Bold, I’m to understand, I believe, that you are desirous of abandoning this attack upon Mr. Harding.”
“Oh, Dr. Grantly, there has been no attack, I can assure you—”
“Well, well, we won’t quarrel about words; I should call it an attack—most men would so call an endeavour to take away from a man every shilling of income that he has to live upon; but it sha’n’t be an attack, if you don’t like it; you wish to abandon this—this little game of backgammon you’ve begun to play.”
“I intend to put an end to the legal proceedings which I have commenced.”
“I understand,” said the archdeacon. “You’ve already had enough of it; well, I can’t say that I am surprised; carrying on a losing lawsuit where one has nothing to gain, but everything to pay, is not pleasant.”
Bold turned very red in the face. “You misinterpret my motives,” said he; “but, however, that is of little consequence. I did not come to trouble you with my motives, but to tell you a matter of fact. Good-morning, Dr. Grantly.”
“One moment—one moment,” said the other. “I don’t exactly appreciate the taste which induced you to make any personal communication to me on the subject; but I dare say I’m wrong, I dare say your judgment is the better of the two; but as you have done me the honour—as you have, as it were, forced me into a certain amount of conversation on a subject which had better, perhaps, have been left to our lawyers, you will excuse me if I ask you to hear my reply to your communication.”
“I am in no hurry, Dr. Grantly.”
“Well, I am, Mr. Bold; my time is not exactly leisure time, and, therefore, if you please, we’ll go to the point at once:—you’re going to abandon this lawsuit?”—and he paused for a reply.
“Yes, Dr. Grantly, I am.”
“Having exposed a gentleman who was one of your father’s warmest friends to all the ignominy and insolence which the press could heap upon his name, having somewhat ostentatiously declared that it was your duty as a man of high public virtue to protect those poor old fools whom you have humbugged there at the hospital, you now find that the game costs more than it’s worth, and so you make up your mind to have done with it. A prudent resolution, Mr. Bold; but it is a pity you should have been so long coming to it. Has it struck you that we may not now choose to give over? that we may find it necessary to punish the injury you have done to us? Are you aware, sir, that we have gone to enormous expense to resist this iniquitous attempt of yours?”
Bold’s face was now furiously red, and he nearly crushed his hat between his hands; but he said nothing.
“We have found it necessary to employ the best advice that money could procure. Are you aware, sir, what may be the probable cost of securing the services of the attorney-general?”
“Not in the least, Dr. Grantly.”
“I dare say not, sir. When you recklessly put this affair into the hands of your friend Mr. Finney, whose six-and-eightpences and thirteen-and-fourpences may, probably, not amount to a large sum, you were indifferent as to the cost and suffering which such a proceeding might entail on others; but are you aware, sir, that these crushing costs must now come out of your own pocket?”
“Any demand of such a nature which Mr. Harding’s lawyer may have to make will doubtless be made to my lawyer.”
“‘Mr Harding’s lawyer and my lawyer!’ Did you come here merely to refer me to the lawyers? Upon my word I think the honour of your visit might have been spared! And now, sir, I’ll tell you what my opinion is:—my opinion is, that we shall not allow you to withdraw this matter from the courts.”
“You can do as you please, Dr. Grantly; good-morning.”
“Hear me out, sir,” said the archdeacon; “I have here in my hands the last opinion given in this matter by Sir Abraham Haphazard. I dare say you have already heard of this—I dare say it has had something to do with your visit here to-day.”
“I know nothing whatever of Sir Abraham Haphazard or his opinion.”
“Be that as it may, here it is; he declares most explicitly that under no phasis of the affair whatever have you a leg to stand upon; that Mr. Harding is as safe in his hospital as I am here in my rectory; that a more futile attempt to destroy a man was never made, than this which you have made to ruin Mr. Harding. Here,” and he slapped the paper on the table, “I have this opinion from the very first lawyer in the land; and under these circumstances you expect me to make you a low bow for your kind offer to release Mr. Harding from the toils of your net! Sir, your net is not strong enough to hold him; sir, your net has fallen to pieces, and you knew that well enough before I told you—and now, sir, I’ll wish you good-morning, for I’m busy.”
Bold was now choking with passion. He had let the archdeacon run on because he knew not with what words to interrupt him; but now that he had been so defied and insulted, he could not leave the room without some reply.
“Dr. Grantly,” he commenced.
“I have nothing further to say or to hear,” said the archdeacon. “I’ll do myself the honour to order your horse.” And he rang the bell.
“I came here, Dr. Grantly, with the warmest, kindest feelings—”
“Oh, of course you did; nobody doubts it.”
“With the kindest feelings—and they have been most grossly outraged by your treatment.”
“Of course they have—I have not chosen to see my father-in-law ruined; what an outrage that has been to your feelings!”
“The time will come, Dr. Grantly, when you will understand why I called upon you to-day.”
“No doubt, no doubt. Is Mr. Bold’s horse there? That’s right; open the front door. Good-morning, Mr. Bold;” and the doctor stalked into his own drawing-room, closing the door behind him, and making it quite impossible that John Bold should speak another word.
As he got on his horse, which he was fain to do feeling like a dog turned out of a kitchen, he was again greeted by little Sammy.
“Good-bye, Mr. Bold; I hope we may have the pleasure of seeing you again before long; I am sure papa will always be glad to see you.”
That was certainly the bitterest moment in John Bold’s life. Not even the remembrance of his successful love could comfort him; nay, when he thought of Eleanor he felt that it was that very love which had brought him to such a pass. That he should have been so insulted, and be unable to reply! That he should have given up so much to the request of a girl, and then have had his motives so misunderstood! That he should have made so gross a mistake as this visit of his to the archdeacon’s! He bit the top of his whip, till he penetrated the horn of which it was made: he struck the poor animal in his anger, and then was doubly angry with himself at his futile passion. He had been so completely checkmated, so palpably overcome! and what was he to do? He could not continue his action after pledging himself to abandon it; nor was there any revenge in that—it was the very step to which his enemy had endeavoured to goad him!
He threw the reins to the servant who came to take his horse, and rushed upstairs into his drawing-room, where his sister Mary was sitting.
“If there be a devil,” said he, “a real devil here on earth, it is Dr. Grantly.” He vouchsafed her no further intelligence, but again seizing his hat, he rushed out, and took his departure for London without another word to anyone.
CHAPTER 13
The Warden’s Decision
The meeting between Eleanor and her father was not so stormy as that described in the last chapter, but it was hardly more successful. On her return from Bold’s house she found her father in a strange state. He was not sorrowful and silent as he had been on that memorable day when his son-in-law lectured him as to all that he owed to hi
s order; nor was he in his usual quiet mood. When Eleanor reached the hospital, he was walking to and fro upon the lawn, and she soon saw that he was much excited.
“I am going to London, my dear,” he said as soon as he saw her.
“London, papa!”
“Yes, my dear, to London; I will have this matter settled some way; there are some things, Eleanor, which I cannot bear.”
“Oh, papa, what is it?” said she, leading him by the arm into the house. “I had such good news for you, and now you make me fear I am too late.” And then, before he could let her know what had caused this sudden resolve, or could point to the fatal paper which lay on the table, she told him that the lawsuit was over, that Bold had commissioned her to assure her father in his name that it would be abandoned, that there was no further cause for misery, that the whole matter might be looked on as though it had never been discussed. She did not tell him with what determined vehemence she had obtained this concession in his favour, nor did she mention the price she was to pay for it.
The warden did not express himself peculiarly gratified at this intelligence, and Eleanor, though she had not worked for thanks, and was by no means disposed to magnify her own good offices, felt hurt at the manner in which her news was received.
“Mr. Bold can act as he thinks proper, my love,” said he; “if Mr. Bold thinks he has been wrong, of course he will discontinue what he is doing; but that cannot change my purpose.”
“Oh, papa!” she exclaimed, all but crying with vexation; “I thought you would have been so happy—I thought all would have been right now.”
“Mr. Bold,” continued he, “has set great people to work; so great that I doubt they are now beyond his control. Read that, my dear.” The warden, doubling up a number of The Jupiter, pointed to the peculiar article which she was to read. It was to the last of the three leaders, which are generally furnished daily for the support of the nation, that Mr. Harding directed her attention. It dealt some heavy blows on various clerical delinquents; on families who received their tens of thousands yearly for doing nothing; on men who, as the article stated, rolled in wealth which they had neither earned nor inherited, and which was in fact stolen from the poorer clergy. It named some sons of bishops, and grandsons of archbishops; men great in their way, who had redeemed their disgrace in the eyes of many by the enormity of their plunder; and then, having disposed of these leviathans, it descended to Mr. Harding.
We alluded some weeks since to an instance of similar injustice, though in a more humble scale, in which the warden of an almshouse at Barchester has become possessed of the income of the greater part of the whole institution. Why an almshouse should have a warden we cannot pretend to explain, nor can we say what special need twelve old men can have for the services of a separate clergyman, seeing that they have twelve reserved seats for themselves in Barchester Cathedral. But be this as it may, let the gentleman call himself warden or precentor, or what he will, let him be never so scrupulous in exacting religious duties from his twelve dependents, or never so negligent as regards the services of the cathedral, it appears palpably clear that he can be entitled to no portion of the revenue of the hospital, excepting that which the founder set apart for him; and it is equally clear that the founder did not intend that three-fifths of his charity should be so consumed.
The case is certainly a paltry one after the tens of thousands with which we have been dealing, for the warden’s income is after all but a poor eight hundred a year: eight hundred a year is not magnificent preferment of itself, and the warden may, for anything we know, be worth much more to the church; but if so, let the church pay him out of funds justly at its own disposal.
We allude to the question of the Barchester almshouse at the present moment, because we understand that a plea has been set up which will be peculiarly revolting to the minds of English churchmen. An action has been taken against Mr. Warden Harding, on behalf of the almsmen, by a gentleman acting solely on public grounds, and it is to be argued that Mr. Harding takes nothing but what he received as a servant of the hospital, and that he is not himself responsible for the amount of stipend given to him for his work. Such a plea would doubtless be fair, if anyone questioned the daily wages of a bricklayer employed on the building, or the fee of the charwoman who cleans it; but we cannot envy the feeling of a clergyman of the Church of England who could allow such an argument to be put in his mouth.
If this plea be put forward, we trust Mr. Harding will be forced as a witness to state the nature of his employment; the amount of work that he does; the income which he receives; and the source from whence he obtained his appointment. We do not think he will receive much public sympathy to atone for the annoyance of such an examination.
As Eleanor read the article her face flushed with indignation, and when she had finished it, she almost feared to look up at her father.
“Well, my dear,” said he, “what do you think of that—is it worth while to be a warden at that price?”
“Oh, papa—dear papa!”
“Mr. Bold can’t unwrite that, my dear—Mr. Bold can’t say that that sha’n’t be read by every clergyman at Oxford; nay, by every gentleman in the land;” and then he walked up and down the room, while Eleanor in mute despair followed him with her eyes. “And I’ll tell you what, my dear,” he continued, speaking now very calmly, and in a forced manner very unlike himself; “Mr. Bold can’t dispute the truth of every word in that article you have just read—nor can I.” Eleanor stared at him, as though she scarcely understood the words he was speaking. “Nor can I, Eleanor: that’s the worst of all, or would be so if there were no remedy. I have thought much of all this since we were together last night;” and he came and sat beside her, and put his arm round her waist as he had done then. “I have thought much of what the archdeacon has said, and of what this paper says; and I do believe I have no right to be here.”
“No right to be warden of the hospital, papa?”
“No right to be warden with eight hundred a year; no right to be warden with such a house as this; no right to spend in luxury money that was intended for charity. Mr. Bold may do as he pleases about his suit, but I hope he will not abandon it for my sake.”
Poor Eleanor! this was hard upon her. Was it for this she had made her great resolve! For this that she had laid aside her quiet demeanour, and taken upon her the rants of a tragedy heroine! One may work and not for thanks, but yet feel hurt at not receiving them; and so it was with Eleanor: one may be disinterested in one’s good actions, and yet feel discontented that they are not recognised. Charity may be given with the left hand so privily that the right hand does not know it, and yet the left hand may regret to feel that it has no immediate reward. Eleanor had had no wish to burden her father with a weight of obligation, and yet she had looked forward to much delight from the knowledge that she had freed him from his sorrows: now such hopes were entirely over: all that she had done was of no avail; she had humbled herself to Bold in vain; the evil was utterly beyond her power to cure!
She had thought also how gently she would whisper to her father all that her lover had said to her about herself, and how impossible she had found it to reject him: and then she had anticipated her father’s kindly kiss and close embrace as he gave his sanction to her love. Alas! she could say nothing of this now. In speaking of Mr. Bold, her father put him aside as one whose thoughts and sayings and acts could be of no moment. Gentle reader, did you ever feel yourself snubbed? Did you ever, when thinking much of your own importance, find yourself suddenly reduced to a nonentity? Such was Eleanor’s feeling now.
“They shall not put forward this plea on my behalf,” continued the warden. “Whatever may be the truth of the matter, that at any rate is not true; and the man who wrote that article is right in saying that such a plea is revolting to an honest mind. I will go up to London, my dear, and see these lawyers myself, and if no better excuse can be made for me than that, I and the hospital will part.”
“But the
archdeacon, papa?”
“I can’t help it, my dear; there are some things which a man cannot bear—I cannot bear that”—and he put his hand upon the newspaper.
“But will the archdeacon go with you?”
To tell the truth, Mr. Harding had made up his mind to steal a march upon the archdeacon. He was aware that he could take no steps without informing his dread son-in-law, but he had resolved that he would send out a note to Plumstead Episcopi detailing his plans, but that the messenger should not leave Barchester till he himself had started for London; so that he might be a day before the doctor, who, he had no doubt, would follow him. In that day, if he had luck, he might arrange it all; he might explain to Sir Abraham that he, as warden, would have nothing further to do with the defence about to be set up; he might send in his official resignation to his friend the bishop, and so make public the whole transaction, that even the doctor would not be able to undo what he had done. He knew too well the doctor’s strength and his own weakness to suppose he could do this, if they both reached London together; indeed, he would never be able to get to London, if the doctor knew of his intended journey in time to prevent it.
“No, I think not,” said he. “I think I shall start before the archdeacon could be ready—I shall go early to-morrow morning.”
“That will be best, papa,” said Eleanor, showing that her father’s ruse was appreciated.
“Why yes, my love. The fact is, I wish to do all this before the archdeacon can—can interfere. There is a great deal of truth in all he says—he argues very well, and I can’t always answer him; but there is an old saying, Nelly: ‘Everyone knows where his own shoe pinches!’ He’ll say that I want moral courage, and strength of character, and power of endurance, and it’s all true; but I’m sure I ought not to remain here, if I have nothing better to put forward than a quibble: so, Nelly, we shall have to leave this pretty place.”
Eleanor’s face brightened up, as she assured her father how cordially she agreed with him.
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 13
