The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XLIX.

  NEAR THE CLOSE.

  I wonder whether any one will read these pages who has never knownanything of the bitterness of a family quarrel? If so, I shall have areader very fortunate, or else very cold-blooded. It would be wrongto say that love produces quarrels; but love does produce thoseintimate relations of which quarrelling is too often one of theconsequences,--one of the consequences which frequently seem to be sonatural, and sometimes seem to be unavoidable. One brother rebukesthe other,--and what brothers ever lived together between whom therewas no such rebuking?--then some warm word is misunderstood andhotter words follow and there is a quarrel. The husband tyrannizes,knowing that it is his duty to direct, and the wife disobeys, or onlypartially obeys, thinking that a little independence will becomeher,--and so there is a quarrel. The father, anxious only for hisson's good, looks into that son's future with other eyes than thoseof his son himself,--and so there is a quarrel. They come veryeasily, these quarrels, but the quittance from them is sometimesterribly difficult. Much of thought is necessary before the angry mancan remember that he too in part may have been wrong; and any attemptat such thinking is almost beyond the power of him who is carefullynursing his wrath, lest it cool! But the nursing of such quarrellingkills all happiness. The very man who is nursing his wrath, lest itcool,--his wrath against one whom he loves perhaps the best of allwhom it has been given him to love,--is himself wretched as long asit lasts. His anger poisons every pleasure of his life. He is sullenat his meals, and cannot understand his book as he turns its pages.His work, let it be what it may, is ill done. He is full of hisquarrel,--nursing it. He is telling himself how much he has lovedthat wicked one, how many have been his sacrifices for that wickedone, and that now that wicked one is repaying him simply withwickedness! And yet the wicked one is at that very moment dearer tohim than ever. If that wicked one could only be forgiven how sweetwould the world be again! And yet he nurses his wrath.

  So it was in these days with Archdeacon Grantly. He was very angrywith his son. It is hardly too much to say that in every moment ofhis life, whether waking or sleeping, he was thinking of the injurythat his son was doing him. He had almost come to forget the factthat his anger had first been roused by the feeling that his son wasabout to do himself an injury,--to cut his own throat. Various otherconsiderations had now added themselves to that, and filled not onlyhis mind but his daily conversation with his wife. How terriblewould be the disgrace to Lord Hartletop, how incurable the injury toGriselda, the marchioness, should the brother-in-law of the one, andthe brother of the other, marry the daughter of a convicted thief!"Of himself he would say nothing." So he declared constantly, thoughof himself he did say a great deal. "Of himself he would say nothing,though of course such a marriage would ruin him in the county." "Mydear," said his wife, "that is nonsense. That really is nonsense. Ifeel sure there is not a single person in the county who would thinkof the marriage in such a light." Then the archdeacon would havequarrelled with his wife too, had she not been too wise to admitsuch a quarrel. Mrs. Grantly was very wise and knew that it took twopersons to make a quarrel. He told her over and over again that shewas in league with her son,--that she was encouraging her son tomarry Grace Crawley. "I believe that in your heart you wish it," heonce said to her. "No, my dear, I do not wish it. I do not think it abecoming marriage. But if he does marry her, I should wish to receivehis wife in my house, and certainly should not quarrel with him." "Iwill never receive her," the archdeacon had replied; "and as for him,I can only say that in such case I will make no provision for hisfamily."

  It will be remembered that the archdeacon had on a former occasioninstructed his wife to write to their son and tell him of hisfather's determination. Mrs. Grantly had so manoeuvred that a littletime had been gained, and that those instructions had not beeninsisted upon in all their bitterness. Since that time Major Grantlyhad renewed his assurance that he would marry Grace Crawley if GraceCrawley would accept him,--writing on this occasion direct to hisfather,--and had asked his father whether, in such case, he was tolook forward to be disinherited. "It is essential that I shouldknow," the major had said, "because in such case I must takeimmediate measures for leaving this place." His father had sent himback his letter, writing a few words at the bottom of it. "If you doas you propose above, you must expect nothing from me." The wordswere written in large round handwriting, very hurriedly, and the sonwhen he received them perfectly understood the mood of his father'smind when he wrote them.

  Then there came tidings, addressed on this occasion to Mrs. Grantly,that Cosby Lodge was to be given up. Lady-day had come, and thenotice, necessarily to be given at that period, was so given. "I knowthis will grieve you," Major Grantly had said, "but my father hasdriven me to it." This, in itself, was a cause of great sorrow, bothto the archdeacon and to Mrs. Grantly, as there were circumstancesconnected with Cosby Lodge which made them think that it was a verydesirable residence for their son. "I shall sell everything about theplace and go abroad at once," he said in a subsequent letter. "Mypresent idea is that I shall settle myself at Pau, as my income willsuffice for me to live there, and education for Edith will be cheap.At any rate I will not continue in England. I could never be happyhere in circumstances so altered. Of course I should not have left myprofession, unless I had understood from my father that the incomearising from it would not be necessary to me. I do not, however, meanto complain, but simply tell you that I shall go." There were manyletters between the mother and son in those days. "I shall stay tillafter the trial," he said. "If she will then go with me, well andgood; but whether she will or not, I shall not remain here." All thisseemed to Mrs. Grantly to be peculiarly unfortunate, for, had he notresolved to go, things might even yet have righted themselves. Fromwhat she could now understand of the character of Miss Crawley, whomshe did not know personally, she thought it probable that Grace,in the event of her father being found guilty by the jury, wouldabsolutely and persistently refuse the offer made to her. She wouldbe too good, as Mrs. Grantly put it to herself, to bring misery anddisgrace into another family. But should Mr. Crawley be acquitted,and should the marriage then take place, the archdeacon himself mightprobably be got to forgive it. In either case there would be nonecessity for breaking up the house at Cosby Lodge. But her dear sonHenry, her best beloved, was obstinate and stiff-necked, and wouldtake no advice. "He is even worse than his father," she said, in hershort-lived anger, to her own father, to whom alone at this time shecould unburden her griefs, seeking consolation and encouragement.

  It was her habit to go over to the deanery at any rate twice a weekat this time, and on the occasion of one of the visits so made, sheexpressed very strongly her distress at the family quarrel which hadcome among them. The old man took his grandson's part through andthrough. "I do not at all see why he should not marry the young ladyif he likes her. As for money, there ought to be enough without hishaving to look for a wife with a fortune."

  "It is not a question of money, papa."

  "And as to rank," continued Mr. Harding, "Henry will not at any ratebe going lower than his father did when he married you;--not so lowindeed, for at that time I was only a minor canon, and Mr. Crawley isin possession of a benefice."

  "Papa, all that is nonsense. It is, indeed."

  "Very likely, my dear."

  "It is not because Mr. Crawley is only perpetual curate ofHogglestock, that the archdeacon objects to the marriage. It hasnothing to do with that at all. At the present moment he is indisgrace."

  "Under a cloud, my dear. Let us pray that it may be only a passingcloud."

  "All the world thinks that he was guilty. And then he is such aman:--so singular, so unlike anybody else! You know, papa, that Idon't think very much of money, merely as money."

  "I hope not, my dear. Money is worth thinking of, but it is not worthvery much thought."

  "But it does give advantages, and the absence of such advantages mustbe very much felt in the education of a girl. You would hardly wishHenry to
marry a young woman who, from want of money, had not beenbrought up among ladies. It is not Miss Crawley's fault, but such hasbeen her lot. We cannot ignore these deficiencies, papa."

  "Certainly not, my dear."

  "You would not, for instance, wish that Henry should marry akitchen-maid."

  "But is Miss Crawley a kitchen-maid, Susan?"

  "I don't quite say that."

  "I am told that she has been educated infinitely better than most ofthe young ladies in the neighbourhood," said Mr. Harding.

  "I believe that her father has taught her Greek; and I suppose shehas learned something of French at that school at Silverbridge."

  "Then the kitchen-maid theory is sufficiently disposed of," said Mr.Harding, with mild triumph.

  "You know what I mean, papa. But the fact is, that it is impossibleto deal with men. They will never be reasonable. A marriage such asthis would be injurious to Henry; but it will not be ruinous; and asto disinheriting him for it, that would be downright wicked."

  "I think so," said Mr. Harding.

  "But the archdeacon will look at it as though it would destroy Henryand Edith altogether, while you speak of it as though it were thebest thing in the world."

  "If the young people love each other, I think it would be the bestthing in the world," said Mr. Harding.

  "But, papa, you cannot but think that his father's wish should go forsomething," said Mrs. Grantly, who, desirous as she was on the oneside to support her son, could not bear that her husband should, onthe other side, be declared to be altogether in the wrong.

  "I do not know, my dear," said Mr. Harding; "but I do think, that ifthe two young people are fond of each other, and if there is anythingfor them to live upon, it cannot be right to keep them apart. Youknow, my dear, she is the daughter of a gentleman." Mrs. Grantly uponthis left her father almost brusquely, without speaking another wordon the subject; for, though she was opposed to the vehement anger ofher husband, she could not endure the proposition now made by herfather.

  Mr. Harding was at this time living all alone in the deanery. Forsome few years the deanery had been his home, and as his youngestdaughter was the dean's wife, there could be no more comfortableresting-place for the evening of his life. During the last month ortwo the days had gone tediously with him; for he had had the largehouse all to himself, and he was a man who did not love solitude.It is hard to conceive that the old, whose thoughts have been allthought out, should ever love to live alone. Solitude is surely forthe young, who have time before them for the execution of schemes,and who can, therefore, take delight in thinking. In these days thepoor old man would wander about the rooms, shambling from one chamberto another, and would feel ashamed when the servants met him ever onthe move. He would make little apologies for his uneasiness, whichthey would accept graciously, understanding, after a fashion, whyit was that he was uneasy. "He ain't got nothing to do," said thehousemaid to the cook, "and as for reading, they say that some ofthe young ones can read all day sometimes, and all night too; but,bless you, when you're nigh eighty, reading don't go for much." Thehousemaid was right as to Mr. Harding's reading. He was not one whohad read so much in his earlier days as to enable him to make readinggo far with him now that he was near eighty. So he wandered about theroom, and sat here for a few minutes, and there for a few minutes,and though he did not sleep much, he made the hours of the nightas many as was possible. Every morning he shambled across from thedeanery to the cathedral, and attended the morning service, sittingin the stall which he had occupied for fifty years. The distance wasvery short, not exceeding, indeed, a hundred yards from a side-doorin the deanery to another side-door into the cathedral; but short asit was there had come to be a question whether he should be allowedto go alone. It had been feared that he might fall on his passage andhurt himself; for there was a step here, and a step there, and thelight was not very good in the purlieus of the old cathedral. A wordor two had been said once, and the offer of an arm to help him hadbeen made; but he had rejected the proffered assistance,--softly,indeed, but still firmly,--and every day he tottered off by himself,hardly lifting his feet as he went, and aiding himself on his journeyby a hand upon the wall when he thought that nobody was looking athim. But many did see him, and they who knew him,--ladies generallyof the city,--would offer him a hand. Nobody was milder in hisdislikings than Mr. Harding; but there were ladies in Barchester uponwhose arm he would always decline to lean, bowing courteously as hedid so, and saying a word or two of constrained civility. There wereothers whom he would allow to accompany him home to the door of thedeanery, with whom he delighted to linger and chat if the morning waswarm, and to whom he would tell little stories of his own doings inthe cathedral services in the old days, when Bishop Grantly had ruledin the diocese. Never a word did he say against Bishop Proudie, oragainst Bishop Proudie's wife; but the many words which he did say inpraise of Bishop Grantly,--who, by his showing, was surely one of thebest of churchmen who ever walked through this vale of sorrow,--wereas eloquent in dispraise of the existing prelate as could have beenany more clearly-pointed phrases. This daily visit to the cathedral,where he would say his prayers as he had said them for so many years,and listen to the organ, of which he knew all the power and everyblemish as though he himself had made the stops and fixed the pipes,was the chief occupation of his life. It was a pity that it could nothave been made to cover a larger portion of the day.

  It was sometimes sad enough to watch him as he sat alone. He wouldhave a book near him, and for a while would keep it in his hands. Itwould generally be some volume of good old standard theology withwhich he had been, or supposed himself to have been, conversant fromhis youth. But the book would soon be laid aside, and gradually hewould move himself away from it, and he would stand about in theroom, looking now out of a window from which he would fancy that hecould not be seen, or gazing up at some print which he had known foryears; and then he would sit down for a while in one chair, and fora while in another, while his mind was wandering back into old days,thinking of old troubles and remembering his old joys. And he had ahabit, when he was sure that he was not watched, of creeping up toa great black wooden case, which always stood in one corner of thesitting-room which he occupied in the deanery. Mr. Harding, when hewas younger, had been a performer on the violoncello, and in thiscase there was still the instrument from which he had been wont toextract the sounds which he had so dearly loved. Now in these latterdays he never made any attempt to play. Soon after he had come tothe deanery there had fallen upon him an illness, and after that hehad never again asked for his bow. They who were around him,--hisdaughter chiefly and her husband,--had given the matter much thought,arguing with themselves whether or no it would be better to invitehim to resume the task he had so loved; for of all the works of hislife this playing on the violoncello had been the sweetest to him;but even before that illness his hand had greatly failed him, and thedean and Mrs. Arabin had agreed that it would be better to let thematter pass without a word. He had never asked to be allowed to play.He had expressed no regrets. When he himself would propose that hisdaughter should "give them a little music,"--and he would make such aproposition on every evening that was suitable,--he would never saya word of those former performances at which he himself had taken apart. But it had become known to Mrs. Arabin, through the servants,that he had once dragged the instrument forth from its case when hehad thought the house to be nearly deserted; and a wail of sounds hadbeen heard, very low, very short-lived, recurring now and again atfitful intervals. He had at those times attempted to play, as thoughwith a muffled bow,--so that none should know of his vanity andfolly. Then there had been further consultations at the deanery, andit had been again agreed that it would be best to say nothing to himof his music.

  In these latter days of which I am now speaking he would never drawthe instrument out of its case. Indeed he was aware that it was tooheavy for him to handle without assistance. But he would open theprison door, and gaze upon the thing that he loved, and he wouldpa
ss his fingers among the broad strings, and ever and anon he wouldproduce from one of them a low, melancholy, almost unearthly sound.And then he would pause, never daring to produce two such notes insuccession,--one close upon the other. And these last sad moans ofthe old fiddle were now known through the household. They were theghosts of the melody of days long past. He imagined that his visitsto the box were unsuspected,--that none knew of the folly of his oldfingers which could not keep themselves from touching the wires; butthe voice of the violoncello had been recognized by the servantsand by his daughter, and when that low wail was heard through thehouse,--like the last dying note of a dirge,--they would all knowthat Mr. Harding was visiting his ancient friend.

  When the dean and Mrs. Arabin had first talked of going abroad for along visit, it had been understood that Mr. Harding should pass theperiod of their absence with his other daughter at Plumstead; butwhen the time came he begged of Mrs. Arabin to be allowed to remainin his old rooms. "Of course I shall go backwards and forwards," hehad said. "There is nothing I like so much as a change now and then."The result had been that he had gone once to Plumstead during thedean's absence. When he had thus remonstrated, begging to be allowedto remain in Barchester, Mrs. Arabin had declared her intention ofgiving up her tour. In telling her father of this she had not saidthat her altered purpose had arisen from her disinclination toleave him alone;--but he had perceived that it was so, and had thenconsented to be taken over to Plumstead. There was nothing, he said,which he would like so much as going over to Plumstead for four orfive months. It had ended in his having his own way altogether. TheArabins had gone upon their tour, and he was left in possession ofthe deanery. "I should not like to die out of Barchester," he said tohimself in excuse to himself for his disinclination to sojourn longunder the archdeacon's roof. But, in truth, the archdeacon, who lovedhim well and who, after a fashion, had always been good to him,--whohad always spoken of the connexion which had bound the two familiestogether as the great blessing of his life,--was too rough in hisgreetings for the old man. Mr. Harding had ever mixed something offear with his warm affection for his elder son-in-law, and now inthese closing hours of his life he could not avoid a certain amountof shrinking from that loud voice,--a certain inaptitude to be quiteat ease in that commanding presence. The dean, his second son-in-law,had been a modern friend in comparison with the archdeacon but thedean was more gentle with him; and then the dean's wife had ever beenthe dearest to him of human beings. It may be a doubt whether oneof the dean's children was not now almost more dear, and whether inthese days he did not have more free communication with that littlegirl than with any other human being. Her name was Susan, but hehad always called her Posy, having himself invented for her thatsoubriquet. When it had been proposed to him to pass the winter andspring at Plumstead, the suggestion had been made alluring by apromise that Posy also should be taken to Mrs. Grantly's house.But he, as we have seen, had remained at the deanery, and Posy hadremained with him.

  Posy was now five years old, and could talk well, and had her ownideas of things. Posy's eyes,--hers, and no others besides herown,--were allowed to see the inhabitant of the big black case; andnow that the deanery was so nearly deserted, Posy's fingers hadtouched the strings, and had produced an infantine moan. "Grandpa,let me do it again." Twang! It was not, however, in truth, a twang,but a sound as of a prolonged dull, almost deadly, hum-m-m-m-m! Onthis occasion the moan was not entirely infantine,--Posy's fingershaving been something too strong,--and the case was closed andlocked, and grandpapa shook his head.

  "But Mrs. Baxter won't be angry," said Posy. Mrs. Baxter was thehousekeeper in the deanery, and had Mr. Harding under her especialcharge.

  "No, my darling; Mrs. Baxter will not be angry, but we mustn'tdisturb the house."

  "No," said Posy, with much of important awe in her tone; "wemustn't disturb the house; must we, grandpapa?" And so she gavein her adhesion to the closing of the case. But Posy could playcat's-cradle, and as cat's-cradle did not disturb the house at all,there was a good deal of cat's-cradle played in these days. Posy'sfingers were so soft and pretty, so small and deft, that the dear oldman delighted in taking the strings from them, and in having themtaken from his own by those tender little digits.

  Posy and her Grandpapa.]

  On the afternoon after the conversation respecting Grace Crawleywhich is recorded in the early part of this chapter, a messengerfrom Barchester went over to Plumstead, and a part of his missionconsisted of a note from Mrs. Baxter to Mrs. Grantly, beginning,"Honoured Madam," and informing Mrs. Grantly, among other things,that her "respected papa," as Mrs. Baxter called him, was not quiteso well as usual; not that Mrs. Baxter thought there was much thematter. Mr. Harding had been to the cathedral service, as was usualwith him, but had come home leaning on a lady's arm, who had thoughtit well to stay with him at the door till it had been opened for him.After that "Miss Posy" had found him asleep, and had been unable,--orif not unable, unwilling, to wake him. "Miss Posy" had come down toMrs. Baxter somewhat in a fright, and hence this letter had beenwritten. Mrs. Baxter thought that there was nothing "to fright" Mrs.Grantly, and she wasn't sure that she should have written at all onlythat Dick was bound to go over to Plumstead with the wool; but asDick was going, Mrs. Baxter thought it proper to send her duty, andto say that to her humble way of thinking perhaps it might be bestthat Mr. Harding shouldn't go alone to the cathedral every morning."If the dear reverend gentleman was to get a tumble, ma'am," said theletter, "it would be awkward." Then Mrs. Grantly remembered that shehad left her father almost without a greeting on the previous day,and she resolved that she would go over very early on the followingmorning,--so early that she would be at the deanery before her fathershould have gone to the cathedral.

  "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 canunderstand, I think, that he should not like leaving the cathedral aslong as he can attend it. The truth is he does not like being out ofBarchester."

  "He would be much better here," said the archdeacon. "Of course youcan have the carriage and go over. We can breakfast at eight; and ifyou can bring him back with you, do. I should tell him that he oughtto come." Mrs. Grantly made no answer to this, knowing very well thatshe could not bring herself to go beyond the gentlest persuasion withher father, and on the next morning she was at the deanery by teno'clock. Half-past ten was the hour at which the service began. Mrs.Baxter contrived to meet her before she saw her father, and beggedher not to let it be known that any special tidings of Mr. Harding'sfailing strength had been sent from the deanery to Plumstead. "Andhow is my father?" asked Mrs. Grantly. "Well, then, ma'am," saidBaxter, "in one sense he's finely. He took a morsel of early lambto his dinner yesterday, and relished it ever so well,--only hegave Miss Posy the best part of it. And then he sat with Miss Posyquite happy for an hour or so. And then he slept in his chair; andyou know, ma'am, we never wakes him. And after that old Skulpittoddled up from the hospital,"--this was Hiram's Hospital, of whichestablishment, in the city of Barchester, Mr. Harding had once beenthe warden and kind master, as has been told in former chroniclesof the city,--"and your papa has said, ma'am, you know, that he isalways to see any of the old men when they come up. And Skulpit issly, 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 Itook 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 listenedhard,--not from idle cur'osity, ma'am, as you, who know me, willbelieve, but just because it's becoming to know what he's about, asthere 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 Ilistened hard; but he didn't go to his music, poor gentleman; andI think he had a quiet night. He doesn't sleep much at nights, poorgentleman, but he's
very quiet; leastwise he was last night." Thiswas the bulletin which Mrs. Baxter gave to Mrs. Grantly on thatmorning before Mrs. Grantly saw her father.

  She found him preparing himself for his visit to the cathedral. Someyear 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 haddone so he had of course worn his surplice. Living so close to thecathedral,--so close that he could almost walk out of the house intothe transept,--he had kept his surplice in his own room, and had gonedown in his vestment. It had been a bitter day to him when he hadfirst found himself constrained to abandon the white garment whichhe loved. He had encountered some failure in the performance of theslight clerical task allotted to him, and the dean had tenderlyadvised him to desist. He did not utter one word of remonstrance."It will perhaps be better," the dean had said. "Yes,--it will bebetter," Mr. Harding had replied. "Few have had accorded to themthe high privilege of serving their Master in His house for so manyyears,--though few more humbly, or with lower gifts." But on thefollowing morning, and for nearly a week afterwards, he had beenunable to face the minor canon and the vergers, and the old womenwho knew him so well, in his ordinary black garments. At last hewent down with the dean, and occupied a stall close to the dean'sseat,--far away from that in which he had sat for so many years,--andin this seat he had said his prayers ever since that day. And now hissurplices were washed and ironed and folded and put away; but therewere moments in which he would stealthily visit them, as he alsostealthily visited his friend in the black wooden case. This was verymelancholy, and the sadness of it was felt by all those who livedwith him; but he never alluded himself to any of those bereavementswhich age brought upon him. Whatever might be his regrets, he keptthem ever within his own breast.

  Posy was with him when Mrs. Grantly went up into his room, holdingfor him his hat and stick while he was engaged in brushing asuspicion of dust from his black gaiters. "Grandpapa, here is auntSusan," said Posy. The old man looked up with something,--with someslightest sign of that habitual fear which was always aroused withinhis bosom by visitations from Plumstead. Had Mrs. Arabin thoroughlyunderstood the difference in her father's feeling toward herself andtoward her sister, I think she would hardly have gone forth uponany tour while he remained with her in the deanery. It is very hardsometimes to know how intensely we are loved, and of what value ourpresence is to those who love us! Mrs. Grantly saw the look,--did notanalyse it, did not quite understand it,--but felt, as she had sooften felt before, that it was not altogether laden with welcome. Butall this had nothing to do with the duty on which she had come; nordid it, in the slightest degree, militate against her own affection."Papa," she said, kissing him, "you are surprised to see me soearly?"

  "Well, my dear, yes;--but very glad all the same. I hope everybody iswell 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 cango to cathedral every day. Only then, perhaps, Posy won't want togo."

  "I thought that, perhaps, papa, you would sit with me a little whilethis morning, instead of going to morning prayers."

  "Certainly, my dear,--certainly. Only I do not like not going;--forwho can say how often I may be able to go again? There is so littleleft, Susan,--so very little left."

  After that she had not the heart to ask him to stay, and thereforeshe went with him. As they passed down the stairs and out of thedoors she was astonished to find how weak were his footsteps,--howpowerless he was against the slightest misadventure. On this veryday he would have tripped at the upward step at the cathedral doorhad she not been with him. "Oh, papa," she said, "indeed, indeed,you should not come here alone." Then he apologized for his littlestumble with many words and much shame, assuring her that anybodymight trip on an occasion. It was purely an accident; and though itwas a comfort to him to have had her arm, he was sure that he shouldhave recovered himself even had he been alone. He always, he said,kept quite close to the wall, so that there might be no mistake,--nopossibility of an accident. All this he said volubly, but withconfused words, in the covered stone passage leading into thetransept. And, as he thus spoke, Mrs. Grantly made up her mind thather father should never again go to the cathedral alone. He never didgo 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 griefthat his daughter should have seen it. "Laws amercy, sir, it wasa blessing she was with you," said Mrs. Baxter; "it was, indeed,Mr. Harding." Then Mr. Harding had been angry, and spoke almostcrossly to Mrs. Baxter; but, before she left the room, he found anopportunity of begging her pardon,--not in a set speech to thateffect, but by a little word of gentle kindness, which she hadunderstood perfectly. "Papa," said Mrs. Grantly to him as soon asshe had succeeded in getting both Posy and Mrs. Baxter out of theroom,--against the doing of which, Mr. Harding had manoeuvred withall his little impotent skill,--"Papa, you must promise me that youwill not go to the cathedral again alone, till Eleanor comes home."When he heard the sentence he looked at her with blank misery in hiseyes. He made no attempt at remonstrance. He begged for no respite.The word had gone forth, and he knew that it must be obeyed. Thoughhe would have hidden the signs of his weakness had he been able, hewould not condescend to plead that he was strong. "If you think itwrong, 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 knowthat 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. "Mydear," he said, "you are always right."

  She then left him again for awhile, having some business out inthe city, and he was alone in his room for an hour. What was thereleft to him now in the world? Old as he was, and in some thingsalmost childish, nevertheless, he thought of this keenly, and somehalf-realized remembrance of "the lean and slippered pantaloon"flitted across his mind, causing him a pang. What was there left tohim now in the world? Posy and cat's-cradle! Then, in the midst ofhis regrets, as he sat with his back bent in his old easy-chair, withone arm over the shoulder of the chair, and the other hanging looseby his side, on a sudden there came across his face a smile as sweetas ever brightened the face of man or woman. He had been able to tellhimself that he had no ground for complaint,--great ground rather forrejoicing and gratitude. Had not the world and all in it been good tohim; had he not children who loved him, who had done him honour, whohad 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 nothis happy fate to go and leave it all amidst the good words and kindloving cares of devoted friends? Whose latter days had ever been moreblessed than his? And for the future--? It was as he thought of thisthat that smile came across his face,--as though it were alreadythe face of an angel. And then he muttered to himself a word ortwo. "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace. Lord, nowlettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace."

  When Mrs. Grantly returned she found him in jocund spirits. And yetshe perceived that he was so weak that when he left his chair hecould barely get across the room without assistance. Mrs. Baxter,indeed, had not sent to her too soon, and it was well that theprohibition 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 hewould not allow himself to be taken on this occasion to Plumstead. Hesmiled and thanked her, and put his hand into hers, and repeated hispromise that he would not leave the house on any occasion withoutassistance, and declared himself specially thankful to her forcoming to him on that special morning;--but he would not be taken toPlumstead. "When the summer comes," he said, "then, if you will haveme for a few days!"r />
  He meant no deceit, and yet he had told himself within the last hourthat he should never see another summer. He could not tell even hisdaughter that after such a life as this, after more than fifty yearsspent in the ministrations of his darling cathedral, it speciallybehoved him to die,--as he had lived,--at Barchester. He could notsay this to his eldest daughter; but had his Eleanor been at home, hecould have said it to her. He thought he might yet live to see hisEleanor once again. If this could be given to him he would ask fornothing 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 hisusual hour of rising that morning, that as he was not going to thecathedral he would, he thought, lie in bed a little longer. And thenhe had lain in bed the whole day. "And, perhaps, honoured madam,looking at all things, it's best as he should," said Mrs. Baxter.