There is no help for spilt milk; and Mr Bunce could only retire to his own room, disgusted at the frailty of human nature. Job Skulpit scratched his head—Jonathan Crumple again remarked, that, ‘for sartain, sure a hundred a year was very nice’—and Billy Gazy again rubbed his eyes, and lowly muttered that ‘he didn’t know.’
CHAPTER V Dr Grantly Visits the Hospital
Though doubt and hesitation disturbed the rest of our poor warden, no such weakness perplexed the nobler breast of his son-in-law. As the indomitable cock preparing for the combat sharpens his spurs, shakes his feathers, and erects his comb, so did the archdeacon arrange his weapons for the coming war, without misgiving and without fear. That he was fully confident of the justice of his cause let no one doubt. Many a man can fight his battle with good courage, but with a doubting conscience. Such was not the case with Dr Grantly. He did not believe in the Gospel with more assurance than he did in the sacred justice of all ecclesiastical revenues. When he put his shoulder to the wheel to defend the income of the present and future precentors of Barchester, he was animated by as strong a sense of a holy cause, as that which gives courage to a missionary in Africa, or enables a sister of mercy to give up the pleasures of the world for the wards of a hospital. He was about to defend the holy of holies from the touch of the profane; to guard the citadel of his church from the most rampant of its enemies; to put on his good armour in the best of fights; and secure, if possible, the comforts of his creed for coming generations of ecclesiastical dignitaries. Such a work required no ordinary vigour; and the archdeacon was, therefore, extraordinarily vigorous. It demanded a buoyant courage, and a heart happy in its toil; and the archdeacon’s heart was happy, and his courage was buoyant.
He knew that he would not be able to animate his father-in-law with feelings like his own, but this did not much disturb him. He preferred to bear the brunt of the battle alone, and did not doubt that the warden would resign himself into his hands with passive submission.
‘Well, Mr Chadwick,’ he said, walking into the steward’s office a day or two after the signing of the petition as commemorated in the last chapter: ‘anything from Cox and Cummins this morning?’ Mr Chadwick handed him a letter; which he read, stroking the tight-gaitered calf of his right leg as he did so. Messrs Cox and Cummins merely said that they had as yet received no notice from their adversaries; that they could recommend no preliminary steps; but that should any proceeding really be taken by the bedesmen, it would be expedient to consult that very eminent Queen’s Counsel, Sir Abraham Haphazard.
‘I quite agree with them,’ said Dr Grantly, refolding the letter. ‘I perfectly agree with them. Haphazard is no doubt the best man; a thorough churchman, a sound conservative, and in every respect the best man we could get—he’s in the House, too, which is a great thing.’
Mr Chadwick quite agreed.
‘You remember how completely he put down that scoundrel Horseman about the Bishop of Beverley’s income; how completely he set them all adrift in the earl’s case.’ Since the question of St Cross had been mooted by the public, one noble lord had become ‘the earl,’ par excellence, in the doctor’s estimation. ‘How he silenced that fellow at Rochester. Of course we must have Haphazard; and I’ll tell you what, Mr Chadwick, we must take care to be in time, or the other party will forestall us.’
With all his admiration for Sir Abraham, the doctor seemed to think it not impossible that that great man might be induced to lend his gigantic powers to the side of the church’s enemies.
Having settled this point to his satisfaction, the doctor stepped down to the hospital, to learn how matters were going on there; and as he walked across the hallowed close, and looked up at the ravens who cawed with a peculiar reverence as he wended his way, he thought with increased acerbity of those whose impiety would venture to disturb the goodly grace of cathedral institutions.
And who has not felt the same? We believe that Mr Horseman himself would relent, and the spirit of Sir Benjamin Hall give way, were those great reformers to allow themselves to stroll by moonlight round the towers of some of our ancient churches. Who would not feel charity for a prebendary when walking the quiet length of that long aisle at Winchester, looking at those decent houses, that trim grass-plat, and feeling, as one must, the solemn, orderly comfort of the spot! Who could be hard upon a dean while wandering round the sweet close of Hereford, and owning that in that precinct, tone and colour, design and form, solemn tower and storied window, are all in unison, and all perfect! Who could lie basking in the cloisters of Salisbury, and gaze on Jewel’s library and that unequalled spire, without feeling that bishops should sometimes be rich!
The tone of our archdeacon’s mind must not astonish us; it has been the growth of centuries of church ascendancy; and though some fungi now disfigure the tree, though there be much dead wood, for how much good fruit have not we to be thankful? Who, without remorse, can batter down the dead branches of an old oak, now useless, but, ah! still so beautiful, or drag out the fragments of the ancient forest, without feeling that they sheltered the younger plants, to which they are now summoned to give way in a tone so peremptory and so harsh?
The archdeacon, with all his virtues, was not a man of delicate feeling; and after having made his morning salutations in the warden’s drawing-room, he did not scruple to commence an attack on ‘pestilent’ John Bold in the presence of Miss Harding, though he rightly guessed that that lady was not indifferent to the name of his enemy.
‘Nelly, my dear, fetch me my spectacles from the back room,’ said her father, anxious to save both her blushes and her feelings.
Eleanor brought the spectacles, while her father was trying, in ambiguous phrases, to explain to her too-practical brother-in-law that it might be as well not to say anything about Bold before her, and then retreated. Nothing had been explained to her about Bold and the hospital; but, with a woman’s instinct she knew that things were going wrong.
‘We must soon be doing something,’ commenced the archdeacon, wiping his brows with a large, bright-coloured handkerchief, for he had felt busy, and had walked quick, and it was a broiling summer’s day. ‘Of course you have heard of the petition?’
Mr Harding owned, somewhat unwillingly, that he had heard of it.
‘Well’—the archdeacon looked for some expressions of opinion, but none coming, he continued—’ We must be doing something, you know; we mustn’t allow these people to cut the ground from under us while we sit looking on.’ The archdeacon, who was a practical man, allowed himself the use of everyday expressive modes of speech when among his closest intimates, though no one could soar into a more intricate labyrinth of refined phraseology when the church was the subject, and his lower brethren were his auditors.
The warden still looked mutely in his face, making the slightest possible passes with an imaginary fiddle bow, and stopping, as he did so, sundry imaginary strings with the fingers of his other hand. ‘Twas his constant consolation in conversational troubles. While these vexed him sorely, the passes would be short and slow, and the upper hand would not be seen to work; nay, the strings on which it operated would sometimes lie concealed in the musician’s pocket, and the instrument on which he played would be beneath his chair— but as his spirit warmed to the subject—as his trusting heart looking to the bottom of that which vexed him, would see its clear way out—he would rise to a higher melody, sweep the unseen strings with a bolder hand, and swiftly fingering the cords from his neck, down along his waistcoat, and up again to his very ear, create an ecstatic strain of perfect music, audible to himself and to St Cecilia, and not without effect.
‘I quite agree with Cox and Cummins,’ continued the archdeacon. ‘They say we must secure Sir Abraham Haphazard. I shall not have the slightest fear in leaving the case in Sir Abraham’s hands.’
The warden played the slowest and saddest of tunes. It was but a dirge on one string.
‘I think Sir Abraham will not be long in letting Master Bold know what he’s about. I fanc
y I hear Sir Abraham cross-questioning him at the Common Pleas.’
The warden thought of his income being thus discussed, his modest life, his daily habits, and his easy work; and nothing issued from that single cord, but a low wail of sorrow. ‘I suppose they’ve sent this petition up to my father.’ The warden didn’t know; he imagined they would do so this very day.
‘What I can’t understand is, how you let them do it, with such a command as you have in the place, or should have with such a man as Bunce. I cannot understand why you let them do it.’
‘Do what?’ asked the warden.
‘Why, listen to this fellow Bold, and that other low pettifogger, Finney—and get up this petition too. Why didn’t you tell Bunce to destroy the petition?’
‘That would have been hardly wise,’ said the warden.
‘Wise—yes, it would have been very wise if they’d done it among themselves. I must go up to the palace and answer it now, I suppose. It’s a very short answer they’ll get, I can tell you.’
‘But why shouldn’t they petition, doctor?’
‘Why shouldn’t they!’ responded the archdeacon, in a loud brazen voice, as though all the men in the hospital were expected to hear him through the walls; ‘why shouldn’t they? I’ll let them know why they shouldn’t: by the bye, warden, I’d like to say a few words to them all together.’
The warden’s mind misgave him, and even for a moment he forgot to play. He by no means wished to delegate to his son-in-law his place and authority of warden; he had expressly determined not to interfere in any step which the men might wish to take in the matter under dispute; he was most anxious neither to accuse them nor to defend himself. All these things he was aware the archdeacon would do in his behalf, and that not in the mildest manner; and yet he knew not how to refuse the permission requested.
‘I’d so much sooner remain quiet in the matter,’ said he, in an apologetic voice.
Quiet!’ said the archdeacon, still speaking with his brazen trumpet; ‘do you wish to be ruined in quiet?’
‘Why, if I am to be ruined, certainly.’
‘Nonsense, warden; I tell you something must be done— we must act; just let me ring the bell, and send the men word that I’ll speak to them in the quad.’
Mr Harding knew not how to resist, and the disagreeable order was given. The quad, as it was familiarly called, was a small quadrangle, open on one side to the river, and surrounded on the others by the high wall of Mr Harding’s garden, by one gable end of Mr Harding’s house, and by the end of the row of buildings which formed the residences of the bedesmen. It was flagged all round, and the centre was stoned; small stone gutters ran from the four corners of the square to a grating in the centre; and attached to the end of Mr Harding’s house was a conduit with four cocks covered over from the weather, at which the old men got their water, and very generally performed their morning toilet. It was a quiet, sombre place, shaded over by the trees of the warden’s garden. On the side towards the river, there stood a row of stone seats, on which the old men would sit and gaze at the little fish, as they flitted by in the running stream. On the other side of the river was a rich, green meadow, running up to and joining the deanery, and as little open to the public as the garden of the dean itself. Nothing, therefore, could be more private than the quad of the hospital; and it was there that the archdeacon determined to convey to them his sense of their refractory proceedings.
The servant soon brought in word that the men were assembled in the quad, and the archdeacon, big with his purpose, rose to address them.
‘Well, warden, of course you’re coming,’ said he, seeing that Mr Harding did not prepare to follow him.
‘I wish you’d excuse me,’ said Mr Harding.
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t let us have division in the camp,’ replied the archdeacon: ‘let us have a long pull and a strong pull, but above all a pull all together; come warden, come; don’t be afraid of your duty.’
Mr Harding was afraid; he was afraid that he was being led to do that which was not his duty: he was not, however, strong enough to resist, so he got up and followed his son-in-law.
The old men were assembled in groups in the quadrangle— eleven of them at least, for poor old Johnny Bell was bed-ridden, and couldn’t come; he had, however, put his mark to the petition, as one of Handy’s earliest followers. ‘Tis true he could not move from the bed where he lay; ‘tis true he had no friend on earth, but those whom the hospital contained; and of those the warden and his daughter were the most constant and most appreciated; ‘tis true that everything was administered to him which his failing body could require, or which his faint appetite could enjoy; but still his dull eye had glistened for a moment at the idea of possessing a hundred pounds a year ‘to his own cheek,’ as Abel Handy had eloquently expressed it; and poor old Johnny Bell had greedily put his mark to the petition.
When the two clergymen appeared, they all uncovered their heads. Handy was slow to do it, and hesitated; but the black coat and waistcoat of which he had spoken so irreverently in Skulpit’s room, had its effect even on him, and he too doffed his hat. Bunce, advancing before the others, bowed lowly to the archdeacon, and with affectionate reverence expressed his wish, that the warden and Miss Eleanor were quite well; ‘and the doctor’s lady,’ he added, turning to the archdeacon, ‘and the children at Plumstead, and my lord’; and having made his speech, he also retired among the others, and took his place with the rest upon the stone benches.
As the archdeacon stood up to make his speech, erect in the middle of that little square , he looked like an ecclesiastical statue placed there, as a fitting impersonation of the church militant here on earth; his shovel hat, large, new, and well-pronounced, a churchman’s hat in every inch, declared the profession as plainly as does the Quaker’s broad brim; his heavy eyebrows, large open eyes, and full mouth and chin expressed the solidity of his order; the broad chest, amply covered with fine cloth, told how well to do was its estate; one hand ensconced within his pocket, evinced the practical hold which our mother church keeps on her temporal possessions; and the other, loose for action, was ready to fight if need be in her defence; and, below these, the decorous breeches, and neat black gaiters showing so admirably that well-turned leg, betokened the decency, the outward beauty and grace of our church establishment.
‘Now, my men,’ he began, when he had settled himself well in his position, ‘I want to say a few words to you. Your good friend, the warden here, and myself, and my lord the bishop, on whose behalf I wish to speak to you, would all be very sorry, very sorry indeed, that you should have any just ground of complaint. Any just ground of complaint on your part would be removed at once by the warden, or by his lordship, or by me on his behalf, without the necessity of any petition on your part.’ Here the orator stopped for a moment, expecting that some little murmurs of applause would show that the weakest of the men were beginning to give way; but no such murmurs came. Bunce, himself, even sat with closed lips, mute and unsatisfactory. ‘Without the necessity of any petition at all,’ he repeated. ‘I’m told you have addressed a petition to my lord.’ He paused for a reply from the men, and after a while, Handy plucked up courage and said, ‘Yes, we has.’
‘ You have addressed a petition to my lord, in which, as I am informed, you express an opinion that you do not receive from Hiram’s estate all that is your due.’ Here most of the men expressed their assent. ‘Now what is it you ask for? What is it you want that you hav’n’t got here? What is it—’
‘A hundred a year,’ muttered old Moody, with a voice as if it came out of the ground.
‘A hundred a year!’ ejaculated the archdeacon militant, defying the impudence of these claimants with one hand stretched out and closed, while with the other he tightly grasped, and secured within his breeches pocket, that symbol of the church’s wealth which his own loose half-crowns not unaptly represented. ‘A hundred a year! Why, my men, you must be mad; and you talk about John Hiram’s will! When J
ohn Hiram built a hospital for worn-out old men, worn-out old labouring men, infirm old men past their work, cripples, blind, bed-ridden, and such like, do you think he meant to make gentlemen of them? Do you think John Hiram intended to give a hundred a year to old single men, who earned perhaps two shillings or half-a-crown a day for themselves and families in the best of their time? No, my men, I’ll tell you what John Hiram meant: he meant that twelve poor old worn-out labourers, men who could no longer support themselves, who had no friends to support them, who must starve and perish miserably if not protected by the hand of charity; he meant that twelve such men as these should come in here in their poverty and wretchedness, and find within these walls shelter and food before their death, and a little leisure to make their peace with God. That was what John Hiram meant: you have not read John Hiram’s will, and I doubt whether those wicked men who are advising you have done so. I have; I know what his will was; and I tell you that that was his will, and that that was his intention.’
Not a sound came from the eleven bedesmen, as they sat listening to what, according to the archdeacon, was their intended estate. They grimly stared upon his burly figure, but did not then express, by word or sign, the anger and disgust to which such language was sure to give rise.
‘Now let me ask you,’ he continued: ‘do you think you are worse off than John Hiram intended to make you? Have you not shelter, and food, and leisure? Have you not much more? Have you not every indulgence which you are capable of enjoying? Have you not twice better food, twice a better bed, ten times more money in your pocket than you were ever able to earn for yourselves before you were lucky enough to get into this place? And now you send a petition to the bishop, asking for a hundred pounds a year! I tell you what, my friends; you are deluded, and made fools of by wicked men who are acting for their own ends. You will never get a hundred pence a year more than what you have now: it is very possible that you may get less; it is very possible that my lord the bishop, and your warden, may make changes—’
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