Was he to suffer such a fate? Was his humble name to be bandied in men’s mouths, as the gormandizer of the resources of the poor, as of one who had filched from the charity of other ages wealth which had been intended to relieve the old and the infirm? Was he to be gibbeted in the press, to become a byword for oppression, to be named as an example of the greed of the English church? Should it ever be said that he had robbed those old men, whom he so truly and so tenderly loved in his heart of hearts? As he slowly paced, hour after hour, under those noble lime trees, turning these sad thoughts within him, he became all but fixed in his resolve that some great step must be taken to relieve him from the risk of so terrible a fate.
In the meanwhile, the archdeacon, with contented mind and unruffled spirit, went about his business. He said a word or two to Mr Chadwick, and then finding, as he expected, the petition lying in his father’s library, he wrote a short answer to the men, in which he told them that they had no evils to redress, but rather great mercies for which to be thankful; and having seen the bishop sign it, he got into his brougham7 and returned home to Mrs Grantly, and Plumstead Episcopi.
CHAPTER 6
The Warden’s Tea Party
AFTER much painful doubting, on one thing only could Mr Harding resolve. He determined that at any rate he would take no offence, and that he would make this question no cause of quarrel either with Bold or with the bedesmen. In furtherance of this resolution, he himself wrote a note to Mr Bold, the same afternoon, inviting him to meet a few friends and hear some music on an evening named in the next week. Had not this little party been promised to Eleanor, in his present state of mind he would probably have avoided such gaiety; but the promise had been given, the invitations were to be written, and when Eleanor consulted her father on the subject, she was not ill pleased to hear him say, ‘Oh, I was thinking of Bold, so I took it into my head to write to him myself, but you must write to his sister.’
Mary Bold was older than her brother, and, at the time of our story, was just over thirty. She was not an unattractive young woman, though by no means beautiful. Her great merit was the kindliness of her disposition. She was not very clever, nor very animated, nor had she apparently the energy of her brother; but she was guided by a high principle of right and wrong; her temper was sweet, and her faults were fewer in number than her virtues. Those who casually met Mary Bold thought little of her; but those who knew her well loved her well, and the longer they knew her the more they loved her. Among those who were fondest of her was Eleanor Harding, and though Eleanor had never openly talked to her of her brother, each understood the other’s feelings about him. The brother and sister were sitting together when the two notes were brought in.
‘How odd,’ said Mary, ‘that they should send two notes. Well, if Mr Harding becomes fashionable, the world is going to change.’
Her brother understood immediately the nature and intention of the peace-offering; but it was not so easy for him to behave well in the matter as it was for Mr Harding. It is much less difficult for the sufferer to be generous than for the oppressor. John Bold felt that he could not go to the warden’s party: he never loved Eleanor better than he did now; he had never so strongly felt how anxious he was to make her his wife as now, when so many obstacles to his doing so appeared in view. Yet here was her father himself, as it were clearing away those very obstacles, and still he felt that he could not go to the house any more as an open friend.
As he sat thinking of these things with the note in his hand, his sister was waiting for his decision.
‘Well,’ said she, ‘I suppose we must write separate answers, and both say we shall be very happy.’
‘You’ll go, of course, Mary,’ said he; to which she readily assented. ‘I cannot,’ he continued, looking serious and gloomy; ‘I wish I could, with all my heart.’
‘And why not, John?’ said she. She had as yet heard nothing of the new-found abuse which her brother was about to reform; at least, nothing which connected it with her brother’s name.
He sat thinking for a while till he determined that it would be best to tell her at once what it was that he was about: it must be done sooner or later.
‘I fear I cannot go to Mr Harding’s house any more as a friend, just at present.’
‘Oh, John! Why not? Ah, you’ve quarrelled with Eleanor!’
‘No, indeed,’ said he; ‘I’ve no quarrel with her as yet.’
‘What is it, John?’ said she, looking at him with an anxious, loving face, for she knew well how much of his heart was there in that house which he said he could no longer enter.
‘Why,’ said he at last, ‘I’ve taken up the case of these twelve old men of Hiram’s Hospital, and of course that brings me into contact with Mr Harding. I may have to oppose him, interfere with him, perhaps injure him.’
Mary looked at him steadily for some time before she committed herself to reply, and then merely asked him what he meant to do for the old men.
‘Why, it’s a long story, and I don’t know that I can make you understand it. John Hiram made a will, and left his property in charity for certain poor old men, and the proceeds, instead of going to the benefit of these men, goes chiefly into the pocket of the warden, and the bishop’s steward.’
‘And you mean to take away from Mr Harding his share of it?’
‘I don’t know what I mean yet. I mean to inquire about it. I mean to see who is entitled to this property. I mean to see, if I can, that justice be done to the poor of the city of Barchester generally, who are, in fact, the legatees under the will. I mean, in short, to put the matter right, if I can.’
‘And why are you to do this, John?’
‘You might ask the same question of anybody else,’ said he; ‘and according to that, the duty of righting these poor men would belong to nobody. If we are to act on that principle, the weak are never to be protected, injustice is never to be opposed, and no one is to struggle for the poor!’ And Bold began to comfort himself in the warmth of his own virtue.
‘But is there no one to do this but you, who have known Mr Harding so long? Surely, John, as a friend, as a young friend, so much younger than Mr Harding –’
‘That’s woman’s logic, all over, Mary. What has age to do with it? Another man might plead that he was too old; and as to his friendship, if the thing itself be right, private motives should never be allowed to interfere. Because I esteem Mr Harding, is that a reason that I should neglect a duty which I owe to these old men? or should I give up a work which my conscience tells me is a good one, because I regret the loss of his society?’
‘And Eleanor, John?’ said the sister, looking timidly into her brother’s face.
‘Eleanor, that is, Miss Harding, if she thinks fit – that is, if her father – or rather, if she – or, indeed, he – if they find it necessary – but there is no necessity now to talk about Eleanor Harding; but this I will say, that if she has the kind of spirit for which I give her credit, she will not condemn me for doing what I think to be a duty.’ And Bold consoled himself with the consolation of a Roman.1
Mary sat silent for a while, till at last her brother reminded her that the notes must be answered, and she got up, and placed her desk before her, took out her pen and her paper, wrote on it slowly –
Pakenham Villas, Tuesday morning
MY DEAR ELEANOR,
I –
and then stopped, and looked at her brother.
‘Well, Mary, why don’t you write it?’
‘Oh, John,’ said she, ‘dear John, pray think better of this.’
‘Think better of what?’ said he.
‘Of this about the hospital – of all this about Mr Harding – of what you say about those old men. Nothing can call upon you – no duty can require you to set yourself against your oldest, your best friend. Oh, John, think of Eleanor; you’ll break her heart and your own.’
‘Nonsense, Mary; Miss Harding’s heart is as safe as yours.’
‘Pray, pray, for my sa
ke, John, give it up. You know how dearly you love her.’ And she came and knelt before him on the rug. ‘Pray give it up. You are going to make yourself, and her, and her father miserable: you are going to make us all miserable. And for what? For a dream of justice. You will never make those twelve men happier than they now are.’
‘You don’t understand it, my dear girl,’ said he, smoothing her hair with his hand.
‘I do understand it, John. I understand that this is a chimera – a dream that you have got. I know well that no duty can require you to do this mad – this suicidal thing. I know you love Eleanor Harding with all your heart, and I tell you now that she loves you as well. If there was a plain, a positive duty before you, I would be the last to bid you neglect it for any woman’s love; but this – oh, think again, before you do anything to make it necessary that you and Mr Harding should be at variance.’ He did not answer, as she knelt there, leaning on his knees, but by his face she thought that he was inclined to yield. ‘At any rate let me say that you will go to this party. At any rate do not break with them while your mind is in doubt.’ And she got up, hoping to conclude her note in the way she desired.
‘My mind is not in doubt,’ at last he said, rising; ‘I could never respect myself again, were I to give way now because Eleanor Harding is beautiful. I do love her: I would give a hand to hear her tell me what you have said, speaking on her behalf; but I cannot for her sake go back from the task which I have commenced. I hope she may hereafter acknowledge and respect my motives, but I cannot now go as a guest to her father’s house.’ And the Barchester Brutus2 went out to fortify his own resolution by meditations on his own virtue.
Poor Mary Bold sat down, and sadly finished her note, saying that she would herself attend the party, but that her brother was unavoidably prevented from doing so. I fear that she did not admire as she should have done the self-devotion of his singular virtue.
The party went off as such parties do: there were fat old ladies in fine silk dresses, and slim young ladies in gauzy muslin frocks; old gentlemen stood up with their backs to the empty fireplace, looking by no means so comfortable as they would have done in their own armchairs at home; and young gentlemen, rather stiff about the neck, clustered near the door, not as yet sufficiently in courage to attack the muslin frocks, who awaited the battle, drawn up in a semicircular array. The warden endeavoured to induce a charge, but failed signally, not having the tact of a general: his daughter did what she could to comfort the forces under her command, who took in refreshing rations of cake and tea, and patiently looked for the coming engagement: but she herself, Eleanor, had no spirit for the work; the only enemy whose lance she cared to encounter was not there, and she and others were somewhat dull.
Loud above all voices was heard the clear sonorous tones of the archdeacon as he dilated to brother parsons of the danger of the Church, of the fearful rumours of mad reforms even at Oxford,3 and of the damnable heresies of Dr Whiston.
Soon, however, sweeter sounds began timidly to make themselves audible. Little movements were made in a quarter, notable for round stools and music stands. Wax candles were arranged in sconces, big books were brought from hidden recesses, and the work of the evening commenced.
How often were those pegs twisted and retwisted before our friend found that he had twisted them enough; how many discordant scrapes gave promise of the coming harmony! How much the muslin fluttered and crumpled before Eleanor and another nymph were duly seated at the piano; how closely did that tall Apollo4 pack himself against the wall, with his flute, long as himself, extending high over the heads of his pretty neighbours; into how small a corner crept that round and florid little minor canon, and there with skill amazing found room to tune his accustomed fiddle!
And now the crash begins: away they go in full flow of harmony together – up hill and down dale – now louder and louder, then lower and lower: now loud, as though stirring the battle; then low, as though mourning the slain. In all, through all, and above all, is heard the violoncello. Ah, not for nothing were those pegs so twisted and retwisted – listen, listen! Now alone that saddest of instruments tells its touching tale. Silent, and in awe, stand fiddle, flute, and piano, to hear the sorrows of their wailing brother. ’Tis but for a moment: before the melancholy of those low notes has been fully realized, again comes the full force of all the band – down go the pedals, away rush twenty fingers scouring over the bass notes with all the impetus of passion. Apollo blows till his stiff neckcloth is no better than a rope, and the minor canon works both arms till he falls in a syncope of exhaustion against the wall.
How comes it that now, when all should be silent, when courtesy, if not taste, should make men listen – how is it at this moment the black-coated corps leave their retreat and begin skirmishing? One by one they creep forth, and fire off little guns timidly, and without precision. Ah, my men, efforts such as these will take no cities, even though the enemy should be never so open to assault. At length a more deadly artillery is brought to bear; slowly, but with effect, the advance is made; the muslin ranks are broken, and fall into confusion; the formidable array of chairs gives way; the battle is no longer between opposing regiments, but hand to hand, and foot to foot with single combatants, as in the glorious days of old, when fighting was really noble. In corners, and under the shadow of curtains, behind sofas and half hidden by doors, in retiring windows, and sheltered by hanging tapestry, are blows given and returned, fatal, incurable, dealing death.
Apart from this another combat arises, more sober and more serious. The archdeacon is engaged against two prebendaries,5 a pursy full-blown rector assisting him, in all the perils and all the enjoyments of short whist.6 With solemn energy do they watch the shuffled pack, and, all-expectant, eye the coming trump. With what anxious nicety do they arrange their cards, jealous of each other’s eyes! Why is that lean doctor so slow – cadaverous man with hollow jaw and sunken eye, ill beseeming the richness of his mother church! Ah, why so slow, thou meagre doctor? See how the archdeacon, speechless in his agony, deposits on the board his cards, and looks to heaven or to the ceiling for support. Hark, how he sighs, as with thumbs in his waistcoat pocket he seems to signify that the end of such torment is not yet even nigh at hand! Vain is the hope, if hope there be, to disturb that meagre doctor. With care precise he places every card, weighs well the value of each mighty ace, each guarded king, and comfort-giving queen; speculates on knave and ten, counts all his suits, and sets his price upon the whole. At length a card is led, and quick three others fall upon the board. The little doctor leads again, while with lustrous eye his partner absorbs the trick. Now thrice has this been done – thrice has constant fortune favoured the brace of prebendaries, ere the archdeacon rouses himself to the battle: but at the fourth assault he pins to the earth a prostrate king, laying low his crown and sceptre, bushy beard, and lowering brow, with a poor deuce.
‘As David did Goliath,’ says the archdeacon, pushing over the four cards to his partner. And then a trump is led, then another trump; then a king – and then an ace – and then a long ten, which brings down from the meagre doctor his only remaining tower of strength – his cherished queen of trumps.
‘What, no second club?’ says the archdeacon to his partner.
‘Only one club,’ mutters from his inmost stomach the pursy rector, who sits there red-faced, silent, impervious, careful, a safe but not a brilliant ally.
But the archdeacon cares not for many clubs, or for none. He dashes out his remaining cards with a speed most annoying to his antagonists, pushes over to them some four cards as their allotted portion, shoves the remainder across the table to the red-faced rector: calls out ‘two by cards and two by honours, and the odd trick last time’, marks a treble under the candlestick,7 and has dealt round the second pack before the meagre doctor has calculated his losses.
And so went off the warden’s party, and men and women arranging shawls and shoes declared how pleasant it had been; and Mrs Goodenough, the red-faced re
ctor’s wife, pressing the warden’s hand, declared she had never enjoyed herself better; which showed how little pleasure she allowed herself in this world, as she had sat the whole evening through in the same chair without occupation, not speaking, and unspoken to. And Matilda Johnson, when she allowed young Dickson of the bank to fasten her cloak round her neck, thought that two hundred pounds a year and a little cottage would really do for happiness; besides he was sure to be manager some day. And Apollo, folding his flute into his pocket, felt that he had acquitted himself with honour; and the archdeacon pleasantly jingled his gains; but the meagre doctor went off without much audible speech, muttering ever and anon as he went ‘three and thirty points’, ‘three and thirty points!’8
And so they all were gone, and Mr Harding was left alone with his daughter.
What had passed between Eleanor Harding and Mary Bold need not be told. It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that neither the historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by their heroes or heroines, or how would three volumes or twenty suffice! In the present case so little of this sort have I overheard, that I live in hopes of finishing my work within 300 pages, and of completing that pleasant task – a novel in one volume; but something had passed between them, and as the warden blew out the wax candles, and put his instrument into its case, his daughter stood sad and thoughtful by the empty fireplace, determined to speak to her father, but irresolute as to what she would say.
‘Well, Eleanor,’ said he, ‘are you for bed?’
‘Yes,’ said she, moving, ‘I suppose so; but, papa – Mr Bold was not here tonight: do you know why not?’
‘He was asked; I wrote to him myself,’ said the warden.
‘But do you know why he did not come, papa?’
‘Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it’s no use guessing at such things, my dear. What makes you look so earnest about it?’
The Warden Page 10
