“He ought to have come over here, and not stayed there by himself,” said the archdeacon, when his wife told him of her intention.
“It is too late to think of that now, my dear; and one can understand, I think, that he should not like leaving the cathedral as long as he can attend it. The truth is he does not like being out of Barchester.”
“He would be much better here,” said the archdeacon. “Of course you can have the carriage and go over. We can breakfast at eight; and if you can bring him back with you, do. I should tell him that he ought to come.” Mrs. Grantly made no answer to this, knowing very well that she could not bring herself to go beyond the gentlest persuasion with her father, and on the next morning she was at the deanery by ten o’clock. Half-past ten was the hour at which the service began. Mrs. Baxter contrived to meet her before she saw her father, and begged her not to let it be known that any special tidings of Mr. Harding’s failing strength had been sent from the deanery to Plumstead. “And how is my father?” asked Mrs. Grantly. “Well, then, ma’am,” said Baxter, “in one sense he’s finely. He took a morsel of early lamb to his dinner yesterday, and relished it ever so well—only he gave Miss Posy the best part of it. And then he sat with Miss Posy quite happy for an hour or so. And then he slept in his chair; and you know, ma’am, we never wakes him. And after that old Skulpit toddled up from the hospital,”—this was Hiram’s Hospital, of which establishment, in the city of Barchester, Mr. Harding had once been the warden and kind master, as has been told in former chronicles of the city—”and your papa has said, ma’am, you know, that he is always to see any of the old men when they come up. And Skulpit is sly, and no better than he should be, and got money from your father, ma’am, I know. And then he had just a drop of tea, and after that I took him his glass of port wine with my own hands. And it touched me, ma’am, so it did, when he said, ‘Oh, Mrs. Baxter, how good you are; you know well what it is I like.’ And then he went to bed. I listened hard—not from idle curiosity, ma’am, as you, who know me, will believe, but just because it’s becoming to know what he’s about, as there might be an accident, you know, ma’am.” “You are very good, Mrs. Baxter, very good.” “Thank ye, ma’am, for saying so. And so I listened hard; but he didn’t go to his music, poor gentleman; and I think he had a quiet night. He doesn’t sleep much at nights, poor gentleman, but he’s very quiet; leastwise he was last night.” This was the bulletin which Mrs. Baxter gave to Mrs. Grantly on that morning before Mrs. Grantly saw her father.
She found him preparing himself for his visit to the cathedral. Some year or two—but no more—before the date of which we are speaking, he had still taken some small part in the service; and while he had done so he had of course worn his surplice. Living so close to the cathedral—so close that he could almost walk out of the house into the transept—he had kept his surplice in his own room, and had gone down in his vestment. It had been a bitter day to him when he had first found himself constrained to abandon the white garment which he loved. He had encountered some failure in the performance of the slight clerical task allotted to him, and the dean had tenderly advised him to desist. He did not utter one word of remonstrance. “It will perhaps be better,” the dean had said. “Yes—it will be better,” Mr. Harding had replied. “Few have had accorded to them the high privilege of serving their Master in His house for so many years—though few more humbly, or with lower gifts.” But on the following morning, and for nearly a week afterwards, he had been unable to face the minor canon and the vergers, and the old women who knew him so well, in his ordinary black garments. At last he went down with the dean, and occupied a stall close to the dean’s seat—far away from that in which he had sat for so many years—and in this seat he had said his prayers ever since that day. And now his surplices were washed and ironed and folded and put away; but there were moments in which he would stealthily visit them, as he also stealthily visited his friend in the black wooden case. This was very melancholy, and the sadness of it was felt by all those who lived with him; but he never alluded himself to any of those bereavements which age brought upon him. Whatever might be his regrets, he kept them ever within his own breast.
Posy was with him when Mrs. Grantly went up into his room, holding for him his hat and stick while he was engaged in brushing a suspicion of dust from his black gaiters. “Grandpapa, here is aunt Susan,” said Posy. The old man looked up with something—with some slightest sign of that habitual fear which was always aroused within his bosom by visitations from Plumstead. Had Mrs. Arabin thoroughly understood the difference in her father’s feeling toward herself and toward her sister, I think she would hardly have gone forth upon any tour while he remained with her in the deanery. It is very hard sometimes to know how intensely we are loved, and of what value our presence is to those who love us! Mrs. Grantly saw the look—did not analyse it, did not quite understand it—but felt, as she had so often felt before, that it was not altogether laden with welcome. But all this had nothing to do with the duty on which she had come; nor did it, in the slightest degree, militate against her own affection. “Papa,” she said, kissing him, “you are surprised to see me so early?”
“Well, my dear, yes—but very glad all the same. I hope everybody is well at Plumstead?”
“Everybody, thank you, papa.”
“That is well. Posy and I are getting ready for church. Are we not, Posy?”
“Grandpapa is getting ready. Mrs. Baxter won’t let me go.”
“No, my dear, no—not yet, Posy. When Posy is a great girl she can go to the cathedral every day. Only then, perhaps, Posy won’t want to go.”
“I thought that, perhaps, papa, you would sit with me a little while this morning, instead of going to morning prayers.”
“Certainly, my dear—certainly. Only I do not like not going—for who can say how often I may be able to go again? There is so little left, Susan—so very little left.”
After that she had not the heart to ask him to stay, and therefore she went with him. As they passed down the stairs and out of the doors she was astonished to find how weak were his footsteps—how powerless he was against the slightest misadventure. On this very day he would have tripped at the upward step at the cathedral door had she not been with him. “Oh, papa,” she said, “indeed, indeed, you should not come here alone.” Then he apologised for his little stumble with many words and much shame, assuring her that anybody might trip on an occasion. It was purely an accident; and though it was a comfort to him to have had her arm, he was sure that he would have recovered himself even had he been alone. He always, he said, kept quite close to the wall, so that there might be no mistake—no possibility of an accident. All this he said volubly, but with confused words, in the covered stone passage leading into the transept. And, as he thus spoke, Mrs. Grantly made up her mind that her father should never again go to the cathedral alone. He never did go again to the cathedral—alone.
When they returned to the deanery, Mr. Harding was fluttered, weary, and unwell. When his daughter left him for a few minutes he told Mrs. Baxter in confidence the story of his accident, and his great grief that his daughter should have seen it. “Laws amercy, sir, it was a blessing she was with you,” said Mrs. Baxter; “it was, indeed, Mr. Harding.” Then Mr. Harding had been angry, and spoke almost crossly to Mrs. Baxter; but, before she left the room, he found an opportunity of begging her pardon—not in a set speech to that effect, but by a little word of gentle kindness, which she had understood perfectly. “Papa,” said Mrs. Grantly to him as soon as she had succeeded in getting both Posy and Mrs. Baxter out of the room—against the doing of which, Mr. Harding had manoeuvred with all his little impotent skill—”Papa, you must promise me that you will not go to the cathedral again alone, till Eleanor comes home.” When he heard the sentence he looked at her with blank misery in his eyes. He made no attempt at remonstrance. He begged for no respite. The word had gone forth, and he knew that it must be obeyed. Though he would have hidden the signs of his
weakness had he been able, he would not condescend to plead that he was strong. “If you think it wrong, my dear, I will not go alone,” he said. “Papa, I do; indeed I do. Dear papa, I would not hurt you by saying it if I did not know that I am right.” He was sitting with his hand upon the table, and, as she spoke to him, she put her hand upon his, caressing it. “My dear,” he said, “you are always right.”
She left him again for a while, having some business out in the city, and he was alone in his room for an hour. What was there left to him now in the world? Old as he was, and in some things almost childish, nevertheless, he thought of this keenly, and some half-realised remembrance of “the lean and slippered pantaloon” flitted across his mind, causing him a pang. What was there left to him now in the world? Posy and cat’s-cradle! Then, in the midst of his regrets, as he sat with his back bent in his old easy-chair, with one arm over the shoulder of the chair, and the other hanging loose by his side, on a sudden there came across his face a smile as sweet as ever brightened the face of man or woman. He had been able to tell himself that he had no ground for complaint—great ground rather for rejoicing and gratitude. Had not the world and all in it been good to him; had he not children who loved him, who had done him honour, who had been to him always a crown of glory, never a mark for reproach; had not his lines fallen to him in very pleasant places; was it not his happy fate to go and leave it all amidst the good words and kind loving cares of devoted friends? Whose latter days had ever been more blessed than his? And for the future—? It was as he thought of this that that smile came across his face—as though it were already the face of an angel. And then he muttered to himself a word or two. “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.”
When Mrs. Grantly returned she found him in jocund spirits. And yet she perceived that he was so weak that when he left his chair he could barely get across the room without assistance. Mrs. Baxter, indeed, had not sent to her too soon, and it was well that the prohibition had come in time to prevent some terrible accident. “Papa,” she said, “I think you had better go with me to Plumstead. The carriage is here, and I can take you home so comfortably.” But he would not allow himself to be taken on this occasion to Plumstead. He smiled and thanked her, and put his hand into hers, and repeated his promise that he would not leave the house on any occasion without assistance, and declared himself specially thankful to her for coming to him on that special morning—but he would not be taken to Plumstead. “When summer comes,” he said, “then, if you will have me for a few days!”
He meant no deceit, and yet he had told himself within the last hour that he should never see another summer. He could not tell even his daughter that after such a life as this, after more than fifty years spent in the ministrations of his darling cathedral, it specially behoved him to die—as he had lived—at Barchester. He could not say this to his eldest daughter; but had his Eleanor been at home, he could have said it to her. He thought he might yet live to see his Eleanor once again. If this could be given to him he would ask for nothing more.
On the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Baxter wrote another letter, in which she told Mrs. Grantly that her father had declared, at his usual hour of rising that morning, that as he was not going to the cathedral he would, he thought, lie in bed a little longer. And then he had lain in bed the whole day. “And, perhaps, honoured madam, looking at all things, it’s best as he should,” said Mrs. Baxter.
CHAPTER L
Lady Lufton’s Proposition
It was now known throughout Barchester that a commission was to be held by the bishop’s orders, at which inquiry would be made—that is, ecclesiastical inquiry—as to the guilt imputed to Mr. Crawley in the matter of Mr. Soames’s cheque. Sundry rumours had gone abroad as to quarrels which had taken place on the subject among certain clergymen high in office; but these were simply rumours, and nothing was in truth known. There was no more discreet clergyman in all the diocese than Dr. Tempest, and not a word had escaped from him as to the stormy nature of that meeting in the bishop’s palace, at which he had attended with the bishop—and at which Mrs. Proudie had attended also. When it is said that the fact of this coming commission was known to all Barsetshire, allusion is of course made to that portion of the inhabitants of Barsetshire to which clerical matters were dear—and as such matters were specially dear to the inhabitants of the parish of Framley, the commission was discussed very eagerly in that parish, and was specially discussed by the Dowager Lady Lufton.
And there was a double interest attached to the commission in the parish of Framley by the fact that Mr. Robarts, the vicar, had been invited by Dr. Tempest to be one of the clergymen who were to assist in making the inquiry. “I also to propose to ask Mr. Oriel of Greshamsbury to join us,” said Dr. Tempest. “The bishop wishes to appoint the other two, and has already named Mr. Thumble and Mr. Quiverful, who are both residents in the city. Perhaps his lordship may be right in thinking it better that the matter should not be left altogether in the hands of clergymen who hold livings in the diocese. You are no doubt aware that neither Mr. Thumble nor Mr. Quiverful do hold any benefice.” Mr. Robarts felt—as everybody else did feel who knew anything of the matter—that Bishop Proudie was singularly ignorant in his knowledge of men, and that he showed his ignorance on this special occasion. “If he intended to name two such men he should at any rate have named three,” said Dr. Thorne. “Mr. Thumble and Mr. Quiverful will simply be outvoted on the first day, and after that will give in their adhesion to the majority.” “Mr. Thumble, indeed!” Lady Lufton had said, with much scorn in her voice. To her thinking, it was absurd in the highest degree that such men as Dr. Tempest and her Mr. Robarts should be asked to meet Mr. Thumble and Mr. Quiverful on a matter of ecclesiastical business. Outvoted! Of course whey would be outvoted. Of course they would be so paralysed by fear at finding themselves in the presence of real gentlemen, that they would hardly be able to vote at all. Old Lady Lufton did not in fact utter words so harsh as these; but thoughts as harsh passed through her mind. The reader therefore will understand that much interest was felt on the subject at Framley Court, where Lady Lufton lived with her son and daughter-in-law.
“They tell me,” said Lady Lufton, “that both the archdeacon and Dr. Tempest think it is right that a commission should be held. If so, I have no doubt that it is right.”
“Mark says that the bishop could hardly do anything else,” rejoined Mrs. Robarts.
“I daresay not, my dear. I suppose the bishop has somebody near him to tell him what he may do, and what he may not do. It would be terrible to think of, if it were not so. But yet, when I hear that he has named such men as Mr. Thumble and Mr. Quiverful, I cannot but feel that the whole diocese is disgraced.”
“Oh, Lady Lufton, that is such a strong word,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“It may be strong, but it is not the less true,” said Lady Lufton.
And from talking on the subject of the Crawleys, Lady Lufton soon advanced, first to a desire for some action, and than to acting. “I think, my dear, I will go over and see Mrs. Crawley,” said Lady Lufton the elder to Lady Lufton the younger. Lady Lufton the younger had nothing to urge against this; but she did not offer to accompany the elder Lady. I attempted to explain in the early part of this story that there still existed a certain understanding between Mrs. Crawley and Lord Lufton’s wife, and that kindnesses occasionally passed from Framley Court to Hogglestock Parsonage; but on this occasion young Lady Lufton—the Lucy Robarts who had once passed certain days of her life with the Crawleys at Hogglestock—did not choose to accompany her mother-in-law; and therefore Mrs. Robarts was invited to do so. “I think it may comfort her to know that she has our sympathy,” the elder woman said to the younger as they made their journey together.
When the carriage stopped before the little wicket-gate, from whence a path led through a ragged garden from the road to Mr. Crawley’s house, Lady Lufton hardly knew how to proceed. The
servant came to the door of the carriage, and asked for her orders. “H—m—m, ha, yes; I think I’ll send in my card—and say that I hope Mrs. Crawley will be able to see me. Won’t that be best; eh, Fanny?” Fanny, otherwise Mrs. Robarts, said that she thought that would be the best; and the card and message were carried in.
It was happily the case that Mr. Crawley was not at home. Mr. Crawley was away at Hoggle End, reading to the brickmakers, or turning the mangles of their wives, or teaching them theology, or politics, or history, after his fashion. In these days he spent, perhaps, the happiest hours of his life down at Hoggle End. I say that his absence was a happy chance, because, had he been at home, he would certainly have said something, or done something, to offend Lady Lufton. He would either have refused to see her, or when seeing her he would have bade her hold her peace and not interfere with matters which did not concern her, or—more probable still—he would have sat still and sullen, and have spoken not at all. But he was away, and Mrs. Crawley sent out word by the servant that she would be most proud to see her ladyship, if her ladyship would be pleased to alight. Her ladyship did alight, and walked into the parsonage, followed by Mrs. Robarts.
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 335
