THE WARDEN
CHAPTER XX
Farewell
On the morning after Mr Harding’s return home he received
a note from the bishop full of affection, condolence, and praise.
‘Pray come to me at once,’ wrote the bishop,
‘that we may see what had better be done; as to the hospital,
I will not say a word to dissuade you; but I don’t like your
going to Crabtree: at any rate, come to me at once.’
Mr Harding did go to him at once; and long and confidential was
the consultation between the two old friends. There they sat
together the whole long day, plotting to get the better of the
archdeacon, and to carry out little schemes of their own, which
they knew would be opposed by the whole weight of his
authority.
The bishop’s first idea was, that Mr Harding, if left to
himself, would certainly starve—not in the figurative sense
in which so many of our ladies and gentlemen do starve on incomes
from one to five hundred a year; not that he would be starved as
regarded dress coats, port wine, and pocket-money; but that he
would positively perish of inanition for want of bread.
‘How is a man to live, when he gives up all his
income?’ said the bishop to himself. And then the
good-natured little man began to consider how his friend might be
best rescued from a death so horrid and painful.
His first proposition to Mr Harding was, that they should live
together at the palace. He, the bishop, positively assured Mr
Harding that he wanted another resident chaplain—not a young
working chaplain, but a steady, middle-aged chaplain; one who would
dine and drink a glass of wine with him, talk about the archdeacon,
and poke the fire. The bishop did not positively name all these
duties, but he gave Mr Harding to understand that such would be the
nature of the service required.
It was not without much difficulty that Mr Harding made his
friend see that this would not suit him; that he could not throw up
the bishop’s preferment, and then come and hang on at the
bishop’s table; that he could not allow people to say of him
that it was an easy matter to abandon his own income, as he was
able to sponge on that of another person. He succeeded, however, in
explaining that the plan would not do, and then the bishop brought
forward another which he had in his sleeve. He, the bishop, had in
his will left certain moneys to Mr Harding’s two daughters,
imagining that Mr Harding would himself want no such assistance
during his own lifetime. This legacy amounted to three thousand
pounds each, duty free; and he now pressed it as a gift on his
friend.
‘The girls, you know,’ said he, ‘will have it
just the same when you’re gone—and they won’t
want it sooner—and as for the interest during my lifetime, it
isn’t worth talking about. I have more than
enough.’
With much difficulty and heartfelt sorrow, Mr Harding refused
also this offer. No; his wish was to support himself, however
poorly—not to be supported on the charity of anyone. It was
hard to make the bishop understand this; it was hard to make him
comprehend that the only real favour he could confer was the
continuation of his independent friendship; but at last even this
was done. At any rate, thought the bishop, he will come and dine
with me from time to time, and if he be absolutely starving I shall
see it.
Touching the precentorship, the bishop was clearly of opinion
that it could be held without the other situation—an opinion
from which no one differed; and it was therefore soon settled among
all the parties concerned, that Mr Harding should still be the
precentor of the cathedral.
On the day following Mr Harding’s return, the archdeacon
reached Plumstead full of Mr Cummins’s scheme regarding
Puddingdale and Mr Quiverful. On the very next morning he drove
over to Puddingdale, and obtained the full consent of the wretched
clerical Priam, who was endeavouring to feed his poor Hecuba and a
dozen of Hectors on the small proceeds of his ecclesiastical
kingdom. Mr Quiverful had no doubts as to the legal rights of the
warden; his conscience would be quite clear as to accepting the
income; and as to The Jupiter, he begged to assure the archdeacon
that he was quite indifferent to any emanations from the profane
portion of the periodical press.
Having so far succeeded, he next sounded the bishop; but here he
was astonished by most unexpected resistance. The bishop did not
think it would do. ‘Not do, why not?’ and seeing that
his father was not shaken, he repeated the question in a severer
form: ‘Why not do, my lord?’
His lordship looked very unhappy, and shuffled about in his
chair, but still didn’t give way; he thought Puddingdale
wouldn’t do for Mr Harding; it was too far from
Barchester.
‘Oh! of course he’ll have a curate.’
The bishop also thought that Mr Quiverful wouldn’t do for
the hospital; such an exchange wouldn’t look well at such a
time; and, when pressed harder, he declared he didn’t think
Mr Harding would accept of Puddingdale under any circumstances.
‘How is he to live?’ demanded the archdeacon.
The bishop, with tears in his eyes, declared that he had not the
slightest conception how life was to be sustained within him at
all. The archdeacon then left his father, and went down to the
hospital; but Mr Harding wouldn’t listen at all to the
Puddingdale scheme. To his eyes it had no attraction; it savoured
of simony, and was likely to bring down upon him harder and more
deserved strictures than any he had yet received: he positively
declined to become vicar of Puddingdale under any
circumstances.
The archdeacon waxed wroth, talked big, and looked bigger; he
said something about dependence and beggary, spoke of the duty
every man was under to earn his bread, made passing allusions to
the follies of youth and waywardness of age, as though Mr Harding
were afflicted by both, and ended by declaring that he had done. He
felt that he had left no stone unturned to arrange matters on the
best and easiest footing; that he had, in fact, so arranged them,
that he had so managed that there was no further need of any
anxiety in the matter. And how had he been paid? His advice had
been systematically rejected; he had been not only slighted, but
distrusted and avoided; he and his measures had been utterly thrown
over, as had been Sir Abraham, who, he had reason to know, was much
pained at what had occurred. He now found it was useless to
interfere any further, and he should retire. If any further
assistance were required from him, he would probably be called on,
and should be again happy to come forward. And so he left the
hospital, and has not since entered it from that day to this.
And here we must take leave of Archdeacon Grantly. We fear that
he is represented in these pages as being worse than he is; but we
have had to do with his foibles, and not with his virtues. We have
seen only the weak side of the man, and have lacked the opportunity
of bringing him forward on his strong ground. That he is a man
somewhat too fond of his own way, and not sufficiently scrupulous
in his manner of achieving it, his best friends cannot deny. That
he is bigoted in favour, not so much of his doctrines as of his
cloth, is also true: and it is true that the possession of a large
income is a desire that sits near his heart. Nevertheless, the
archdeacon is a gentleman and a man of conscience; he spends his
money liberally, and does the work he has to do with the best of
his ability; he improves the tone of society of those among whom he
lives. His aspirations are of a healthy, if not of the highest,
kind. Though never an austere man, he upholds propriety of conduct
both by example and precept. He is generous to the poor, and
hospitable to the rich; in matters of religion he is sincere, and
yet no Pharisee; he is in earnest, and yet no fanatic. On the
whole, the Archdeacon of Barchester is a man doing more good than
harm—a man to be furthered and supported, though perhaps also
to be controlled; and it is matter of regret to us that the course
of our narrative has required that we should see more of his
weakness than his strength.
Mr Harding allowed himself no rest till everything was prepared
for his departure from the hospital. It may be as well to mention
that he was not driven to the stern necessity of selling all his
furniture: he had been quite in earnest in his intention to do so,
but it was soon made known to him that the claims of Messrs Cox and
Cummins made no such step obligatory. The archdeacon had thought it
wise to make use of the threat of the lawyer’s bill, to
frighten his father-in-law into compliance; but he had no intention
to saddle Mr Harding with costs, which had been incurred by no
means exclusively for his benefit. The amount of the bill was added
to the diocesan account, and was, in fact, paid out of the
bishop’s pocket, without any consciousness on the part of his
lordship. A great part of his furniture he did resolve to sell,
having no other means to dispose of it; and the ponies and carriage
were transferred, by private contract, to the use of an old maiden
lady in the city.
For his present use Mr Harding took a lodging in Barchester, and
thither were conveyed such articles as he wanted for daily
use—his music, books, and instruments, his own arm-chair, and
Eleanor’s pet sofa; her teapoy and his cellaret, and also the
slender but still sufficient contents of his wine-cellar. Mrs
Grantly had much wished that her sister would reside at Plumstead,
till her father’s house at Crabtree should be ready for her;
but Eleanor herself strongly resisted this proposal. It was in vain
urged upon her, that a lady in lodgings cost more than a gentleman;
and that, under her father’s present circumstances, such an
expense should be avoided. Eleanor had not pressed her father to
give up the hospital in order that she might live at Plumstead
Rectory and he alone in his Barchester lodgings; nor did Eleanor
think that she would be treating a certain gentleman very fairly,
if she betook herself to the house which he would be the least
desirous of entering of any in the county. So she got a little
bedroom for herself behind the sitting-room, and just over the
little back parlour of the chemist, with whom they were to lodge.
There was somewhat of a savour of senna softened by peppermint
about the place; but, on the whole, the lodgings were clean and
comfortable.
The day had been fixed for the migration of the ex-warden, and
all Barchester were in a state of excitement on the subject.
Opinion was much divided as to the propriety of Mr Harding’s
conduct. The mercantile part of the community, the mayor and
corporation, and council, also most of the ladies, were loud in his
praise. Nothing could be more noble, nothing more generous, nothing
more upright. But the gentry were of a different way of
thinking—especially the lawyers and the clergymen. They said
such conduct was very weak and undignified; that Mr Harding evinced
a lamentable want of esprit de corps, as well as courage; and that
such an abdication must do much harm, and could do but little
good.
On the evening before he left, he summoned all the bedesmen into
his parlour to wish them good-bye. With Bunce he had been in
frequent communication since his return from London, and had been
at much pains to explain to the old man the cause of his
resignation, without in any way prejudicing the position of his
successor. The others, also, he had seen more or less frequently;
and had heard from most of them separately some expression of
regret at his departure; but he had postponed his farewell till the
last evening.
He now bade the maid put wine and glasses on the table; and had
the chairs arranged around the room; and sent Bunce to each of the
men to request they would come and say farewell to their late
warden. Soon the noise of aged scuffling feet was heard upon the
gravel and in the little hall, and the eleven men who were enabled
to leave their rooms were assembled.
‘Come in, my friends, come in,’ said the
warden—he was still warden then. ‘Come in, and sit
down’; and he took the hand of Abel Handy, who was the
nearest to him, and led the limping grumbler to a chair. The others
followed slowly and bashfully; the infirm, the lame, and the blind:
poor wretches! who had been so happy, had they but known it! Now
their aged faces were covered with shame, and every kind word from
their master was a coal of fire burning on their heads.
When first the news had reached them that Mr Harding was going
to leave the hospital, it had been received with a kind of
triumph—his departure was, as it were, a prelude to success.
He had admitted his want of right to the money about which they
were disputing; and as it did not belong to him, of course, it did
to them. The one hundred a year to each of them was actually
becoming a reality; and Abel Handy was a hero, and Bunce a
faint-hearted sycophant, worthy neither honour nor fellowship. But
other tidings soon made their way into the old men’s rooms.
It was first notified to them that the income abandoned by Mr
Harding would not come to them; and these accounts were confirmed
by attorney Finney. They were then informed that Mr Harding’s
place would be at once filled by another. That the new warden could
not be a kinder man they all knew; that he would be a less friendly
one most suspected; and then came the bitter information that, from
the moment of Mr Harding’s departure, the twopence a day, his
own peculiar gift, must of necessity be withdrawn.
And this was to be the end of all their mighty struggle—of
their fight for their rights—of their petition, and their
debates, and their hopes! They were to change the best of masters
for a possible bad one, and to lose twopence a day each man! No;
unfortunate as this was, it was not the worst, or nearly the worst,
as will just now be seen.
‘Sit down, sit down, my friends,’ said the warden;
‘I want to say a word to you and to drink your healths,
before I leave you. Come up here, Moody, here is a chair for you;
come, Jonathan Crumple’—and by degrees he got the men
to be seated. It was not surprising that they should hang back with
faint hearts, having returned so much kindness with such deep
ingratitude. Last of all of them came Bunce, and with sorrowful
mien and slow step got into his accustomed seat near the
fire-place.
When they were all in their places, Mr Harding rose to address
them; and then finding himself not quite at home on his legs, he
sat down again. ‘My dear old friends,’ said he,
‘you all know that I am going to leave you.’
There was a sort of murmur ran round the room, intended,
perhaps, to express regret at his departure; but it was but a
murmur, and might have meant that or anything else.
‘There has been lately some misunderstanding between us.
You have thought, I believe, that you did not get all that you were
entitled to, and that the funds of the hospital have not been
properly disposed of. As for me, I cannot say what should be the
disposition of these moneys, or how they should be managed, and I
have therefore thought it best to go.’
‘We never wanted to drive your reverence out of it,’
said Handy.
‘No, indeed, your reverence,’ said Skulpit.
‘We never thought it would come to this. When I signed the
petition— that is I didn’t sign it,
because—’
‘Let his reverence speak, can’t you?’ said
Moody.
‘No,’ continued Mr Harding; ‘I am sure you did
not wish to turn me out; but I thought it best to leave you. I am
not a very good hand at a lawsuit, as you may all guess; and when
it seemed necessary that our ordinary quiet mode of living should
be disturbed, I thought it better to go. I am neither angry nor
offended with any man in the hospital.’
Here Bunce uttered a kind of groan, very clearly expressive of
disagreement.
‘I am neither angry nor displeased with any man in the
hospital,’ repeated Mr Harding, emphatically. ‘If any
man has been wrong—and I don’t say any man has—he
has erred through wrong advice. In this country all are entitled to
look for their own rights, and you have done no more. As long as
your interests and my interests were at variance, I could give you
no counsel on this subject; but the connection between us has
ceased; my income can no longer depend on your doings, and
therefore, as I leave you, I venture to offer to you my
advice.’
The men all declared that they would from henceforth be entirely
guided by Mr Harding’s opinion in their affairs.
‘Some gentleman will probably take my place here very
soon, and I strongly advise you to be prepared to receive him in a
kindly spirit and to raise no further question among yourselves as
to the amount of his income. Were you to succeed in lessening what
he has to receive, you would not increase your own allowance. The
surplus would not go to you; your wants are adequately provided
for, and your position could hardly be improved.’
‘God bless your reverence, we knows it,’ said
Spriggs.
‘It’s all true, your reverence,’ said Skulpit.
‘We sees it all now.’
‘Yes, Mr Harding,’ said Bunce, opening his mouth for
the first time; ‘I believe they do understand it now, now
that they’ve driven from under the same roof with them such a
master as not one of them will ever know again—now that
they’re like to be in sore want of a friend.’
‘Come, come, Bunce,’ said Mr Harding, blowing his
nose and manoeuvring to wipe his eyes at the same time.
‘Oh, as to that,’ said Handy, ‘we none of us
never wanted to do Mr Harding no harm; if he’s going now,
it’s not along of us; and I don’t see for what Mr Bunce
speaks up agen us that way.’
‘You’ve ruined yourselves, and you’ve ruined
me too, and that’s why,’ said Bunce.
‘Nonsense, Bunce,’ said Mr Harding;
‘there’s nobody ruined at all. I hope you’ll let
me leave you all friends, I hope you’ll all drink a glass of
wine in friendly feeling with me and with one another. You’ll
have a good friend, I don’t doubt, in your new warden; and if
ever you want any other, why after all I’m not going so far
off but that I shall sometimes see you’; and then, having
finished his speech, Mr Harding filled all the glasses, and himself
handed each a glass to the men round him, and raising his own
said:
‘God bless you all! you have my heartfelt wishes for your
welfare. I hope you may live contented, and die trusting in the
Lord jesus Christ, and thankful to Almighty God For the good things
he has given you. God bless you, my friends!’ and Mr Harding
drank his wine.
Another murmur, somewhat more articulate than the first, passed
round the circle, and this time it was intended to imply a blessing
on Mr Harding. It had, however, but little cordiality in it. Poor
old men! how could they be cordial with their sore consciences and
shamed faces? how could they bid God bless him with hearty voices
and a true benison, knowing, as they did, that their vile cabal had
driven him from his happy home, and sent him in his old age to seek
shelter under a strange roof-tree? They did their best, however;
they drank their wine, and withdrew.
As they left the hall-door, Mr Harding shook hands with each of
the men, and spoke a kind word to them about their individual cases
and ailments; and so they departed, answering his questions in the
fewest words, and retreated to their dens, a sorrowful repentant
crew.
All but Bunce, who still remained to make his own farewell.
‘There’s poor old Bell,’ said Mr Harding;
‘I mustn’t go without saying a word to him; come
through with me, Bunce, and bring the wine with you’; and so
they went through to the men’s cottages, and found the old
man propped up as usual in his bed.
‘I’ve come to say good-bye to you, Bell,’ said
Mr Harding, speaking loud, for the old man was deaf.
‘And are you going away, then, really?’ asked
Bell.
‘Indeed I am, and I’ve brought you a glass of wine;
so that we may part friends, as we lived, you know.’
The old man took the proffered glass in his shaking hands, and
drank it eagerly. ‘God bless you, Bell!’ said Mr
Harding; ‘good-bye, my old friend.’
‘And so you’re really going?’ the man again
asked.
‘Indeed I am, Bell.’
The poor old bed-ridden creature still kept Mr Harding’s
hand in his own, and the warden thought that he had met with
something like warmth of feeling in the one of all his subjects
from whom it was the least likely to be expected; for poor old Bell
had nearly outlived all human feelings. ‘And your
reverence,’ said he, and then he paused, while his old
palsied head shook horribly, and his shrivelled cheeks sank lower
within his jaws, and his glazy eye gleamed with a momentary light;
‘and your reverence, shall we get the hundred a year,
then?’
How gently did Mr Harding try to extinguish the false hope of
money which had been so wretchedly raised to disturb the quiet of
the dying man! One other week and his mortal coil would be shuffled
off; in one short week would God resume his soul, and set it apart
for its irrevocable doom; seven more tedious days and nights of
senseless inactivity, and all would be over for poor Bell in this
world; and yet, with his last audible words, he was demanding his
moneyed rights, and asserting himself to be the proper heir of John
Hiram’s bounty! Not on him, poor sinner as he was, be the
load of such sin!
Mr Harding returned to his parlour, meditating with a sick heart
on what he had seen, and Bunce with him. We will not describe the
parting of these two good men, for good men they were. It was in
vain that the late warden endeavoured to comfort the heart of the
old bedesman; poor old Bunce felt that his days of comfort were
gone. The hospital had to him been a happy home, but it could be so
no longer. He had had honour there, and friendship; he had
recognised his master, and been recognised; all his wants, both of
soul and body, had been supplied, and he had been a happy man. He
wept grievously as he parted from his friend, and the tears of an
old man are bitter. ‘It is all over for me in this
world,’ said he, as he gave the last squeeze to Mr
Harding’s hand; ‘I have now to forgive those who have
injured me—and to die.’
And so the old man went out, and then Mr Harding gave way to his
grief and he too wept aloud.