Barchester Towers

A >> Anthony Trollope >> Barchester Towers

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43

Mr Arabin was waiting at the deanery parlour when Mr Harding and Dr
Grantly were driven up from the station.

There was some excitement in the bosoms of them all, as they met
and shook hands; but far too much to enable either of them to begin
his story and tell it in a proper equable style of narrative. Mr
Harding was some minutes quite dumbfounded, and Mr Arabin could
only talk in short, spasmodic sentences about his love and good
fortune. He slipped in, as best he could, some sort of
congratulation about the deanship, and then went on with his hopes
and fears--hopes that he might be received as a son, and fears that
he hardly deserved such good fortune. Then he went back to the
dean; it was the most thoroughly satisfactory appointment, he said,
of which he had ever heard.

'But! But! But--' said Mr Harding; and then failing to get any
further, he looked imploringly at the archdeacon.

'The truth is, Arabin,' said the doctor, 'that, after all you are
not destined to be the son-in-law to a dean. Nor am I either: more's
the pity.'

Mr Arabin looked to him for explanation. 'Is not Mr Harding to be
the new dean?'

'It appears not,' said the archdeacon. Mr Arabin's face fell a
little, and he looked from one to the other. It was plainly to be
seen from them both that there was no cause for unhappiness in the
matter, at least not of an unhappiness to them; but there was as
yet no clarification of the mystery.

'Think how old I am,' said Mr Harding imploringly.

'Fiddlestick!' said the archdeacon.

'That's all very well, but it won't make a young man of me,' said
Mr Harding.

'And who is to be the dean?' asked Mr Arabin.

'Yes, that is the question,' said the archdeacon. 'Come, Mr
Precentor, since you obstinately refuse to be anything else, let us
know who is to be the man. He has got the nomination in his
pocket.'

With eyes brim full of tears, Mr Harding pulled out the letter and
handed it to his future son-in-law. He tried to make a little
speech, but failed altogether. Having given up the document, he
turned round to the wall, feigning to blow his nose, and then sat
himself down on the old dean's dingy horse-hair sofa. And here we
find it necessary to bring our account of the interview to an end.

Nor can we pretend to describe the rapture with which Mr Harding
was received by his daughter. She wept with grief and with joy;
with grief that her father should, in his old age, still be without
that rank and worldly position, which, according to her ideas, he
had so well earned; and with joy that he, her darling father,
should have bestowed on that other dear one the good things of
which he himself would not open his hand to take possession. And
her, Mr Harding again showed his weakness. In the melee of the
exposal of their loves and reciprocal affection, he found himself
unable to resist the entreaties of all parties that his lodgings in
the High Street should be given up. Eleanor would not live in the
deanery, she said, unless her father lived there also. Mr Arabin
would not be dean, unless Mr Harding would be co-dean with him. The
archdeacon declared that his father-in-law should not have his own
way in everything, and Mrs Grantly carried him off to Plumstead,
that he might remain there till Mr and Mrs Arabin were in a state
to receive him at their own mansion.

Pressed by such arguments as these, what could a weak man do but
yield?

But there was yet another task which it behoved Mr Harding to do
before he could allow himself to be at rest. Little has been said
in these pages of the state of those remaining old men who had
lived under his sway at the hospital. But not on this account must
it be presumed that he had forgotten them, or that in their state
of anarchy and in their want of government he had omitted to visit
them. He visited them constantly, and had latterly given them to
understand that they would soon be required to subscribe their
adherence to a new master. There were now but five of them, one of
them not having been but quite lately carried to his rest--but five
of the full number, which had hitherto been twelve, and which was
now to be raised to twenty-four, including women. Of these old
Bunce, who for many years, had been the favourite of the late
warden, was one; and Abel Handy, who had been the humble means from
driving that warden from his home, was another.

Mr Harding now resolved that he himself would introduce the new
warden to the hospital. He felt that many circumstances might
conspire to make the men receive Mr Quiverful with aversion and
disrespect; he felt also that Mr Quiverful might himself feel some
qualms of conscience if he entered the hospital with an idea that
he did so in hostility to his predecessor. Mr Harding therefore
determined to walk in, arm in arm, with Mr Quiverful, and to ask
from these men their respectful obedience to their new master.

On returning to Barchester, he found that Mr Quiverful had not yet
slept in the hospital house, or entered on his new duties. He
accordingly made known to that gentleman his wishes, and his
proposition was not rejected.

It was a bright clear morning, though in November, that Mr Harding
and Mr Quiverful, arm in arm, walked through the hospital gate. It
was one trait in our old friend's character that he did nothing
with parade. He omitted, even in the more important doings of his
life, that sort of parade by which most of us deem it necessary to
grace our important doings. We have housewarmings, christenings,
and gala days; we keep, if not our own birthdays, those of our
children; we are apt to fuss ourselves, if called upon to change
our residences, and have, almost all of us, our little state
occasions. Mr Harding, had no state occasions. When he left his old
house, he went forth from it with the same quiet composure as
though he were merely taking his daily walk; and now that he
re-entered it with another warden under his wing, he did so with
the same quiet step and calm demeanour. He was a little less
upright than he had been five years, nay, it was nearly six years
ago; he walked perhaps a little slower; his footfall was perhaps a
thought less firm; otherwise one might have same that he was merely
returning with a friend under his arm.

This friendliness was everything to Mr Quiverful. To him, even in
his poverty, the thought that he was supplanting a brother
clergyman so kind and courteous as Mr Harding, had been very
bitter. Under his circumstances it had been impossible for him to
refuse the proffered boon; he could not reject the bread that was
offered to his children, or refuse to ease the heavy burden that
had so long oppressed that poor wife of his; nevertheless, it had
been very grievous to him to think that in going to the hospital he
might encounter the ill will of his brethren in the diocese. All
this Mr Harding had fully comprehended. It was for such feelings as
these, for the nice comprehension of such motives, that his heart
and intellect were peculiarly fitted. In most matters of worldly
import the archdeacon set down his father-in-law as little better
than a fool. And perhaps he was right. But in some other matters,
equally important if they be rightly judged, Mr Harding, had he
been so minded, might with as much propriety have set down his
son-in-law for a fool. Few men, however, are constituted as was Mr
Harding. He had that nice appreciation of the feelings of others
which belongs of right exclusively to women.

Arm in arm they walked into the inner quadrangle of the building,
and there the five old men met them. Mr Harding shook hands with
them all, and then Mr Quiverful did the same. With Bunce Mr Harding
shook hands twice, and Mr Quiverful was about to repeat the
ceremony but the old man gave him no encouragement.

'I am very glad to know that at last you have a new warden,' said
Mr Harding in a very cheery voice.

'We be very old for any change,' said one of them; 'but we do
suppose it be all for the best.'

'Certainly--certainly, it is for the best,' said Mr Harding. 'You
will again have a clergyman of your own church under the same roof
with you, and a very excellent clergyman you will have. It is a
great satisfaction to me to know that so good a man is coming to
take care of you, and that it is no stranger, but a friend of my
own, who will allow me from time to time to come in and see you.'

'We be thankful to your reverence,' said another of them.

'I need not tell you, my good friends,' said Mr Quiverful, 'how
extremely grateful I am to Mr Harding for his kindness to me,--I
must say his uncalled for, his unexpected kindness.'

'He be always very kind,' said a third.

'What I can do to fill the void which he left here, I will do. For
your sake and my own I will do so, and especially for his sake. But
to you who have known him, I can never be the same well-loved
friend and father that he has been.'

'No, no, sir,' said old Bunce, who hitherto had held his peace; 'no
one can be that. Not if the new bishop sent a hangel to us from
heaven. We doesn't doubt you'll do your best, sir, but you'll not
be like the old master; not to us old ones.'

'Fie, Bunce, fie! how dare you talk in that way!' said Mr Harding;
but as he scolded the old man he still held him by his arm, and
pressed it with warm affection.

There was no getting any enthusiasm in the matter. How could five
old men tottering away to their final resting-place be enthusiastic
on the reception of a stranger? What could Mr Quiverful be to them,
or they to Mr Quiverful? Had Mr Harding indeed come back to them,
some last flicker of joyous light might have shone forth on their
aged cheeks; but it was in vain to bid them rejoice because Mr
Quiverful was about to move his fourteen children from Puddingdale
into the hospital house. In reality they did no doubt receive
advantage, spiritual as well as corporal; but this they could
neither anticipate nor acknowledge.

It was a dull affair enough, this introduction of Mr Quiverful; but
still it had its effect. The good which Mr Harding intended did not
fall to the ground. All the Barchester world, including the five
old bedesmen, treated Mr Quiverful with the more respect, because
Mr Harding had thus walked in arm in arm with him, on his first
entrance to his duties.

And here in their new abode we will leave Mr and Mrs Quiverful and
their fourteen children. May they enjoy the good things which
Providence has at length given to them!

CHAPTER LIII

CONCLUSION

The end of a novel, like the end of a children's dinner-party, must
be made up of sweetmeats and sugar-plums. There is now nothing else
to be told but the gala doings of Mr Arabin's marriage, nothing
more to be described than the wedding dresses, no further dialogue
to be recorded than that which took place between the archdeacon
who married them, and Mr Arabin and Eleanor who were married. 'Wilt
thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?' and 'Wilt thou have this
man to thy wedded husband, to live together according to God's
ordinance?' Mr Arabin and Eleanor each answered, 'I will'. We have
no doubt that they will keep their promises; the more especially as
the Signora Neroni had left Barchester before the ceremony was
performed.

Mrs Bold had been somewhat more than two years a widow before she
was married to her second husband, and little Johnnie was then able
with due assistance to walk on his own legs into the drawing-room
to receive the salutations of the assembled guests. Mr Harding gave
away the bride, the archdeacon performed the service, and the two
Miss Grantlys, who were joined in their labours by other young
ladies of the neighbourhood, performed the duties of bridesmaids
with equal diligence and grace. Mrs Grantly superintended the
breakfast and bouquets and Mary Bold distributed the cards and
cake. The archdeacon's three sons had also come home for the
occasion. The eldest was great with learning, being regarded by all
who knew him as a certain future double first. The second, however,
bore the palm on this occasion, being resplendent in his new
uniform. The third was just entering the university, and was
probably the proudest of the three.

But the most remarkable feature in the whole occasion was the
excessive liberality of the archdeacon. He literally made presents
to everybody. As Mr Arabin had already moved out of the parsonage
of St Ewold's, that scheme of elongating the dining-room was of
course abandoned; but he would have refurnished the whole deanery
had he been allowed. He sent down a magnificent piano by Erard,
gave Mr Arabin a cob which any dean in the land might have been
proud to bestride, and made a special present to Eleanor of a new
pony chair that had gained a prize in the Exhibition. Nor did he
even stay his hand here; he bought a set of cameos for his wife,
and a sapphire bracelet for Miss Bold; showered pearls and
workboxes on is daughters, and to each of his sons he presented a
cheque for 20 pounds. On Mr Harding he bestowed a magnificent
violoncello with all the new-fashioned arrangements and expensive
additions, which, on account of these novelties, that gentleman
could never use with satisfaction to his audience or pleasure to
himself.

Those who knew the archdeacon well, perfectly understood the cause
of his extravagance. 'Twas thus that he sang his song of triumph
over Mr Slope. This was his paean, his hymn of thanksgiving, his
loud oration. He had girded himself with his sword, and gone forth
to the war; now he was returning from the field laden with the
spoils of the foe. The cob, the cameos, the violoncello and the
pianoforte, were all as it were trophies reft from the tent of his
now conquered enemy.

The Arabins after their marriage went abroad for a couple of
months, according the custom in such matters now duly established,
and then commenced their deanery life under good auspices. And
nothing can be more pleasant than the present arrangement of
ecclesiastical affairs in Barchester. The titular bishop never
interfered, and Mrs Proudie not often. Her sphere is more extended,
more noble, and more suited to her ambition than that of a
cathedral city. As long as she can do what she pleases with the
diocese, she is willing to leave the dean and chapter to
themselves. Mr Slope tried his hand at subverting the
old-established customs of the close, and from his failure she has
learnt experience. The burly chancellor and the meagre little
prebendary are not teased by any application respecting Sabbath-day
schools, the dean is left to his own dominions, and the intercourse
between Mrs Proudie and Mrs Arabin is confined to a yearly dinner
by each to the other. At these dinners Dr Grantly will not take a
part; but he never fails to ask for and receive a full account of
all that Mrs Proudie does or says.

His ecclesiastical authority has been greatly shorn since the palmy
days in which he reigned supreme as mayor of the palace to his
father, but nevertheless such authority as is now left to him he
can enjoy without interference. He can walk down High Street of
Barchester without feeling that those who see him are comparing his
claims with those of Mr Slope. The intercourse between Plumstead
and the deanery is of the most constant and familiar description.
Since Eleanor has been married to a clergyman, and especially to a
dignitary of the church, Mrs Grantly has found many more points of
sympathy with her sister; and on a coming occasion, which is much
looked forward to by all parties, she intends to spend a month or
two at the deanery. She never thought of spending a month in
Barchester when little Johnny Bold was born!

The two sisters do not quite agree on matters of church doctrine,
though their differences are of the most amicable description. Mr
Arabin's church is two degrees higher than that of Mrs Grantly.
This may seem strange to those who will remember that Eleanor was
once accused of partiality to Mr Slope; but it is no less the fact.
She likes her husband's silken vest, she likes his adherence to the
rubric, she specially likes the eloquent philosophy of his sermons,
and she likes the red letters in her own prayer-book. It must not
be presumed that she has a taste for candles, or that she is at all
astray about the real presence; but she has an inkling that way.
She sent a handsome subscription towards certain very heavy legal
expenses which have lately been incurred in Bath, her name of
course not appearing; she assumes a smile of gentle ridicule when
the Archbishop of Canterbury is named, and she has put up a
memorial window in the cathedral.

Mrs Grantly, who belongs to the high and dry church, the high
church as it was some fifty years since, before tracts were written
and young clergymen took upon themselves the highly meritorious
duty of cleaning churches, rather laughs at her sister. She shrugs
her shoulders, and tells Miss Thorne that she supposes Eleanor will
have an oratory in the deanery before she has done. But she is not
on that account a whit displeased. A few high church vagaries do
not, she thinks, sit amiss on the shoulders of a young dean's wife.
It shows at any rate that her heart is in the subject; and it shows
moreover that she is removed, wide as the poles asunder, from the
cesspool of abomination in which it was once suspected that she
would wallow and grovel. Anathema maranatha! Let anything be held
as blessed, so that that be well cursed. Welcome kneelings and
bowings, welcome matins and complines, welcome bell, book, and
candle, so that Mr Slope's dirty surplices and ceremonial Sabbaths
be held in due execration!

If it be essentially and absolutely necessary to choose between the
two, we are inclined to agree with Mrs Grantly that the bell, book,
and candle are the lesser evil of the two. Let it however be
understood that no such necessity is admitted in these pages.

Dr Arabin (we suppose he must have become a doctor when he became a
dean) is more moderate and less outspoken on doctrinal points than
his wife, as indeed in his station it behoves him to be. He is a
studious, thoughtful, hard-working man. He lives constantly at the
deanery and preaches nearly every Sunday. His time is spent in
sifting and editing old ecclesiastical literature and in producing
the same articles new. At Oxford he is generally regarded as the
most promising clerical ornament of the age. He and his wife live
together in perfect mutual confidence. There is but one secret in
her bosom which he has not shared. He has never yet learned how Mr
Slope had his ears boxed.

The Stanhopes soon found that Mr Slope's power need no longer
operate to keep them from the delight of their Italian villa.
Before Eleanor's marriage they had all migrated back to the shores
of Como. They had not been resettled long before the signora
received from Mrs Arabin a very pretty though very short epistle,
in which she was informed of the fate of the writer. This letter
was answered by another, bright, charming, and witty, as the
signora's always were; and so ended the friendship between Eleanor
and the Stanhopes.

One word of Mr Harding, and we have done.

He is still Precentor of Barchester, and still pastor of the little
church of St Cuthbert's. In spite of what he has so often said
himself, he is not even yet an old man. He does such duties as fall
to his lot well and conscientiously, and is thankful that he has
never been tempted to assume others for which he might be less
fitted.

The Author now leaves him in the hands of his readers; not as a
hero, not as a man to be admired and talked of, not as a man who
should be toasted at public dinners and spoken of with conventional
absurdity as a perfect divine, but as a good man without guile,
believing humbly in the religion which he strives to teach, and
guided by the precepts which he has striven to learn

THE END