THE WARDEN
CHAPTER XIX
The Warden Resigns
The party met the next morning at breakfast; and a very sombre
affair it was—very unlike the breakfasts at Plumstead
Episcopi.
There were three thin, small, dry bits of bacon, each an inch
long, served up under a huge old plated cover; there were four
three-cornered bits of dry toast, and four square bits of buttered
toast; there was a loaf of bread, and some oily- looking butter;
and on the sideboard there were the remains of a cold shoulder of
mutton. The archdeacon, however, had not come up from his rectory
to St Paul’s Churchyard to enjoy himself and therefore
nothing was said of the scanty fare.
The guests were as sorry as the viands—hardly anything was
said over the breakfast-table. The archdeacon munched his toast in
ominous silence, turning over bitter thoughts in his deep mind. The
warden tried to talk to his daughter, and she tried to answer him;
but they both failed. There were no feelings at present in common
between them. The warden was thinking only of getting back to
Barchester, and calculating whether the archdeacon would expect him
to wait for him; and Mrs Grantly was preparing herself for a grand
attack which she was to make on her father, as agreed upon between
herself and her husband during their curtain confabulation of that
morning.
When the waiter had creaked out of the room with the last of the
teacups, the archdeacon got up and went to the window as though to
admire the view. The room looked out on a narrow passage which runs
from St Paul’s Churchyard to Paternoster Row; and Dr Grantly
patiently perused the names of the three shopkeepers whose doors
were in view. The warden still kept his seat at the table, and
examined the pattern of the tablecloth; and Mrs Grantly, seating
herself on the sofa, began to knit.
After a while the warden pulled his Bradshaw out of his pocket,
and began laboriously to consult it. There was a train for
Barchester at 10 A.M. That was out of the question, for it was
nearly ten already. Another at 3 P.M.; another, the night-mail
train, at 9 P.M. The three o’clock train would take him home
to tea, and would suit very well.
‘My dear,’ said he, ‘I think I shall go back
home at three o’clock today. I shall get home at half-past
eight. I don’t think there’s anything to keep me in
London.’
‘The archdeacon and I return by the early train tomorrow,
papa; won’t you wait and go back with us?’
‘Why, Eleanor will expect me tonight; and I’ve so
much to do; and—’
‘Much to do!’ said the archdeacon sotto voce; but
the warden heard him.
‘You’d better wait for us, papa.’
‘Thank ye, my dear! I think I’ll go this
afternoon.’ The tamest animal will turn when driven too hard,
and even Mr Harding was beginning to fight for his own way.
I suppose you won’t be back before three?’ said the
lady, addressing her husband.
‘I must leave this at two,’ said the warden.
‘Quite out of the question,’ said the archdeacon,
answering his wife, and still reading the shopkeepers’ names;
‘I don’t suppose I shall be back till five.’
There was another long pause, during which Mr Harding continued
to study his Bradshaw.
‘I must go to Cox and Cummins,’ said the archdeacon
at last.
‘Oh, to Cox and Cummins,’ said the warden. It was
quite a matter of indifference to him where his son-in-law went.
The names of Cox and Cummins had now no interest in his ears. What
had he to do with Cox and Cummins further, having already had his
suit finally adjudicated upon in a court of conscience, a judgment
without power of appeal fully registered, and the matter settled so
that all the lawyers in London could not disturb it. The archdeacon
could go to Cox and Cummins, could remain there all day in anxious
discussion; but what might be said there was no longer matter of
interest to him, who was so soon to lay aside the name of warden of
Barchester Hospital.
The archdeacon took up his shining new clerical hat, and put on
his black new clerical gloves, and looked heavy, respectable,
decorous, and opulent, a decided clergyman of the Church of
England, every inch of him. ‘I suppose I shall see you at
Barchester the day after tomorrow,’ said he.
The warden supposed he would.
‘I must once more beseech you to take no further steps
till you see my father; if you owe me nothing,’ and the
archdeacon looked as though he thought a great deal were due to
him, ‘at least you owe so much to my father’; and,
without waiting for a reply, Dr Grantly wended his way to Cox and
Cummins.
Mrs Grantly waited till the last fall of her husband’s
foot was heard, as he turned out of the court into St Paul’s
Churchyard, and then commenced her task of talking her father
over.
‘Papa,’ she began, ‘this is a most serious
business.’
‘Indeed it is,’ said the warden, ringing the
bell.
‘I greatly feel the distress of mind you must have
endured.’
‘I am sure you do, my dear’; and he ordered the
waiter to bring him pen, ink, and paper.
‘Are you going to write, papa?’
‘Yes, my dear—I am going to write my resignation to
the bishop.’
‘Pray, pray, papa, put it off till our return—pray
put it off till you have seen the bishop—dear papa! for my
sake, for Eleanor’s!—’
‘It is for your sake and Eleanor’s that I do this. I
hope, at least, that my children may never have to be ashamed of
their father.’
‘How can you talk about shame, papa?’ and she
stopped while the waiter creaked in with the paper, and then slowly
creaked out again; ‘how can you talk about shame? you know
what all your friends think about this question.’ The warden
spread his paper on the table, placing it on the meagre
blotting-book which the hotel afforded, and sat himself down to
write.
‘You won’t refuse me one request, papa?’
continued his daughter; ‘you won’t refuse to delay your
letter for two short days? Two days can make no possible
difference.’
‘My dear,’ said he naively, ‘if I waited till
I got to Barchester, I might, perhaps, be prevented.’
‘But surely you would not wish to offend the
bishop?’ said she.
‘God forbid! The bishop is not apt to take offence, and
knows me too well to take in bad part anything that I may be called
on to do.’
‘But, papa—’
‘Susan,’ said he, ‘my mind on this subject is
made up; it is not without much repugnance that I act in opposition
to the advice of such men as Sir Abraham Haphazard and the
archdeacon; but in this matter I can take no advice, I cannot alter
the resolution to which I have come.’
‘But two days, papa—’
‘No—nor can I delay it. You may add to my present
unhappiness by pressing me, but you cannot change my purpose; it
will be a comfort to me if you will let the matter rest’:
and, dipping his pen into the inkstand, he fixed his eyes intently
on the paper.
There was something in his manner which taught his daughter to
perceive that he was in earnest; she had at one time ruled supreme
in her father’s house, but she knew that there were moments
when, mild and meek as he was, he would have his way, and the
present was an occasion of the sort. She returned, therefore, to
her knitting, and very shortly after left the room.
The warden was now at liberty to compose his letter, and, as it
was characteristic of the man, it shall be given at full length.
The official letter, which, when written, seemed to him to be too
formally cold to be sent alone to so dear a friend, was accompanied
by a private note; and both are here inserted.
The letter of resignation ran as follows:
‘CHAPTER HOTEL, ST. PAUL’S, LONDON,
‘August, 18—
‘My LORD BISHOP,
‘It is with the greatest pain that I feel myself
constrained to resign into your Lordship’s hands the
wardenship of the hospital at Barchester, which you so kindly
conferred upon me, now nearly twelve years since.
‘I need not explain the circumstances which have made this
step appear necessary to me. You are aware that a question has
arisen as to the right of the warden to the income which has been
allotted to the wardenship; it has seemed to me that this right is
not well made out, and I hesitate to incur the risk of taking an
income to which my legal claim appears doubtful.
‘The office of precentor of the cathedral is, as your
Lordship is aware, joined to that of the warden; that is to say,
the precentor has for many years been the warden of the hospital;
there is, however, nothing to make the junction of the two offices
necessary, and, unless you or the dean and chapter object to such
an arrangement, I would wish to keep the precentorship. The income
of this office will now be necessary to me; indeed, I do not know
why I should be ashamed to say that I should have difficulty in
supporting myself without it.
‘Your Lordship, and such others as you may please to
consult on the matter, will at once see that my resignation of the
wardenship need offer not the slightest bar to its occupation by
another person. I am thought in the wrong by all those whom I have
consulted in the matter; I have very little but an inward and an
unguided conviction of my own to bring me to this step, and I
shall, indeed, be hurt to find that any slur is thrown on the
preferment which your kindness bestowed on me, by my resignation of
it. I, at any rate for one, shall look on any successor whom you
may appoint as enjoying a clerical situation of the highest
respectability, and one to which your Lordship’s nomination
gives an indefeasible right.
‘I cannot finish this official letter without again
thanking your Lordship for all your great kindness, and I beg to
subscribe myself— —Your Lordship’s most obedient
servant
‘SEPTIMUS HARDING,
‘Warden of Barchester Hospital,
and Precentor of the Cathedral.’
He then wrote the following private note:
‘My DEAR BISHOP,
‘I cannot send you the accompanying official letter
without a warmer expression of thanks for all your kindness than
would befit a document which may to a certain degree be made
public. You, I know, will understand the feeling, and, perhaps,
pity the weakness which makes me resign the hospital. I am not made
of calibre strong enough to withstand public attack. Were I
convinced that I stood on ground perfectly firm, that I was
certainly justified in taking eight hundred a year under
Hiram’s will, I should feel bound by duty to retain the
position, however unendurable might be the nature of the assault;
but, as I do not feel this conviction, I cannot believe that you
will think me wrong in what I am doing.
‘I had at one time an idea of keeping only some moderate
portion of the income; perhaps three hundred a year, and of
remitting the remainder to the trustees; but it occurred to me, and
I think with reason, that by so doing I should place my successors
in an invidious position, and greatly damage your patronage.
‘My dear friend, let me have a line from you to say that
you do not blame me for what I am doing, and that the officiating
vicar of Crabtree Parva will be the same to you as the warden of
the hospital.
‘I am very anxious about the precentorship: the archdeacon
thinks it must go with the wardenship; I think not, and, that,
having it, I cannot be ousted. I will, however, be guided by you
and the dean. No other duty will suit me so well, or come so much
within my power of adequate performance.
‘I thank you from my heart for the preferment which I am
now giving up, and for all your kindness, and am, dear bishop, now
as always— Yours most sincerely,
‘SEPTIMUS HARDING
‘LONDON, — AUGUST, 18—’
Having written these letters and made a copy of the former one
for the benefit of the archdeacon, Mr Harding, whom we must now
cease to call the warden, he having designated himself so for the
last time, found that it was nearly two o’clock, and that he
must prepare for his journey. Yes, from this time he never again
admitted the name by which he had been so familiarly known, and in
which, to tell the truth, he had rejoiced. The love of titles is
common to all men, and a vicar or fellow is as pleased at becoming
Mr Archdeacon or Mr Provost, as a lieutenant at getting his
captaincy, or a city tallow-chandler in becoming Sir John on the
occasion of a Queen’s visit to a new bridge. But warden he
was no longer, and the name of precentor, though the office was to
him so dear, confers in itself no sufficient distinction; our
friend, therefore, again became Mr Harding.
Mrs Grantly had gone out; he had, therefore, no one to delay him
by further entreaties to postpone his journey; he had soon arranged
his bag, and paid his bill, and, leaving a note for his daughter,
in which he put the copy of his official letter, he got into a cab
and drove away to the station with something of triumph in his
heart.
Had he not cause for triumph? Had he not been supremely
successful? Had he not for the first time in his life held his own
purpose against that of his son-in-law, and manfully combated
against great odds—against the archdeacon’s wife as
well as the archdeacon? Had he not gained a great victory, and was
it not fit that he should step into his cab with triumph?
He had not told Eleanor when he would return, but she was on the
look-out for him by every train by which he could arrive, and the
pony-carriage was at the Barchester station when the train drew up
at the platform.
‘My dear,’ said he, sitting beside her, as she
steered her little vessel to one side of the road to make room for
the clattering omnibus as they passed from the station into the
town, ‘I hope you’ll be able to feel a proper degree of
respect for the vicar of Crabtree.’
‘Dear papa,’ said she, ‘I am so
glad.’
There was great comfort in returning home to that pleasant
house, though he was to leave it so soon, and in discussing with
his daughter all that he had done, and all that he had to do. It
must take some time to get out of one house into another; the
curate at Crabtree could not be abolished under six months, that
is, unless other provision could be made for him; and then the
furniture—the most of that must be sold to pay Sir Abraham
Haphazard for sitting up till twelve at night. Mr Harding was
strangely ignorant as to lawyers’ bills; he had no idea, from
twenty pounds to two thousand, as to the sum in which he was
indebted for legal assistance. True, he had called in no lawyer
himself; true, he had been no consenting party to the employment of
either Cox and Cummins, or Sir Abraham; he had never been consulted
on such matters;—the archdeacon had managed all this himself,
never for a moment suspecting that Mr Harding would take upon him
to end the matter in a way of his own. Had the lawyers’ bills
been ten thousand pounds, Mr Harding could not have helped it; but
he was not on that account disposed to dispute his own liability.
The question never occurred to him; but it did occur to him that he
had very little money at his banker’s, that he could receive
nothing further from the hospital, and that the sale of the
furniture was his only resource.
‘Not all, papa,’ said Eleanor pleadingly.
‘Not quite all, my dear,’ said he; ‘that is,
if we can help it. We must have a little at Crabtree—but it
can only be a little; we must put a bold front on it, Nelly; it
isn’t easy to come down from affluence to poverty.’
And so they planned their future mode of life; the father taking
comfort from the reflection that his daughter would soon be freed
from it, and she resolving that her father would soon have in her
own house a ready means of escape from the solitude of the Crabtree
vicarage.
When the archdeacon left his wife and father-in-law at the
Chapter Coffee House to go to Messrs Cox and Cummins, he had no
very defined idea of what he had to do when he got there. Gentlemen
when at law, or in any way engaged in matters requiring legal
assistance, are very apt to go to their lawyers without much
absolute necessity;—gentlemen when doing so, are apt to
describe such attendance as quite compulsory, and very
disagreeable. The lawyers, on the other hand, do not at all see the
necessity, though they quite agree as to the disagreeable nature of
the visit;—gentlemen when so engaged are usually somewhat
gravelled at finding nothing to say to their learned friends; they
generally talk a little politics, a little weather, ask some few
foolish questions about their suit, and then withdraw, having
passed half an hour in a small dingy waiting-room, in company with
some junior assistant- clerk, and ten minutes with the members of
the firm; the business is then over for which the gentleman has
come up to London, probably a distance of a hundred and fifty
miles. To be sure he goes to the play, and dines at his
friend’s club, and has a bachelor’s liberty and
bachelor’s recreation for three or four days; and he could
not probably plead the desire of such gratifications as a reason to
his wife for a trip to London.
Married ladies, when your husbands find they are positively
obliged to attend their legal advisers, the nature of the duty to
be performed is generally of this description.
The archdeacon would not have dreamt of leaving London without
going to Cox and Cummins; and yet he had nothing to say to them.
The game was up; he plainly saw that Mr Harding in this matter was
not to be moved; his only remaining business on this head was to
pay the bill and have done with it; and I think it may be taken for
granted, that whatever the cause may be that takes a gentleman to a
lawyer’s chambers, he never goes there to pay his bill.
Dr Grantly, however, in the eyes of Messrs Cox and Cummins,
represented the spiritualities of the diocese of Barchester, as Mr
Chadwick did the temporalities, and was, therefore, too great a man
to undergo the half-hour in the clerk’s room. It will not be
necessary that we should listen to the notes of sorrow in which the
archdeacon bewailed to Mr Cox the weakness of his father-in-law,
and the end of all their hopes of triumph; nor need we repeat the
various exclamations of surprise with which the mournful
intelligence was received. No tragedy occurred, though Mr Cox, a
short and somewhat bull-necked man, was very near a fit of apoplexy
when he first attempted to ejaculate that fatal
word—resign!
Over and over again did Mr Cox attempt to enforce on the
archdeacon the propriety of urging on Mr Warden the madness of the
deed he was about to do.
‘Eight hundred a year!’ said Mr Cox.
‘And nothing whatever to do!’ said Mr Cummins, who
had joined the conference.
‘No private fortune, I believe,’ said Mr Cox.
‘Not a shilling,’ said Mr Cummins, in a very low
voice, shaking his head.
‘I never heard of such a case in all my experience,’
said Mr Cox.
‘Eight hundred a year, and as nice a house as any
gentleman could wish to hang up his hat in,’ said Mr
Cummins.
‘And an unmarried daughter, I believe,’ said Mr Cox,
with much moral seriousness in his tone. The archdeacon only sighed
as each separate wail was uttered, and shook his head, signifying
that the fatuity of some people was past belief.
‘I’ll tell you what he might do,’ said Mr
Cummins, brightening up. ‘I’ll tell you how you might
save it—let him exchange.’
‘Exchange where?’ said the archdeacon.
‘Exchange for a living. There’s Quiverful, of
Puddingdale —he has twelve children, and would be delighted
to get the hospital. To be sure Puddingdale is only four hundred,
but that would be saving something out of the fire: Mr Harding
would have a curate, and still keep three hundred or three hundred
and fifty.’
The archdeacon opened his ears and listened; he really thought
the scheme might do.
‘The newspapers,’ continued Mr Cummins, ‘might
hammer away at Quiverful every day for the next six months without
his minding them.’
The archdeacon took up his hat, and returned to his hotel,
thinking the matter over deeply. At any rate he would sound
Quiverful. A man with twelve children would do much to double his
income.