THE WARDEN
CHAPTER XIII
The Warden’s Decision
The meeting between Eleanor and her father was not so stormy as
that described in the last chapter, but it was hardly more
successful. On her return from Bold’s house she found her
father in a strange state. He was not sorrowful and silent as he
had been on that memorable day when his son-in-law lectured him as
to all that he owed to his order; nor was he in his usual quiet
mood. When Eleanor reached the hospital, he was walking to and fro
upon the lawn, and she soon saw that he was much excited.
‘I am going to London, my dear,’ he said as soon as
he saw her.
‘London, papa!’
‘Yes, my dear, to London; I will have this matter settled
some way; there are some things, Eleanor, which I cannot
bear.’
‘Oh, papa, what is it?’ said she, leading him by the
arm into the house. ‘I had such good news for you, and now
you make me fear I am too late. And then, before he could let her
know what had caused this sudden resolve, or could point to the
fatal paper which lay on the table, she told him that the lawsuit
was over, that Bold had commissioned her to assure her father in
his name that it would be abandoned,—that there was no
further cause for misery, that the whole matter might be looked on
as though it had never been discussed. She did not tell him with
what determined vehemence she had obtained this concession in his
favour, nor did she mention the price she was to pay for it.
The warden did not express himself peculiarly gratified at this
intelligence, and Eleanor, though she had not worked for thanks,
and was by no means disposed to magnify her own good offices, felt
hurt at the manner in which her news was received. ‘Mr Bold
can act as he thinks proper, my love,’ said he; ‘if Mr
Bold thinks he has been wrong, of course he will discontinue what
he is doing; but that cannot change my purpose.’
‘Oh, papa!’ she exclaimed, all but crying with
vexation; ‘I thought you would have been so happy—I
thought all would have been right now.’
‘Mr Bold,’ continued he, ‘has set great people
to work—so great that I doubt they are now beyond his
control. Read that, my dear.’ The warden, doubling up a
number of The Jupiter, pointed to the peculiar article which she
was to read. It was to the last of the three leaders, which are
generally furnished daily for the support of the nation, that Mr
Harding directed her attention. It dealt some heavy blows on
various clerical delinquents; on families who received their tens
of thousands yearly for doing nothing; on men who, as the article
stated, rolled in wealth which they had neither earned nor
inherited, and which was in fact stolen from the poorer clergy. It
named some sons of bishops, and grandsons of archbishops; men great
in their way, who had redeemed their disgrace in the eyes of many
by the enormity of their plunder; and then, having disposed of
these leviathans, it descended to Mr Harding.
‘We alluded some weeks since to an instance of similar
injustice, though in a more humble scale, in which the warden of an
almshouse at Barchester has become possessed of the income of the
greater part of the whole institution. Why an almshouse should have
a warden we cannot pretend to explain, nor can we say what special
need twelve old men can have for the services of a separate
clergyman, seeing that they have twelve reserved seats for
themselves in Barchester Cathedral. But be this as it may, let the
gentleman call himself warden or precentor, or what he will, let
him be never so scrupulous in exacting religious duties from his
twelve dependents, or never so negligent as regards the services of
the cathedral, it appears palpably clear that he can be entitled to
no portion of the revenue of the hospital, excepting that which the
founder set apart for him; and it is equally clear that the founder
did not intend that three-fifths of his charity should be so
consumed.
‘The case is certainly a paltry one after the tens of
thousands with which we have been dealing, for the warden’s
income is after all but a poor eight hundred a year: eight hundred
a year is not magnificent preferment of itself, and the warden may,
for anything we know, be worth much more to the church; but if so,
let the church pay him out of funds justly at its own disposal.
‘We allude to the question of the Barchester almshouse at
the present moment, because we understand that a plea has been set
up which will be peculiarly revolting to the minds of English
churchmen. An action has been taken against Mr Warden Harding, on
behalf of the almsmen, by a gentleman acting solely on public
grounds, and it is to be argued that Mr Harding takes nothing but
what he received as a servant of the hospital, and that he is not
himself responsible for the amount of stipend given to him for his
work. Such a plea would doubtless be fair, if anyone questioned the
daily wages of a bricklayer employed on the building, or the fee of
the charwoman who cleans it; but we cannot envy the feeling of a
clergyman of the Church of England who could allow such an argument
to be put in his mouth.
‘If this plea be put forward we trust Mr Harding will be
forced as a witness to state the nature of his employment; the
amount of work that he does; the income which he receives; and the
source from whence he obtained his appointment. We do not think he
will receive much public sympathy to atone for the annoyance of
such an examination.’
As Eleanor read the article her face flushed with indignation,
and when she had finished it, she almost feared to look up at her
father.
‘Well, my dear,’ said he, ‘what do you think
of that—is it worth while to be a warden at that
price?’
‘Oh, papa;—dear papa!’
‘Mr Bold can’t un-write that, my dear—Mr Bold
can’t say that that sha’n’t be read by every
clergyman at Oxford; nay, by every gentleman in the land’:
and then he walked up and down the room, while Eleanor in mute
despair followed him with her eyes. ‘And I’ll tell you
what, my dear,’ he continued, speaking now very calmly, and
in a forced manner very unlike himself; ‘Mr Bold can’t
dispute the truth of every word in that article you have just
read—nor can I.’ Eleanor stared at him, as though she
scarcely understood the words he was speaking. ‘Nor can I,
Eleanor: that’s the worst of all, or would be so if there
were no remedy. I have thought much of all this since we were
together last night’; and he came and sat beside her, and put
his arm round her waist as he had done then. ‘I have thought
much of what the archdeacon has said, and of what this paper says;
and I do believe I have no right to be here.’
‘No right to be warden of the hospital, papa?’
‘No right to be warden with eight hundred a year; no right
to be warden with such a house as this; no right to spend in luxury
money that was intended for charity. Mr Bold may do as he pleases
about his suit, but I hope he will not abandon it for my
sake.’
Poor Eleanor! this was hard upon her. Was it for this she had
made her great resolve! For this that she had laid aside her quiet
demeanour, and taken upon her the rants of a tragedy heroine! One
may work and not for thanks, but yet feel hurt at not receiving
them; and so it was with Eleanor: one may be disinterested in
one’s good actions, and yet feel discontented that they are
not recognised. Charity may be given with the left hand so privily
that the right hand does not know it, and yet the left hand may
regret to feel that it has no immediate reward. Eleanor had had no
wish to burden her father with a weight of obligation, and yet she
had looked forward to much delight from the knowledge that she had
freed him from his sorrows: now such hopes were entirely over: all
that she had done was of no avail; she had humbled herself to Bold
in vain; the evil was utterly beyond her power to cure!
She had thought also how gently she would whisper to her father
all that her lover had said to her about herself, and how
impossible she had found it to reject him: and then she had
anticipated her father’s kindly kiss and close embrace as he
gave his sanction to her love. Alas! she could say nothing of this
now. In speaking of Mr Bold, her father put him aside as one whose
thoughts and sayings and acts could be of no moment. Gentle reader,
did you ever feel yourself snubbed? Did you ever, when thinking
much of your own importance, find yourself suddenly reduced to a
nonentity? Such was Eleanor’s feeling now.
‘They shall not put forward this plea on my behalf,’
continued the warden. ‘Whatever may be the truth of the
matter, that at any rate is not true; and the man who wrote that
article is right in saying that such a plea is revolting to an
honest mind. I will go up to London, my dear, and see these lawyers
myself, and if no better excuse can be made for me than that, I and
the hospital will part.’
‘But the archdeacon, papa?’
‘I can’t help it, my dear; there are some things
which a man cannot bear—I cannot bear that’; and he put
his hand upon the newspaper.
‘But will the archdeacon go with you?’
To tell the truth, Mr Harding had made up his mind to steal a
march upon the archdeacon. He was aware that he could take no steps
without informing his dread son-in-law, but he had resolved that he
would send out a note to Plumstead Episcopi detailing his plans,
but that the messenger should not leave Barchester till he himself
had started for London; so that he might be a day before the
doctor, who, he had no doubt, would follow him. In that day, if he
had luck, he might arrange it all; he might explain to Sir Abraham
that he, as warden, would have nothing further to do with the
defence about to be set up; he might send in his official
resignation to his friend the bishop, and so make public the whole
transaction, that even the doctor would not be able to undo what he
had done. He knew too well the doctor’s strength and his own
weakness to suppose he could do this, if they both reached London
together; indeed, he would never be able to get to London, if the
doctor knew of his intended journey in time to prevent it.
‘No, I think not,’ said he. ‘I think I shall
start before the archdeacon could be ready—I shall go early
tomorrow morning.’
‘That will be best, papa,’ said Eleanor, showing
that her father’s ruse was appreciated.
‘Why yes, my love. The fact is, I wish to do all this
before the archdeacon can—can interfere. There is a great
deal of truth in all he says—he argues very well, and I
can’t always answer him; but there is an old saying, Nelly:
“ Everyone knows where his own shoe pinches!”
He’ll say that I want moral courage, and strength of
character, and power of endurance, and it’s all true; but
I’m sure I ought not to remain here, if I have nothing better
to put forward than a quibble: so, Nelly, we shall have to leave
this pretty place.’
Eleanor’s face brightened up, as she assured her father
how cordially she agreed with him.
‘True, my love,’ said he, now again quite happy and
at ease in his manner. ‘What good to us is this place or all
the money, if we are to be ill-spoken of?’
‘Oh, papa, I am so glad!’
‘My darling child! It did cost me a pang at first, Nelly,
to think that you should lose your pretty drawing-room, and your
ponies, and your garden: the garden will be the worst of all—
but there is a garden at Crabtree, a very pretty garden.’
Crabtree Parva was the name of the small living which Mr Harding
had held as a minor canon, and which still belonged to him. It was
only worth some eighty pounds a year, and a small house and glebe,
all of which were now handed over to Mr Harding’s curate; but
it was to Crabtree glebe that Mr Harding thought of retiring. This
parish must not be mistaken for that other living, Crabtree
Canonicorum, as it is called. Crabtree Canonicorum is a very nice
thing; there are only two hundred parishioners; there are four
hundred acres of glebe; and the great and small tithes, which both
go to the rector, are worth four hundred pounds a year more.
Crabtree Canonicorum is in the gift of the dean and chapter, and is
at this time possessed by the Honourable and Reverend Dr Vesey
Stanhope, who also fills the prebendal stall of Goosegorge in
Barchester Chapter, and holds the united rectory of Eiderdown and
Stogpingum, or Stoke Pinquium, as it should be written. This is the
same Dr Vesey Stanhope whose hospitable villa on the Lake of Como
is so well known to the elite of English travellers, and whose
collection of Lombard butterflies is supposed to be unique.
‘Yes,’ said the warden, musing, ‘there is a
very pretty garden at Crabtree; but I shall be sorry to disturb
poor Smith.’ Smith was the curate of Crabtree, a gentleman
who was maintaining a wife and half a dozen children on the income
arising from his profession.
Eleanor assured her father that, as far as she was concerned,
she could leave her house and her ponies without a single regret.
She was only so happy that he was going—going where he would
escape all this dreadful turmoil.
‘But we will take the music, my dear.’
And so they went on planning their future happiness, and
plotting how they would arrange it all without the interposition of
the archdeacon, and at last they again became confidential, and
then the warden did thank her for what she had done, and Eleanor,
lying on her father’s shoulder, did find an opportunity to
tell her secret: and the father gave his blessing to his child, and
said that the man whom she loved was honest, good, and
kind-hearted, and right-thinking in the main—one who wanted
only a good wife to put him quite upright—‘a man, my
love,’ he ended by saying, ‘to whom I firmly believe
that I can trust my treasure with safety.’
‘But what will Dr Grantly say?’
‘Well, my dear, it can’t be helped—we shall be
out at Crabtree then.’
And Eleanor ran upstairs to prepare her father’s clothes
for his journey; and the warden returned to his garden to make his
last adieux to every tree, and shrub, and shady nook that he knew
so well.