THE WARDEN
CHAPTER VIII
Plumstead Episcopi
The reader must now be requested to visit the rectory of
Plumstead Episcopi; and as it is as yet still early morning, to
ascend again with us into the bedroom of the archdeacon. The
mistress of the mansion was at her toilet; on which we will not
dwell with profane eyes, but proceed into a small inner room, where
the doctor dressed and kept his boots and sermons; and here we will
take our stand, premising that the door of the room was so open as
to admit of a conversation between our reverend Adam and his valued
Eve.
‘It’s all your own fault, archdeacon,’ said
the latter. ‘I told you from the beginning how it would end,
and papa has no one to thank but you.’
‘Good gracious, my dear,’ said the doctor, appearing
at the door of his dressing-room, with his face and head enveloped
in the rough towel which he was violently using; ‘how can you
say so? I am doing my very best.’
‘I wish you had never done so much,’ said the lady,
interrupting him. ‘If you’d just have let John Bold
come and go there, as he and papa liked, he and Eleanor would have
been married by this time, and we should not have heard one word
about all this affair.’
‘But, my dear—’
‘Oh, it’s all very well, archdeacon; and of course
you’re right; I don’t for a moment think you’ll
ever admit that you could be wrong; but the fact is. you’ve
brought this young man down upon papa by buffing him as you have
done.’
‘But, my love—’
‘And all because you didn’t like John Bold for a
brother- in-law. How is she ever to do better? Papa hasn’t
got a shilling; and though Eleanor is well enough, she has not at
all a taking style of beauty. I’m sure I don’t know how
she’s to do better than marry John Bold; or as well
indeed,’ added the anxious sister, giving the last twist to
her last shoe-string.
Dr Grantly felt keenly the injustice of this attack; but what
could he say? He certainly had buffed John Bold; he certainly had
objected to him as a brother-in-law, and a very few months ago the
very idea had excited his wrath: but now matters were changed; John
Bold had shown his power, and, though he was as odious as ever to
the archdeacon, power is always respected, and the reverend
dignitary began to think that such an alliance might not have been
imprudent. Nevertheless, his motto was still ‘no
surrender’; he would still fight it out; he believed
confidently in Oxford, in the bench of bishops, in Sir Abraham
Haphazard, and in himself; and it was only when alone with his wife
that doubts of defeat ever beset him. He once more tried to
communicate this confidence to Mrs Grantly, and for the twentieth
time began to tell her of Sir Abraham.
‘Oh, Sir Abraham!’ said she, collecting all her
house keys into her basket before she descended; ‘Sir Abraham
won’t get Eleanor a husband; Sir Abraham won’t get papa
another income when he has been worreted out of the hospital. Mark
what I tell you, archdeacon: while you and Sir Abraham are
fighting, papa will lose his preferment; and what will you do then
with him and Eleanor on your hands? besides, who’s to pay Sir
Abraham? I suppose he won’t take the case up for
nothing?’ And so the lady descended to family worship among
her children and servants, the pattern of a good and prudent
wife.
Dr Grantly was blessed with a happy, thriving family. There
were, first, three boys, now at home from school for the holidays.
They were called, respectively, Charles James, Henry, and Samuel.
The two younger (there were five in all) were girls; the elder,
Florinda, bore the name of the Archbishop of York’s wife,
whose godchild she was: and the younger had been christened
Grizzel, after a sister of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The boys
were all clever, and gave good promise of being well able to meet
the cares and trials of the world; and yet they were not alike in
their dispositions, and each had his individual character, and each
his separate admirers among the doctor’s friends.
Charles James was an exact and careful boy; he never committed
himself; he well knew how much was expected from the eldest son of
the Archdeacon of Barchester, and was therefore mindful not to mix
too freely with other boys. He had not the great talents of his
younger brothers, but he exceeded them in judgment and propriety of
demeanour; his fault, if he had one, was an over-attention to words
instead of things; there was a thought too much finesse about him,
and, as even his father sometimes told him, he was too fond of a
compromise.
The second was the archdeacon’s favourite son, and Henry
was indeed a brilliant boy. The versatility of his genius was
surprising, and the visitors at Plumstead Episcopi were often
amazed at the marvellous manner in which he would, when called on,
adapt his capacity to apparently most uncongenial pursuits. He
appeared once before a large circle as Luther the reformer, and
delighted them with the perfect manner in which he assumed the
character; and within three days he again astonished them by acting
the part of a Capuchin friar to the very life. For this last
exploit his father gave him a golden guinea, and his brothers said
the reward had been promised beforehand in the event of the
performance being successful. He was also sent on a tour into
Devonshire; a treat which the lad was most anxious of enjoying. His
father’s friends there, however, did not appreciate his
talents, and sad accounts were sent home of the perversity of his
nature. He was a most courageous lad, game to the backbone.
It was soon known, both at home, where he lived, and within some
miles of Barchester Cathedral, and also at Westminster, where he
was at school, that young Henry could box well and would never own
himself beat; other boys would fight while they had a leg to stand
on, but he would fight with no leg at all. Those backing him would
sometimes think him crushed by the weight of blows and faint with
loss of blood, and his friends would endeavour to withdraw him from
the contest; but no, Henry never gave in, was never weary of the
battle. The ring was the only element in which he seemed to enjoy
himself; and while other boys were happy in the number of their
friends, he rejoiced most in the multitude of his foes.
His relations could not but admire his pluck, but they sometimes
were forced to regret that he was inclined to be a bully; and those
not so partial to him as his father was, observed with pain that,
though he could fawn to the masters and the archdeacon’s
friends, he was imperious and masterful to the servants and the
poor.
But perhaps Samuel was the general favourite; and dear little
Soapy, as he was familiarly called, was as engaging a child as ever
fond mother petted. He was soft and gentle in his manners, and
attractive in his speech; the tone of his voice was melody, and
every action was a grace; unlike his brothers, he was courteous to
all, he was affable to the lowly, and meek even to the very
scullery-maid. He was a boy of great promise, minding his books and
delighting the hearts of his masters. His brothers, however, were
not particularly fond of him; they would complain to their mother
that Soapy’s civility all meant something; they thought that
his voice was too often listened to at Plumstead Episcopi, and
evidently feared that, as he grew up, he would have more weight in
the house than either of them; there was, therefore, a sort of
agreement among them to put young Soapy down. This, however, was
not so easy to be done; Samuel, though young, was sharp; he could
not assume the stiff decorum of Charles James, nor could he fight
like Henry; but he was a perfect master of his own weapons, and
contrived, in the teeth of both of them, to hold the place which he
had assumed. Henry declared that he was a false, cunning creature;
and Charles James, though he always spoke of him as his dear
brother Samuel, was not slow to say a word against him when
opportunity offered. To speak the truth, Samuel was a cunning boy,
and those even who loved him best could not but own that for one so
young he was too adroit in choosing his words, and too skilled in
modulating his voice.
The two little girls Florinda and Grizzel were nice little girls
enough, but they did not possess the strong sterling qualities of
their brothers; their voices were not often heard at Plumstead
Episcopi; they were bashful and timid by nature, slow to speak
before company even when asked to do so; and though they looked
very nice in their clean white muslin frocks and pink sashes, they
were but little noticed by the archdeacon’s visitors.
Whatever of submissive humility may have appeared in the gait
and visage of the archdeacon during his colloquy with his wife in
the sanctum of their dressing-rooms was dispelled as he entered his
breakfast-parlour with erect head and powerful step. In the
presence of a third person he assumed the lord and master; and that
wise and talented lady too well knew the man to whom her lot for
life was bound, to stretch her authority beyond the point at which
it would be borne. Strangers at Plumstead Episcopi, when they saw
the imperious brow with which he commanded silence from the large
circle of visitors, children, and servants who came together in the
morning to hear him read the word of God, and watched how meekly
that wife seated herself behind her basket of keys with a little
girl on each side, as she caught that commanding glance; strangers,
I say, seeing this, could little guess that some fifteen minutes
since she had stoutly held her ground against him, hardly allowing
him to open his mouth in his own defence. But such is the tact and
talent of women!
And now let us observe the well-furnished breakfast-parlour at
Plumstead Episcopi, and the comfortable air of all the belongings
of the rectory. Comfortable they certainly were, but neither
gorgeous nor even grand; indeed, considering the money that had
been spent there, the eye and taste might have been better served;
there was an air of heaviness about the rooms which might have been
avoided without any sacrifice of propriety; colours might have been
better chosen and lights more perfectly diffused; but perhaps in
doing so the thorough clerical aspect of the whole might have been
somewhat marred; at any rate, it was not without ample
consideration that those thick, dark, costly carpets were put down;
those embossed, but sombre papers hung up; those heavy curtains
draped so as to half exclude the light of the sun: nor were these
old-fashioned chairs, bought at a price far exceeding that now
given for more modern goods, without a purpose. The
breakfast-service on the table was equally costly and equally
plain; the apparent object had been to spend money without
obtaining brilliancy or splendour. The urn was of thick and solid
silver, as were also the tea-pot, coffee-pot, cream-ewer, and
sugar-bowl; the cups were old, dim dragon china, worth about a
pound a piece, but very despicable in the eyes of the uninitiated.
The silver forks were so heavy as to be disagreeable to the hand,
and the bread-basket was of a weight really formidable to any but
robust persons. The tea consumed was the very best, the coffee the
very blackest, the cream the very thickest; there was dry toast and
buttered toast, muffins and crumpets; hot bread and cold bread,
white bread and brown bread, home-made bread and bakers’
bread, wheaten bread and oaten bread; and if there be other breads
than these, they were there; there were eggs in napkins, and crispy
bits of bacon under silver covers; and there were little fishes in
a little box, and devilled kidneys frizzling on a hot-water dish;
which, by the bye, were placed closely contiguous to the plate of
the worthy archdeacon himself. Over and above this, on a snow-white
napkin, spread upon the sideboard, was a huge ham and a huge
sirloin; the latter having laden the dinner table on the previous
evening. Such was the ordinary fare at Plumstead Episcopi.
And yet I have never found the rectory a pleasant house. The
fact that man shall not live by bread alone seemed to be somewhat
forgotten; and noble as was the appearance of the host, and sweet
and good-natured as was the face of the hostess, talented as were
the children, and excellent as were the viands and the wines, in
spite of these attractions, I generally found the rectory somewhat
dull. After breakfast the archdeacon would retire, of course to his
clerical pursuits. Mrs Grantly, I presume, inspected her kitchen,
though she had a first-rate housekeeper, with sixty pounds a year;
and attended to the lessons of Florinda and Grizzel, though she had
an excellent governess with thirty pounds a year: but at any rate
she disappeared: and I never could make companions of the boys.
Charles James, though he always looked as though there was
something in him, never seemed to have much to say; and what he did
say he would always unsay the next minute. He told me once that he
considered cricket, on the whole, to be a gentlemanlike game for
boys, provided they would play without running about; and that
fives, also, was a seemly game, so that those who played it never
heated themselves. Henry once quarrelled with me for taking his
sister Grizzel’s part in a contest between them as to the
best mode of using a watering-pot for the garden flowers; and from
that day to this he has not spoken to me, though he speaks at me
often enough. For half an hour or so I certainly did like
Sammy’s gentle speeches; but one gets tired of honey, and I
found that he preferred the more admiring listeners whom he met in
the kitchen-garden and back precincts of the establishment;
besides, I think I once caught Sammy fibbing.
On the whole, therefore, I found the rectory a dull house,
though it must be admitted that everything there was of the very
best.
After breakfast, on the morning of which we are writing, the
archdeacon, as usual, retired to his study, intimating that he was
going to be very busy, but that he would see Mr Chadwick if he
called. On entering this sacred room he carefully opened the paper
case on which he was wont to compose his favourite sermons, and
spread on it a fair sheet of paper and one partly written on; he
then placed his inkstand, looked at his pen, and folded his
blotting paper; having done so, he got up again from his seat,
stood with his back to the fire-place, and yawned comfortably,
stretching out vastly his huge arms and opening his burly chest. He
then walked across the room and locked the door; and having so
prepared himself, he threw himself into his easy-chair, took from a
secret drawer beneath his table a volume of Rabelais, and began to
amuse himself with the witty mischief of Panurge; and so passed the
archdeacon’s morning on that day.
He was left undisturbed at his studies for an hour or two, when
a knock came to the door, and Mr Chadwick was announced. Rabelais
retired into the secret drawer, the easy-chair seemed knowingly to
betake itself off, and when the archdeacon quickly undid his bolt,
he was discovered by the steward working, as usual, for that church
of which he was so useful a pillar. Mr Chadwick had just come from
London, and was, therefore, known to be the bearer of important
news.
‘We’ve got Sir Abraham’s opinion at
last,’ said Mr Chadwick, as he seated himself.
‘Well, well, well!’ exclaimed the archdeacon
impatiently.
‘Oh, it’s as long as my arm,’ said the other;
‘it can’t be told in a word, but you can read
it’; and he handed him a copy, in heaven knows how many
spun-out folios, of the opinion which the attorney-general had
managed to cram on the back and sides of the case as originally
submitted to him.
‘The upshot is,’ said Chadwick, ‘that
there’s a screw loose in their case, and we had better do
nothing. They are proceeding against Mr Harding and myself, and Sir
Abraham holds that, under the wording of the will, and subsequent
arrangements legally sanctioned, Mr Harding and I are only paid
servants. The defendants should have been either the Corporation of
Barchester, or possibly the chapter of your father.’
‘W-hoo!’ said the archdeacon; ‘so Master Bold
is on the wrong scent, is he?’
‘That’s Sir Abraham’s opinion; but any scent
almost would be a wrong scent. Sir Abraham thinks that if
they’d taken the corporation, or the chapter, we could have
baffled them. The bishop, he thinks, would be the surest shot; but
even there we could plead that the bishop is only a visitor, and
that he has never made himself a consenting party to the
performance of other duties.’
‘That’s quite clear,’ said the archdeacon.
‘Not quite so clear,’ said the other. ‘You see
the will says, “My lord, the bishop, being graciously pleased
to see that due justice be done.” Now, it may be a question
whether, in accepting and administering the patronage, your father
has not accepted also the other duties assigned. It is doubtful,
however; but even if they hit that nail—and they are far off
from that yet—the point is so nice, as Sir Abraham says, that
you would force them into fifteen thousand pounds’ cost
before they could bring it to an issue! and where’s that sum
of money to come from?’
The archdeacon rubbed his hands with delight; he had never
doubted the justice of his case, but he had begun to have some
dread of unjust success on the part of his enemies. It was
delightful to him thus to hear that their cause was surrounded with
such rocks and shoals; such causes of shipwreck unseen by the
landsman’s eye, but visible enough to the keen eyes of
practical law mariners. How wrong his wife was to wish that Bold
should marry Eleanor! Bold! why, if he should be ass enough to
persevere, he would be a beggar before he knew whom he was at law
with!
‘That’s excellent, Chadwick—that’s
excellent! I told you Sir Abraham was the man for us’; and he
put down on the table the copy of the opinion, and patted it
fondly.
‘Don’t you let that be seen, though,
archdeacon.’
‘Who?-I!-not for worlds,’ said the doctor.
‘People will talk, you know, archdeacon.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said the doctor.
‘Because, if that gets abroad, it would teach them how to
fight their own battle.’
‘Quite true,’ said the doctor.
‘No one here in Barchester ought to see that but you and
I, archdeacon.’
‘No, no, certainly no one else,’ said the
archdeacon, pleased with the closeness of the confidence; ‘no
one else shall.’
‘Mrs Grantly is very interested in the matter, I
know,’ said Mr Chadwick.
Did the archdeacon wink, or did he not? I am inclined to think
he did not quite wink; but that without such, perhaps, unseemly
gesture he communicated to Mr Chadwick, with the corner of his eye,
intimation that, deep as was Mrs Grantly’s interest in the
matter, it should not procure for her a perusal of that document;
and at the same time he partly opened the small drawer, above
spoken of, deposited the paper on the volume of Rabelais, and
showed to Mr Chadwick the nature of the key which guarded these
hidden treasures. The careful steward then expressed himself
contented. Ah! vain man! he could fasten up his Rabelais, and other
things secret, with all the skill of Bramah or of Chubb; but where
could he fasten up the key which solved these mechanical mysteries?
It is probable to us that the contents of no drawer in that house
were unknown to its mistress, and we think, moreover, that she was
entitled to all such knowledge.
‘But,’ said Mr Chadwick, ‘we must, of course,
tell your father and Mr Harding so much of Sir Abraham’s
opinion as will satisfy them that the matter is doing
well.’
‘Oh, certainly—yes, of course,’ said the
doctor.
‘You had better let them know that Sir Abraham is of
opinion that there is no case at any rate against Mr Harding; and
that as the action is worded at present, it must fall to the
ground; they must be nonsuited, if they carry it on; you had better
tell Mr Harding, that Sir Abraham is clearly of opinion that he is
only a servant, and as such not liable—or if you like it,
I’ll see Mr Harding myself.’
‘Oh, I must see him tomorrow, and my father too, and
I’ll explain to them exactly so much—you won’t go
before lunch, Mr Chadwick: well, if you will, you must, for I know
your time is precious’; and he shook hands with the diocesan
steward, and bowed him out.
The archdeacon had again recourse to his drawer, and twice read
through the essence of Sir Abraham Haphazard’s law-
enlightened and law-bewildered brains. It was very clear that to
Sir Abraham, the justice of the old men’s claim or the
justice of Mr Harding’s defence were ideas that had never
presented themselves. A legal victory over an opposing party was
the service for which Sir Abraham was, as he imagined, to be paid;
and that he, according to his lights, had diligently laboured to
achieve, and with probable hope of success. Of the intense desire
which Mr Harding felt to be assured on fit authority that he was
wronging no man, that he was entitled in true equity to his income,
that he might sleep at night without pangs of conscience, that he
was no robber, no spoiler of the poor; that he and all the world
might be openly convinced that he was not the man which The Jupiter
had described him to be; of such longings on the part of Mr
Harding, Sir Abraham was entirely ignorant; nor, indeed, could it
be looked on as part of his business to gratify such desires. Such
was not the system on which his battles were fought, and victories
gained. Success was his object, and he was generally successful. He
conquered his enemies by their weakness rather than by his own
strength, and it had been found almost impossible to make up a case
in which Sir Abraham, as an antagonist, would not find a flaw.
The archdeacon was delighted with the closeness of the
reasoning. To do him justice, it was not a selfish triumph that he
desired; he would personally lose nothing by defeat, or at least
what he might lose did not actuate him; but neither was it love of
justice which made him so anxious, nor even mainly solicitude for
his father-in-law. He was fighting a part of a never-ending battle
against a never-conquered foe—that of the church against its
enemies.
He knew Mr Harding could not pay all the expense of these
doings: for these long opinions of Sir Abraham’s, these
causes to be pleaded, these speeches to be made, these various
courts through which the case was, he presumed, to be dragged. He
knew that he and his father must at least bear the heavier portion
of this tremendous cost; but to do the archdeacon justice, he did
not recoil from this. He was a man fond of obtaining money, greedy
of a large income, but open-handed enough in expending it, and it
was a triumph to him to foresee the success of this measure,
although he might be called on to pay so dearly for it himself.