 Chapter 16 of The Warden. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Warden by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 16. A Long Day in London. The Warden had to make use of all his very moderate powers of intrigue to give his son-in-law the slip and get out of Barchester without being stopped on his road. No schoolboy ever ran away from school with more precaution and more dread of detection. No convict slipping down from a prison wall ever feared to see the jailer more entirely than Mr. Harding did to see his son-in-law as he drove up in the pony carriage to the railway station on the morning of his escape to London. The evening before he went he wrote a note to the Archdeacon explaining that he should start on the morrow on his journey, that it was his intention to see the Attorney-General if possible and to decide on his future plans in accordance with what he heard from that gentleman. He excused himself for giving Dr. Grantley no earlier notice by stating that his resolve was very sudden and having entrusted this note to Eleanor with the perfect, though not expressed, understanding that it was to be sent over to Plumstead Episcopie without haste, he took his departure. He also prepared and carried with him a note for Sir Abraham haphazard in which he stated his name, explaining that he was the defendant in the case of the Queen on behalf of the wool carters of Barchester versus trustees under the will of the late John Hiram for so was the suit denominated and begged the illustrious and learned gentleman to vouch safe to him ten minutes audience at any hour on the next day. Mr. Harding calculated that for that one day he was safe. His son-in-law, he had no doubt, would arrive in town by an early train, but not early enough to reach the truant till he should have escaped from his hotel after breakfast and could he thus manage to see the lawyer on that very day, the deed might be done before the Archdeacon could interfere. On his arrival in town the warden drove, as was his want, to the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House near St. Paul's. His visits to London of late had not been frequent, but in those happy days when Harding's church music was going through the press he had been often there, and as the publisher's house was in pattern-oster roll and the printer's press in Fleet Street the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House had been convenient. It was a quiet, somber, clerical house, beseeming such a man as the warden, and thus he afterwards frequented it. Had he dared he would on this occasion have gone elsewhere to throw the Archdeacon further off the scent, but he did not know what violent steps his son-in-law might take for his recovery if he were not found at his usual haunt, and he deemed it not prudent to make himself the object of a hunt through London. Arrived at his inn he ordered dinner and went forth to the Attorney General's chambers. There he learned that Sir Abraham was in court and would not probably return that day. He would go direct from court to the house. All appointments were, as a rule, made at the chambers. The clerk could by no means promise an interview for the next day. Was able, on the other hand, to say that such interview was, he thought, impossible, but that Sir Abraham would certainly be at the house in the course of the night where an answer from himself might possibly be elicited. To the house Mr. Harding went and left his note not finding Sir Abraham there. He added a most piteous entreaty that he might be favored with an answer that evening, for which he would return. He then journeyed back, sadly, to the Chapter Coffee House, digesting his great thoughts as best he might in a clattering omnibus, wedged in between a wet old lady and a journeyman-glazer returning from his work with his tools in his lap. In melancholy solitude he discussed his mutton chop and pint of port. What is there in this world more melancholy than such a dinner? A dinner, though eaten alone, in a country hotel may be worthy of some energy. The waiter, if you are known, will make much of you. The landlord will make you a bow and perhaps put the fish on the table. If you ring you are attended to and there is some life about it. A dinner at a London eating house is also lively enough if it have no other attraction. There's plenty of noise and stir about it and the rapid whirl of voices and rattle of dishes disperses sadness. But a solitary dinner in an old respectable somber, solid London inn, where nothing makes any noise but the old waiter's creaking shoes, where one plate slowly goes and another slowly comes without a sound. Where the two or three guests would as soon think of knocking each other down is of speaking. Where the servants whisper and the whole household is disturbed if an order be given above the voice. What can be more melancholy than a mutton chop and a pint of port in such a place? Having gone through this Mr. Harding got into another omnibus and again returned to the house. Yes, Sir Abraham was there and was that moment on his legs fighting eagerly for the hundred and seventh clause of the convent custody bill. Mr. Harding's note had been delivered to him and if Mr. Harding would wait some two or three hours Sir Abraham could be asked whether there was any answer. The house was not full and perhaps Mr. Harding might get admittance into the stranger's gallery which admission with the help of five shillings Mr. Harding was able to effect. This bill of Sir Abraham's had been read a second time and passed into committee. A hundred and six clauses had already been discussed and had occupied only four mornings and five evening sittings. Nine of the hundred and six clauses were passed. Fifty-five were withdrawn by consent. Fourteen had been altered so as to mean the reverse of the original proposition. Eleven had been postponed for further consideration and seventeen had been directly negative. The hundred and seventh ordered the bodily searching of nuns for Jesuitical symbols by aged clergymen and was considered to be the real mainstay of the whole bill. No intention had ever existed to pass such a law as that proposed but the government did not intend to abandon it till their object was fully attained by the discussion of this clause. It was known that it would be insisted on with terrible vehemence by Protestant Irish members and is vehemently denounced by the Roman Catholic and it was justly considered that no further union between the parties would be possible after such a battle. The innocent Irish fell into the trap as they always do and whiskey and poplins became a drug in the market. A florid-faced gentleman with a nice head of hair from the south of Ireland had succeeded in catching the speaker's eye by the time that Mr. Harding had got into the gallery and was denouncing the proposed sacrilege, his whole face glowing with a fine theatrical frenzy. And this is a Christian country, said he, loud cheers, counter-sheers from the ministerial benches. Some doubt as to that from a voice below the gangway. No, it can be no Christian country in which the head of the bar, the legal advisor, loud laughter and cheers. Yes, I say the legal advisor of the crown, great cheers and laughter, can stand up in his seat in this house, prolonged cheers and laughter, and attempt to legalize indecent assaults on the bodies of religious ladies, deafening cheers and laughter which were prolonged till the honorable member resumed his seat. When Mr. Harding had listened to this on much more of the same kind for about three hours, he returned to the door of the house and received back from the messenger his own note, with the following words scrolled in pencil on the back of it. Tomorrow, 10 p.m., my chambers, A-H. He was so far successful, but 10 p.m., what an hour Sir Abraham had named for a legal interview. Mr. Harding felt perfectly sure that long before that, Dr. Grantley would be in London. Dr. Grantley could not, however, know that his interview had been arranged, nor could he learn it unless he managed to get hold of Sir Abraham before that hour. And as this was very improbable, Mr. Harding determined to start from his hotel early, merely leaving word that he should dine out, and unless luck were much against him, he might still escape the Archdeacon until his return from the Attorney General's chambers. He was at breakfast at 9, and for the 20th time consulted his Bradshaw to see at what earliest hour Dr. Grantley could arrive from Barchester. As he examined the columns, he was nearly petrified by the reflection that perhaps the Archdeacon might come up by the night-male train. His heart sank within him at the horrid idea, for a moment he felt himself dragged back to Barchester without accomplishing any portion of his object. Then he remembered that had Dr. Grantley done so, he would have been in the hotel, looking for him long since. Waiter, said he timidly, the waiter approached creaking in his shoes but voiceless. Did any gentleman, a clergyman, arrive here by the night-male train? No, sir, not one, whispered the waiter, putting his mouth nearly close to the warden's ear. Mr. Harding was reassured. Waiter, said he again, and the waiter again creaked up. If anyone calls for me, I'm going to dine out and shall return about eleven o'clock. The waiter nodded but did not this time vouchsafe any reply, and Mr. Harding, taken up his hat, waited out to pass a long day in the best way he could, somewhere out of sight of the Archdeacon. Brandshaw had told him twenty times that Dr. Grantley could not be at Paddington Station till two p.m., and our poor friend might therefore have trusted to the shelter of the hotel for some hours longer with perfect safety. But he was nervous. There was no knowing what steps the Archdeacon might take for his apprehension. A message by electric telegraph might desire the landlord to send the hotel to set a watch upon him. Some letter might come, which he might find himself unable to disobey. At any rate, he could not feel himself secure in any place at which the Archdeacon could expect to find him, and at ten a.m. he started forth to spend twelve hours in London. Mr. Harding had friends in town, and he chosen to seek them, but he felt that he was in no humor for ordinary calls, and he did not now wish to consult with anyone as to the great step which he had determined to take. As he had said to his daughter, no one knows where the shoe pinches but the wearer. There are some points on which no man can be contented to follow the advice of another, some subjects on which a man can consult his own conscience only. Our warden had made up his mind that it was good for him at any cost to get rid of this grievance. His daughter was the only person whose concurrence appeared necessary to him, and she did concur with him most heartily. Under such circumstances he would not, if he could help it, consult anyone further, till advice would be useless. Should the Archdeacon catch him, indeed there would be much advice and much consultation of a kind not to be avoided, but he hoped better things, and as he felt that he could not now converse on indifferent subjects, he resolved to see no one till after his interview with the Attorney General. He determined to take Sanctuary in Westminster Abbey, so he again went thither in an omnibus, and finding that the doors were not open for morning service, he paid his tuppence and went in as a sightseer. It occurred to him that he had no definite place of rest for the day, and that he should be absolutely worn out before his interview if he attempted to walk about from ten a.m. to ten p.m. so he sat himself down on a stone step and gazed up at the figure of William Pitt, who looks as though he had just entered the church for the first time in his life and was anything but pleased at finding himself there. He'd been sitting unmolested about twenty minutes when the Verger asked him whether he wouldn't like to walk around. Mr. Harding didn't want to walk anywhere and declined, merely observing that he was waiting for the morning service. The Verger, seeing that he was a clergyman, told him that the doors of the choir were now open for him to enter into a seat. This was a great point gained. The Archdeacon would certainly not come to morning service at Westminster Abbey, even though he were in London, and here the warden could rest quietly, and when the time came, duly say his prayers. He longed to get up from his seat and examine the music books of the choristers and the copy of the litany from which the service was chanted to see how far the little details at Westminster corresponded with those at Barchester and whether he thought his own voice would fill the church well from the Westminster Precenter's seat. There would, however, be impropriety in such meddling, and he sat perfectly still, looking up at the noble roof and guarding against the coming fatigues of the day. By degrees two or three people entered, the very same damp old woman who had nearly obliterated him in the omnibus or some other just like her, a couple of young ladies with their veils down and guilt-crosses conspicuous on their prayer books, an old man on crutches, a party who were seeing the abbey and thought they might as well hear the service for their tuppence as opportunity served, and a young woman with her prayer book done up in her handkerchief who rushed in late and in her hurried entry tumbled over one of the forms and made such a noise that everyone, even the officiating minor canon was startled and she herself was so frightened to echo of her own catastrophe that she was nearly thrown into fits by the panic. Mr. Harding was not much edified by the manner of the service. The minor canon in question hurried in, somewhat late, in a surplus knot in the neatest order and was followed by a dozen choristers who were also not as trim as they might have been. They all jostled into their places with a quick hurried step and the service was soon commenced. Soon commenced and soon over for there was no music and time was not unnecessarily lost in the chanting. On the whole, Mr. Harding was of opinion that things were managed better at Barchester, though even there he knew that there was room for improvement. It appears to us a question whether any clergyman can go through our church service with decorum, morning after morning, in an immense building surrounded by not more than a dozen listeners. The best actors cannot act well before empty benches and though there is of course a higher motive in one case than the other, still even the best of clergymen cannot but be influenced by their audience. And to expect that a duty should be well done under such circumstances would be to require from human nature more than human power. When the two ladies with the guilt crosses, the old man with his crutch and the still palpitating housemaid were going, Mr. Harding found himself obliged to go too. The verger stood in his way and looked at him and looked at the door, and so he went. But he returned again in a few minutes and re-entered with another tuppence. There was no other sanctuary so good for him. As he walked slowly down the nave and then up one aisle and then down the nave and up the other aisle, he tried to think gravely of the steps he was about to take. He was going to give up eight hundred a year voluntarily and doom himself to live for the rest of his life on about a hundred and fifty. He knew that he had hitherto failed to realize this fact as he ought to do. Could he maintain his own independence and support his daughter on a hundred and fifty pounds a year without being a burden on anyone? His son-in-law was rich but nothing could induce him to lean on his son-in-law after acting as he intended to do in direct opposition to his son-in-law's counsel. The bishop was rich but he was about to throw away the bishop's best gift and that in a manner to injure materially the patronage of the giver. He could neither expect nor accept anything further from the bishop. There would be not only no merit but positive disgrace in giving up his wardenship if he were not prepared to meet the world without it. Yes, he must from this time forward found all his human wishes for himself and his daughter to the poor extent of so limited an income. He knew he had not thought sufficiently of this, that he had been carried away by enthusiasm and hitherto not brought home to himself the full reality of his position. He thought most about his daughter naturally. It was true that she was engaged and he knew enough of his proposed son-in-law to be sure that his own altered circumstances would make no obstacle to such a marriage. Nay, he was sure that the very fact of his poverty would induce Bold more anxiously to press the matter but he disliked counting on Bold in this emergency brought on as it had been by his doing. He did not like saying to himself, Bold has turned me out of my house an income and therefore he must relieve me of my daughter. He preferred reckoning on Eleanor as the companion of his poverty and exile as the sharer of his small income. Some modest provision for his daughter had been long since made. His life was insured for 3,000 pounds and this sum was to go to Eleanor. The Archdeacon, for some years past, had paid the premium and had secured himself by the immediate possession of a small property which was to have gone to Mrs. Grantley after her father's death. This matter therefore had been taken out of the Warden's hands long since and indeed had all the business transaction of his family and his anxiety was therefore confined to his own life income. Yes, 150 per annum was very small but still it might suffice. But how was he to chant the litany at the Cathedral on Sunday mornings and get the service done at Crabtree Parva? True, Crabtree Church was not quite a mile and a half from the Cathedral but he could not be in two places at once. Crabtree was a small village and afternoon service might suffice but still this went against his conscience. It was not right that his parishioners should be robbed of any of their privileges on account of his poverty. He might, to be sure, make some arrangements for doing weekday service at the Cathedral but he had chanted the litany at Barchester so long and had a conscious feeling that he did it so well that he was unwilling to give up the duty. Thinking of such things, turning over in his own mind together small desires and grave duties but never hesitating for a moment as to the necessity of leaving the hospital, Mr. Harding walked up and down the Abbey or sat still meditating on the same stone step hour after hour. One verger went and none other came but they did not disturb him. Every now and then they crept up and looked at him and did so with a reverential stare and on the whole Mr. Harding found his retreat well chosen. About four o'clock his comfort was disturbed by an enemy in the shape of hunger. It was necessary that he should dine and it was clear that he could not dine in the Abbey. So he left his sanctuary not willingly and but took himself to the neighborhood of the Strand to look for food. His eyes had become so accustomed to the gloom of the church that they were dazed when he got out into the full light of day and he felt confused and ashamed of himself as though people were staring at him. He hurried along still in dread of the Archdeacon till he came to Charing Cross and then remembered that in one of its passages through the Strand he had seen the words Chops and Stinks on a placard in a shop window. He remembered the shop distinctly. It was next door to a trunk cellars and there was a cigar shop on the other side. He couldn't go to his hotel for dinner which to him hitherto was the only known mode of dining in London at his own expense and therefore he would get a steak at the shop in the Strand. Archdeacon Grantley would certainly not come to such a place for his dinner. He found the house easily just as he had observed it between the trunks and the cigars. He was rather daunted by the huge quantity of fish which he saw in the window. There were barrels of oysters, hecatoms of lobsters, a few tremendous looking crabs and a tub full of pickled salmon. Not however being aware of any connection between shellfish and iniquity he entered and modestly asked a slatteringly woman who was picking oysters out of a great watery reservoir whether he could have a mutton chop and a potato. The woman looked somewhat surprised but answered in the affirmative and a slip-shot girl ushered him into a long back room filled with boxes for the accommodation of parties in one of which he took a seat. In a more miserably forlorn place he could not have found himself. The room smelled of fish and sawdust and stale tobacco smoke with a slight taint of escaped gas. Everything was rough and dirty and disreputable. The cloth which they put before him was abominable. The knives and forks were bruised and cracked and filthy and everything was impregnated with fish. He had one comfort however. He was quite alone. There was no one there to look on his dismay nor was it probable that anyone would come to do so. It was a London supper house. About one o'clock at night the place would be lively enough but at the present time his seclusion was as deep as it had been in the abbey. In about half an hour not yet dressed for her evening labours brought him his chop and potatoes and Mr. Harding begged for a pint of sherry. He was impressed with an idea which was generally prevalent a few years since and is not yet wholly removed from the minds of men that to order a dinner at any kind of inn without also ordering a pint of wine for the benefit of the landlord was a kind of fraud. Not punishable indeed by law but not the less abominable on that account. Harding remembered his coming poverty and would willingly have saved his half-crown but he thought he had no alternative and he was soon put in possession of some horrid mixture procured from the neighboring public house. His chop and potatoes however were eatable and having got over as best he might the disgust created by the knives and forks he contrived to swallow his dinner. He was not much disturbed one young man with a pale face with two fish-like eyes wearing his hat ominously on one side did come in and stare at him and asked the girl audibly enough who that old cock was but the annoyance went no further and the warden was left seated on his wooden bench in peace endeavoring to distinguish the different scents arising from lobsters, oysters, and salmon. Unknowing as Mr. Harding was in the ways of London he felt that he had somehow selected a dining house and then he had better leave it. It was hardly five o'clock how was he to pass the time till ten? Five miserable hours. He was already tired and it was impossible that he should continue walking so long. He thought of getting into an omnibus and going out to Fulham for the sake of coming back in another. This however would be weary work and as he paid his bill to the woman in the shop he asked her if there were any place near where he could get a cup of coffee. Though she did keep a shellfish supper-house she was very civil and directed him to the cigar-devan on the other side of the street. Mr. Harding had not a much corrector notion of a cigar-devan than he had of a London dinner-house but he was desperately in want of rust and went as he was directed. He thought he must have made some mistake when he found himself in a cigar shop but the man behind the counter immediately that he was a stranger and understood what he wanted. One shilling, sir. Thank you, sir. Cigar, sir. Ticket for coffee, sir. You'll only have to call the waiter. Up those stairs, if you please, sir. Better take the cigar, sir. You can always give it to a friend, you know. Well, sir, thank you, sir, as you are so good all smoke at myself. And so Mr. Harding ascended to the de-van with his ticket for coffee but minus the cigar. The plea seemed much more suitable to his requirements than the room in which he had dined. There was, to be sure, a strong smell of tobacco to which he was not accustomed but after the shellfish the tobacco did not seem disagreeable. There were quantities of books and long rows of sofas. What on earth could be more luxurious than a sofa, a book, and a cup of coffee? An old waiter came up to him with a couple of magazines and an evening paper. Was ever anything so civil? Would he have a cup of coffee or would he prefer sherbet? Sherbet? Was he absolutely in an eastern de-van with the slight addition of all the London periodicals? He had, however, an idea that sherbet should be drunk sitting cross-legged and as he was not quite up to this he ordered the coffee. The coffee came and was unexceptionable. Why, this de-van was a paradise. The civil old waiter suggested to him a game of chess though a chess player he was not equal to this so he declined and putting up his weary legs on the sofa leisurely sipped his coffee and turned over the pages of his blackwood. He might have been so engaged for about an hour for the old waiter enticed him to a second cup of coffee when a musical clock began to play. Mr. Harding then closed his magazine keeping his place with his finger and lay, listening with closed eyes, to the clock. Soon the clock seemed to turn into a veal and cello with piano accompaniments and Mr. Harding began to fancy the old waiter was the bishop of Barchester. He was inexpressibly shocked that the bishop should have brought him his coffee with his own hands. Then Dr. Grantley came in with a basket full of lobsters when she would not be induced to leave downstairs in the kitchen and then the warden couldn't quite understand why so many people would smoke in the bishop's drawing room and so he fell fast asleep and his dreams wandered away to his accustomed stall in Barchester Cathedral and the twelve old men he was so soon about to leave forever. He was fatigued and slept soundly for some time. Some sudden stop and the musical clock woke him at length and he jumped up with a start to find the room quite full. It had been nearly empty when his nap began. With nervous anxiety he pulled out his watch and found that it was half past nine. He seized his hat and hurrying downstairs started at a rapid pace for Lincoln's inn. It still wanted twenty minutes to ten when the warden found himself at the bottom of Sir Abraham's stairs so he walked leisurely up and down the quiet inn to cool himself. It was a beautiful evening at the end of August. He had recovered from his fatigue his sleep and the coffee had refreshed him and he was surprised to find that he was absolutely enjoying himself when the inn clock struck ten. The sound was hardly over before he knocked at Sir Abraham's door and was informed by the clerk who received him that the great man would be with him immediately. End of chapter sixteen Recording by Jessica Louise St. Paul, Minnesota Chapter seventeen of The Warden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Warden by Anthony Trollop Chapter seventeen Sir Abraham haphazard Mr. Harding was shown into a comfortable inner sitting room looking more like a gentleman's book room than a lawyer's chambers and there waited for Sir Abraham. Nor was he kept waiting long in ten or fifteen minutes he heard a clatter of voices speaking quickly in the passage and then the Attorney General entered. Very sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Warden said Sir Abraham, shaking hands with him and sorry too to name so disagreeable an hour but your notice was short and as you said today I named the very earliest hour that was not disposed of. Mr. Harding assured him that he was aware that it was he that should apologize. Sir Abraham was a tall, thin man with hair prematurely gray but bearing no other sign of age. He had a slight stoop in his neck rather than his back acquired by his constant habit of leaning forward as he addressed his various audiences. He might be fifty years old and would have looked young for his age had not constant work hardened his features and given him the appearance of a machine with a mind. His face was full of intellect and natural expression. You would say he was a man to use and then have done with a man to be sought for on great emergencies but ill-adapted for ordinary services a man whom you would ask to defend your property but to whom you would be sorry to confide your love. He was bright as a diamond and as cutting and also as unimpressionable. He knew everyone whom to know he was without a friend. He wanted none, however, and knew not the meaning of the word in other than its parliamentary sense. A friend. Had he not always been sufficient to himself and now at fifty was it likely that he should trust another? He was married indeed and had children but what time had he for the soft idleness of conjugal felicity? His working days or term times were occupied from his time of rising at which he went to rest and even his vacations were more full of labour than the busiest days of other men. He never quarreled with his wife but he never talked to her. He never had time to talk. He was so taken up with speaking. She, poor lady, was not unhappy. She had all that money could give her. She would probably live to be a pyrrhus and she really thought Sir Abraham the best of husbands. Sir Abraham was a man of wit and sparkled among the brightest at the dinner tables of political grandees. Indeed, he always sparkled. Whether in society, in the House of Commons or the Courts of Law, coruscations flew from him glittering sparkles as from hot steel but no heat. No cold heart was ever cheered by warmth from him. No unhappy soul ever dropped a portion of its burden at his door. With him, success alone was easy and he knew none so successful as himself. No one had thrust him forward. No powerful friends had pushed him along on his road to power. No, he was Attorney General and would, in all human probability, be Lord Chancellor by a sheer dint of his own industry and his own talent. Who else in all the world rose so high with so little help? A Premier, indeed. Who had ever been Premier without mighty friends? A British Bishop. Yes, the son or grandson of a great noble or else probably his tutor, but he, Sir Abraham, had had no mighty Lord at his back. His father had been a country apothecary, his mother a farmer's daughter. Why should he respect any but himself? And so he glitters along through the world the brightest among the bright and when his glitter is gone and he is gathered to his father's no eye will be dim with a tear no heart will mourn for its lost friend. And so, Mr. Warden, said Sir Abraham, all our trouble about this lawsuit is at an end. Mr. Harding said he hoped so but he didn't at all understand what Sir Abraham meant. Sir Abraham, with all his sharpness, could not have looked into his heart and read his intentions. All over you need trouble yourself no further about it. Of course they must pay the costs and expense to you and Dr. Grantley will be trifling. That is compared with what it might have been if it had been continued. I fear I don't quite understand you, Sir Abraham. Don't you know that their attorneys have noticed us that they've withdrawn the suit? Mr. Harding explained to the lawyer that he knew nothing of this, although he had heard in a roundabout way that such an intention had been talked of. And he also at length succeeded in making Sir Abraham understand that even this did not satisfy him. The attorney general stood up, put his hands into his breeches' pockets and raised his eyebrows as Mr. Harding proceeded to detail the grievance from which he now wished to rid himself. I know I have no right to trouble you personally with this matter but as it is of most vital importance to me, as all my happiness is concerned in it, I thought I might venture to seek your advice. Sir Abraham bowed and declared his clients were entitled to the best advice he could give them, particularly a client so respectable in every way as the warden of Barchester Hospital. Spoken word, Sir Abraham, is often of more value than volumes of written advice. The truth is I am ill-satisfied with this matter as it stands at present. I do see I cannot help seeing that the affairs of the hospital are not arranged according to the will of the founder. None of such institutions are, Mr. Harding, no can they be, the altered circumstances in which we live do not admit of it. Quite true, that is quite true, but I can't see that those altered circumstances give me a right to eight hundred a year. I don't know whether I ever read John Hyram's will but where I will read it now I could not understand it. What I want you, Sir Abraham, to tell me is this. Am I, as warden, legally and distinctly entitled to the proceeds of the property after the due maintenance of the Twelve Beadsmen? Sir Abraham declared that he couldn't exactly say in so many words that Mr. Harding was legally entitled to, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, and ended in expressing a strong opinion that it would be madness to raise any further question on the matter, as the suit was to be, nay, was abandoned. Mr. Harding, seated in his chair, began to play a slow tune on an imaginary veal and cello. Nay, my dear sir, continued the Attorney General. There is no for the ground for any question. I don't see that you have the power of raising it. I can resign, said Mr. Harding, slowly playing away with his right hand as though the bow were beneath the chair in which he was sitting. What? Throw it up altogether, said the Attorney General, gazing with utter astonishment at his client. Did you see those articles in the Jupiter? said Mr. Harding piteously, appealing to the sympathy of the lawyer. Sir Abraham said he had seen them. This poor little clergyman cowed into such an act of extreme weakness by a newspaper article was to Sir Abraham so contemptible an object that he hardly knew how to talk to him as a rational being. Aheadn't you better wait, said he, till Dr. Grantley is in town with you. Wouldn't it be better to postpone any serious step till you can consult with him? Mr. Harding declared vehemently that he could not wait, and Sir Abraham began seriously to doubt his sanity. Of course, said the latter, if you have private means for your wants, and if this I haven't a six pence, Sir Abraham, said the warden. God bless me, why Mr. Harding? How do you mean to live? Mr. Harding proceeded to explain to the man of law that he meant to keep his precentorship. That was 80 pounds a year, and also that he meant to fall back upon his own little living of Crabtree, which was another 80 pounds. That, to be sure, the duties of the two were hardly compatible. But perhaps he might affect an exchange. And then recollecting that the attorney general would hardly care to hear how the service of a cathedral church is divided among the minor canons stopped short in his explanations. Sir Abraham listened in pitying wonder. I really think Mr. Harding you'd better wait for the Archdeacon. This is a most serious step, when for which in my opinion there is not the slightest necessity, and as you have done me the honour of giving my advice, I must implore you to do nothing without the approval of your friends. A man is never the best judge of his own position. A man is the best judge of what he feels himself. I'd sooner beg my bread till death than read such another article as those two that have appeared, and feel as I do that the writer has truth on his side. Have you not a daughter, Mr. Harding? A daughter? I have, said he, now standing also, but still playing away on his fiddle with his hand behind his back. I have, Sir Abraham, and she and I are completely agreed on this subject. Pay, excuse me, Mr. Harding, if what I say seems impertinent, but surely it is you that should be prudent on her behalf. She is young, and does not know the meaning of living on an income of £160 a year. On her account, give up this idea. Believe me, it is sheer chaoticism. The warden walked away to the window, and then back to his chair and then, irresolute what to say, took another turn to the window. The Attorney General was really extremely patient, but he was beginning to think that the interview had been long enough. But if this income be not justly mine, what if she and I have both to beg? said the warden at last, sharply, and in a voice so different from that he had hitherto used that Sir Abraham was startled. If so it would be better to beg. My dear Sir, nobody now questions its justness. Yes, Sir Abraham, one does question it, the most important of all witnesses against me. I question it myself. My God knows whether or no I love my daughter, but I would sooner that she and I should both beg, than that she should live in comfort on money which is truly the property of the poor. It may seem strange to you, Sir Abraham, it is strange to myself that I should have been ten years in that happy home and not have thought of these things till they were so roughly dined into my ears. I cannot boast of my conscience when it required the violence of a public newspaper to awaken it, but now that it is awake I must obey it. When I came here I did not know that the suit was withdrawn by Mr. Bolden, my object was to beg you to abandon my defense. As there is no action, there can be no defense, but it is at any rate as well that you should know that from tomorrow I shall cease to be the warden of the hospital. My friends and I differ on this subject, Sir Abraham, and that adds much to my sorrow, but it cannot be helped. And as he finished what he had to say, he played up such a tune as never before had graced the chambers of any attorney general. He was standing up, gallantly fronting Sir Abraham, and his right arm passed with bold and rapid sweeps before him, as though he were embracing some huge instrument which allowed him to stand thus erect. And with the fingers of his left hand he stopped with preternatural velocity and multitude of rings, which ranged from the top of his collar to the bottom of the lipid of his coat. Sir Abraham listened and looked in wonder. As he had never before seen Mr. Harding, the meaning of these wild gesticulations was lost upon him, but he perceived that the gentleman who had a few minutes since been so subdued as to be unable to speak without hesitation was now impassioned, nay almost violent. You'll sleep on this Mr. Harding tomorrow. I have done more than sleep upon it," said the warden. I have lain awake upon it, and that night after night I found I could not sleep upon it. Now I hope to do so. The attorney general had no answer to make to this, so he expressed a quiet hope that whatever settlement was finally made would be satisfactory and Mr. Harding withdrew thanking the great man for his kind attention. Harding was sufficiently satisfied with the interview to feel a glow of comfort as he descended into the small old square of Lincoln's Inn. It was a calm, bright, beautiful night, and by the light of the moon even the chapel of Lincoln's Inn and the somber row of chambers which surrounded the quadrangle looked well. He stood still a moment to collect his thoughts and reflect on what he had done and was about to do. He knew that the attorney general regarded him as little better than a fool, but that he did not mind. He and the attorney general had not much in common between them. He knew also that others whom he did care about would think so too. But Eleanor he was sure would exalt in what he had done, and the bishop he trusted would sympathize with him. In the meantime he had to meet the Archdeacon, and so he walked slowly down Chancery Lane and along Fleet Street, feeling sure that his work for the night was not yet over. When he reached the hotel he rang the bell quietly and with a palpitating heart. He almost longed to escape round the corner and delay the coming storm by a further walk around St. Paul's churchyard. But he heard the slow, creaking shoes of the old waiter approaching, and he stood his ground manfully. End of Chapter 17 Recording by Jessica Louise, St. Paul, Minnesota. Chapter 18 of The Warden. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Warden by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 18. The Warden is very obstinate. Dr. Grantley is here, sir. Greeted his ears before the door was well open. And Mrs. Grantley. They have the sitting room above and are waiting up for you. There was something in the tone of the man's voice which seemed to indicate that even he looked upon the Warden as a runaway schoolboy just recaptured by his guardian, and that he pitied the culprit though he could not but be horrified at the crime. The Warden endeavored to appear unconcerned as he said, oh, indeed, I'll go upstairs once. But he failed signally. There was perhaps a ray of comfort in the presence of his married daughter, that is to say of comparative comfort that his son-in-law was there. But how much would he have preferred that they should both have been safe at Plumstead Episcopie? However, upstairs he went. The waiter slowly proceeding him, and on the door being opened the Archdeacon was discovered standing in the middle of the room, erect, indeed as usual, but oh, how sorrowful. And on the dingy sofa behind him reclined his patient wife. Papa, I thought you were never coming back, said the lady. It's twelve o'clock. Yes, my dear, said the Warden, the Attorney General named ten for my meeting. To be sure ten is late, but what could I do, you know? Great men will have their own way. And he gave his daughter a kiss and shook hands with the doctor and again tried to look unconcerned. And you have absolutely been with the Attorney General? asked the Archdeacon. Mr. Harding signified that he had. Oh, good heavens, how unfortunate. And the Archdeacon raised his huge hands in the manner in which his friends are so accustomed to see him expressed disapprobation and astonishment. What will Sir Abraham think of it? Did you not know that it is not customary for clients to go direct to their council? Isn't it? asked the Warden innocently. He said, at any rate, I've done it now. Sir Abraham didn't seem to think it's so very strange. The Archdeacon gave a sigh that would have moved a man of war. But Papa, what did you say to Sir Abraham? asked the Lady. I asked him, my dear, to explain John Hiram's will to me. He couldn't explain it in the only way which would have satisfied me, and so I resigned the Wardenship. Resigned it? The Archdeacon in a solemn voice sad and low but yet sufficiently audible, a sort of whisper that McCready would have envied and the galleries have applauded with a couple of rounds. Resigned it? Good heavens! And the dignitary of the church sank back horrified into a horsehair armchair. At least I told Sir Abraham that I would resign and, of course, I must now do so. Not at all, said the Archdeacon, catching array of hope. Nothing that you say in such a way to your own counsel can be in any way binding on you. Of course, you were there to ask his advice. I'm sure Sir Abraham did not advise any such step. Mr. Harding could not say that he had. I am sure he dis-advised you from it. Continued the reverend cross-examiner. Mr. Harding could not deny this. I'm sure Sir Abraham must have advised you to consult your friends. To this proposition also Mr. Harding was obliged to assent. Then your threat of resignation amounts to nothing, and we are just where we were before. Mr. Harding was now standing on the rug, moving uneasily from one foot to the other. He made no distinct answer to the Archdeacon's last proposition, for his mind was chiefly engaged on thinking how he could escape to bed. That his resignation was a thing finally fixed on, a fact all but completed was not in his mind a matter of any doubt. He knew his own weakness. He knew how prone he was to be led. But he was not weak enough to give way now. To go back from the position to which his conscience had driven him after having purposely come to London to declare his determination. He did not in the least doubt his resolution, but he greatly doubted his power of defending it against his son-in-law. You must be very tired, Susan, said he. Wouldn't you like to go to bed? But Susan didn't want to go till her husband went. She had an idea that her papa might be bullied if she were away. She wasn't tired at all, or at least she said so. The Archdeacon was pacing the room expressing by certain parts of his head his opinion of the utter fatuity of his father-in-law. Why? At last he said, and angels might have blushed at the rebuke expressed in his tone and emphasis. Why did you go off from Barchester so suddenly? Why did you take such a step without giving us notice after what had passed at the palace? The warden hung his head and made no reply. He could not condescend to say that he had not intended to give his son-in-law the slip, and as he had not the courage to avow it, he said nothing. Papa has been too much for you, said the lady. The Archdeacon took another turn and again ejaculated. Oh, good heavens. This time in a very low whisper, but still audible. I think I'll go to bed, said the warden, taking up a side candle. At any rate you'll promise me to take no further step without consultation, said the Archdeacon. Mr. Harding made no answer, but slowly proceeded to light his candle. Of course, continued the other. Such a declaration is that you made to Sir Abraham means nothing. Come, warden, promise me this. The whole affair you see is already settled and that with very little trouble or expense. Bold has been compelled to abandon his action and all you have to do is remain quiet at the hospital. Mr. Harding still made no reply, but looked meekly into his son-in-law's face. The Archdeacon thought he knew his father-in-law, but he was mistaken. He thought that he had already talked over a vacillating man to resign his promise. Come, said he, promise Susan to give up this idea of resigning the wardenship. The warden looked at his daughter thinking probably at the moment that if Eleanor were contented with him he'd be not so much regard as other child and said, I'm sure Susan will not ask me to break my word or to do what I know to be wrong. Papa, said she, it would be madness in you to throw up your preferment. What are you to live on? God that feeds the young ravens will take care of me also, said Mr. Harding with a smile as though afraid of giving offense by making his reference to scripture to solemn. Pish, said the Archdeacon turning away rapidly, if the ravens persisted in refusing the food prepared for them, they wouldn't be fed. A clergyman generally dislikes to be met in argument by any scriptural quotation. He feels as affronted as a doctor does when recommended by an old woman to take some favorite dose, or as a lawyer when an unprofessional man attempts to put him down by a quibble. I shall have the living of crab-tree, modestly suggested the warden. Eighty pounds a year, sneered the Archdeacon. And the percentorship, said the father-in-law. It goes with the wardenship, said the son-in-law. Mr. Harding was prepared to argue this point and began to do so, but Dr. Grantley stopped him. My dear warden, said he, this is all nonsense. Eighty pounds or a hundred and sixty makes very little difference. You can't live on it. You can't ruin Eleanor's prospects forever. In point of fact, you can't resign. The bishop wouldn't accept it. The whole thing is settled. What I now want to do is to prevent any inconvenient tittle-tattle, any more newspaper articles. And that's what I want to, said the warden. And to prevent that, continued the other, we mustn't let any talk of resignation get abroad. But I shall resign, said the warden, very, very meekly. Good heavens, Susan, my dear, what can I say to him? But Papa, said Mrs. Grantley, getting up and putting her arm through that of her father. What is Eleanor to do if you throw away your income? A hot tear stood in each of the warden's eyes and looked round upon his married daughter. Why should one's sister, who was so rich, predict poverty for another? Some such ideas this was on his mind, but he gave no utterance to it. Then he thought of the pelican feeding its young with blood from its own breast. But he gave no utterance to that, either. And then of Eleanor waiting for him at home, waiting to congratulate him on the end of all his trouble. Eleanor Papa, said Mrs. Grantley, I do think of her, said her father. And you will not do this rash thing? The lady was really moved beyond her usual calm composure. It can never be rash to do right, said he. I shall certainly resign this wardenship. Then, Mr. Harding, there's nothing before you but ruin, and now moved beyond all endurance, ruin both for you and Eleanor. How do you mean to pay the monstrous expenses of this action? Mrs. Grantley suggested that as the action was abandoned, the costs would not be heavy. Indeed, they will, my dear, continued he. One cannot have the Attorney General up at twelve o'clock at night for nothing. But, of course, your father has not thought I will sell my furniture, said the warden. Furniture, ejaculated the other with a most powerful sneer. Come, Archdeacon, said the lady, we needn't mind that at present. You know you never expected Papa to pay the costs. Such absurdity is enough to provoke Job, said the Archdeacon, marching quickly up and down the room. Your father is like a child eight hundred pounds a year, eight hundred and eighty with the house. With nothing to do, the very place for him. And to throw that up because some scoundrel writes an article in a newspaper. Well, I have done my duty. If he chooses to ruin his child I cannot help it. And he stood still at the fireplace and looked at himself in a dingy mirror which stood on the chimney piece. There was a pause for about a minute when the warden finding that nothing else was coming, lighted his candle and quietly said, Good night. Good night, Papa, said the lady. And so the warden retired. But as he closed the door behind him he heard the well known ejaculation. Slower, lower, more solemn, more ponderous than ever. Good heavens. End of Chapter 18 Recording by Jessica Louise, St. Paul, Minnesota Chapter 19 of the Warden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Warden by Anthony Trollop Chapter 19 The Warden Resigns The party met the next morning at breakfast and a very somber affair it was, very unlike the breakfasts at Plumstead Episcopie. 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 side board 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 Fair. The guests were as sorry as the Viennes, 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. Grantley 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 of 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 church yard to Paternaster Row, and Dr. Grantley 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. Grantley, 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 the Archdeacon at ten a.m. that was out of the question, for it was nearly ten already. Another at three p.m., another the night mail train at nine 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 to-day. 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 to-morrow, Papa. Won't you wait and go back with us? Why, Eleanor will expect me to-night, and I have so much to do, and much to do," said the Archdeacon Sotovoce, but the Warden heard him. You'd better wait for us, Papa. Thank you, 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 shopkeeper's 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 La 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 we thought a great deal were due to him. At least you owe so much to my father. And without waiting for a reply, Dr. Grantley wended his way to Cox and Cummins. Mrs. Grantley 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'm 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'm going to write my resignation to the Bishop. Pray, pray, Papa, put it off till our return. Pray, put it off till you've seen the Bishop. Take 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 meager 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 it 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. With the man in and to the ink stand he fixed his eyes intently on the paper. There was something in his manner which taught his daughter to perceive that he was an 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 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 Blank 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 is 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 presenter of the cathedral is, as your lordship is aware, joined to that of the warden. That is to say the presenter 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 are the dean in chapter object to such an arrangement I would wish to keep the presenter's ship. 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 warden's ship 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 on 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 slurs 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 Botchester Hospital, and presenter 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 be fit a document which may to a certain degree be made public. Do I know will understand the feeling and perhaps pity the weakness which makes me resign the hospital? I'm 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 Hyrum'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'm 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'm doing, and that the officiating vicar of Crabtree Parva will be the same to you as the warden of the hospital. I'm very anxious about the percentage ship. The Archdeacon thinks it must go with the warden ship. 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 performant 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 blank. 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 Precentre, though the office was to him so dear, confers in itself no sufficient distinction. Our friend, therefore, again became Mr. Harding. His 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 a 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 caused 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 lookout for him by every train by which he could arrive, and the pony carriage was at 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'm 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 bankers, 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 Monsieur 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 manners 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, did not at all see the necessity, though they are quite agree as to the disagreeable nature of the visit. The gentlemen when so engaged are usually somewhat graveled 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 10 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 150 miles. To be sure he goes to the play and dines at his friend's club and has a bachelor's liberty and a 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 manner 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. Grantley, however, in the eyes of Mr. 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've 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 whale 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 quiver full of Puddingdale. He has 12 children and would be delighted to get the hospital. To be sure, Puddingdale's only 400, but that would be saving something out of the fire. Mr. Harding would have a curet and still keep 300 or 350. The Archdeacon opened his ears and listened. He really thought the scheme might do. The newspapers, continued Mr. Cummins, might hammer away a quiver full 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 12 children would do much to double his income. End of chapter 19, recording by Jessica Louise, St. Paul, Minnesota. Chapter 20 of The Warden. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Warden by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 20, 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 you're 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 500 a year. Not that he would be starved as regard to dress coats, port wine, and pocket money, but that he would positively perish of in a nation for a 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 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 performant 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 own will left certain monies to Mr. Harding's two daughters, imagining that Mr. Harding would himself want no such assistance during his own lifetime. This legacy amounted to 3,000 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 favor 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 percentorship, 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 presenter of the cathedral. On the day following Mr. Harding's return, the Archdeacon reached Plumstead, full of Mr. Cummins' 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 endeavoring to feed his poor Hecuba and a dozen of hectares 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 I'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 was 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 savored of Simonian 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 Roth, 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 our chitikin' grantly. We fear that he is represented in these pages as being worse than he is, but we've 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 favor, 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 the highest, kind. Though never an austere man, he upholds propriety of conduct both by example and precept. He's generous to the poor and hospitable to the rich in matters of religion. He is sincere and yet no Pharisee. He is an 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 a 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 until 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 Monsieur 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 the use. His music, books, and instruments, his own armchair, and Eleanor's pet sofa, her teapot in his cellarette, and also the slender but still sufficient contents of his wine cellar. Mrs. Grantley 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 but took 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 parlor of the chemist with whom they were to lodge. There was somewhat of a savor of Senneth 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 a spree decor 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 beadsmen into his parlor to wish them goodbye. 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 that 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 11 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 100 a year to each of them was actually becoming a reality. And Abel Handy was a hero and bunts a faint-hearted sycophant, worthy neither of honor nor friendship. 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 at once be 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 tuppence 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 tuppence 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 health before I leave you. Come up here, moody, here's 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 bunths and with sorrowful mane and slow step got into his accustomed seat near the fireplace. 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'm going to leave you. There was a sort of murmur ran around 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 lately been 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 dispossession of these monies 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 Scalpit. 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 Bunths 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 aired 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 you my advice. The men all declared that they would, from henceforth, be entirely guided by Mr. Harding's opinion in their affairs. Some gentlemen 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 Scalpit. We seize 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're driven from under the same roof with them, such a master is not one of them we'll 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 maneuvering 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 again 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 and 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 sometime 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 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 employ 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 venison, 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 Belle, 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 goodbye to you, Belle, said Mr. Harding, speaking loud for the old man was deaf. And are you going away then, really? asked Belle. 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, Belle, said Mr. Harding, goodbye, my old friend. And so you're really going? The old man again asked. Indeed I am, Belle. 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 Belle had nearly outlived all human feelings. And your reverence, said he, and then he paused while his old palsied head shook horribly and his shriveled cheeks sank lower within his jaws and his glazy eye gleamed with the 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 Belle 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 Hyrum's bounty. Not on him, poor sinner as he was, be the load of such sin. Mr. Harding returned to his parlor, meditating with a sick heart on what he had seen and bunts 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 endeavored to comfort the heart of the old beadsman. Poor old Bunts 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 honor there and friendship. He had recognized his master and been recognized. All his wants, both of soul and body, had been supplied and he'd 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. End of chapter 20, recording by Jessica Louise, St. Paul, Minnesota. Chapter 21 of the Warden. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Warden by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 21, Conclusion. Our tale is now done and it only remains to us to collect the scattered threads of our little story and to tie them into a seemly knot. This will not be a work of labor either to the author or to his readers. We have not to deal with many personages or with stirring events and were it not for the custom of the thing, we might leave it to the imagination of all concerned to conceive how affairs at Barchester arranged themselves. On the morning after the day last alluded to, Mr. Harding at an early hour walked out of the hospital with his daughter under his arm and sat down quietly to breakfast at his lodgings over the chemist's shop. There was no parade about his departure. No one, not even Bunts, was there to witness it. Had he walked to the apothecaries thus early to get a piece of court plaster or a box of lozenges, he could not have done it with less appearance of an important movement. There was a tear in Eleanor's eye as she passed through the big gateway and over the bridge, but Mr. Harding walked with an elastic step and entered his new abode with a pleasant face. Now my dear, said he, you have everything ready and you can make tea here just as nicely as in the parlor at the hospital. So Eleanor took off her bonnet and made the tea. After this manner did the late warden of Barchester Hospital accomplish his flitting and change his residence. It was not long before the Archdeacon brought his father to discuss the subject of a new warden. Of course he looked upon the nomination as his own and he had in his eye three or four fitting candidates seeing that Mr. Cummins' plan as to the living of Puddingdale could not be brought to bear. How can I describe the astonishment which confounded him when his father declared that he would appoint no successor to Mr. Harding? If we can get the matter set to rights, Mr. Harding will return, said the Bishop, and if we cannot it will be wrong to put any other gentleman into so cruel a position. It was in vain that the Archdeacon argued and lectured and even threatened. In vain he my lorded his poor father in his sternest manner. In vain his good heavens were ejaculated in a tone that might have moved a whole synod let alone one weak and aged bishop. Nothing could induce his father to fill up the vacancy caused by Mr. Harding's retirement. Even John Bold would have pitied the feelings with which the Archdeacon returned to Plumstead. The church was falling, nay, already in ruins. Its dignitaries were yielding without a struggle before the blows of its antagonists. And one of its most respected bishops, his own father, the man considered by all the world as being in such matters under his, Dr. Grantley's control, had positively resolved to capitulate and own himself vanquished. And how fared the hospital under the resolve of its visitor? Badly indeed. It is now some years since Mr. Harding left it and the warden's house is still tenantless. Old Bell has died in Billy Gazy and One-Eyed Springs has drunk himself to death and three others of the 12 have been gathered into the churchyard mold. Six have gone and the six vacancies remain unfilled. Yes, six have died with no kind friend to solace their last moments, with no wealthy neighbor to administer comforts and ease the stings of death. Mr. Harding indeed did not desert them. From him they had such consolation as a dying man may receive from his Christian pastor. But it was the occasional kindness of a stranger which ministered to them and not the constant presence of a master, a neighbor, and a friend. Nor were those who remained better off than those who died. Desensions rose among them and contests for preeminence. And then they began to understand that soon one of them would be the last. Some one wretched being would be alone there in that now-comfortless hospital, the miserable relic of what had once been so good and so comfortable. The building of the hospital itself has not been allowed to go to ruins. Mr. Chadwick, who still holds his stewardship and pays the accruing rents into an account opened at a bank for the purpose, seized to that. But the whole place has become disordered and ugly. The warden's garden is a wretched wilderness. The drive and paths are covered with weeds. The flowerbeds are bare and the unshorn lawn is now a mass of long damp grass and unwholesome moss. The beauty of the place is gone. Its attractions have withered. Alas, a very few years since it was the prettiest spot in Barchester. And now it is a disgrace to the city. Mr. Harding did not go out to Crab Tree Parva. An arrangement was made which respected the homestead of Mr. Smith and his happy family and put Mr. Harding into possession of a small living within the walls of the city. It is the smallest possible parish containing a part of the cathedral close and a few old houses adjoining. The church is a singular little gothic building perched over a gateway through which the close is entered and is approached by a flight of stone steps which leads down under the archway of the gate. It is no bigger than an ordinary room, perhaps 27 feet long by 18 wide, but still it is a perfect church. It contains an old carved pulpit and a reading desk, a tiny altar under a window filled with dark old colored glass, a font, some half dozen pews and perhaps a dozen seats for the poor and also a vestry. The roof is high-pitched and of black old oak and the three large beams which support it run down to the side walls and terminate in grotesquely carved faces. Two devils and an angel on one side, two angels and a devil on the other. Such is the church of St. Cuthbert at Barchester of which Mr. Harding became rector with a clear income of 75 pounds a year. Here he performs afternoon service every Sunday and administers the sacrament once in every three months. His audience is not large and had they been so, he could not have accommodated them. But enough come to fill his six pews and on the front seat of those devoted to the poor is always to be seen our old friend Mr. Bunce decently arrayed in his beadsman's gown. Mr. Harding is still pre-center of Barchester and it is very rarely the case that those who attend the Sunday morning service miss the gratification of hearing him chant the litany as no other man in England can do it. He is neither a discontented nor an unhappy man. He still inhabits the lodgings to which he went on leaving the hospital but he now has them to himself. Three months after that time Eleanor became Mrs. Bold and of course removed to her husband's house. There were some difficulties to be got over on the occasion of the marriage. The Archdeacon who could not so soon overcome his grief would not be persuaded to grace the ceremony with his presence but he allowed his wife and children to be there. The marriage took place in the cathedral and the bishop himself officiated. It was the last occasion on which he ever did so and though he still lives it is not probable that he will ever do so again. Not long after the marriage perhaps six months when Eleanor's bridal honors were fading and persons were beginning to call her Mrs. Bold without twittering the Archdeacon consented to meet John Bold at a dinner party and since that time they have become almost friends. The Archdeacon firmly believes that his brother-in-law was as a bachelor an infidel an unbeliever in the great truths of our religion but that matrimony has opened his eyes as it has those of others. And Bold is equally inclined to think that time has softened the asperities of the Archdeacon's character. Friends though they are they do not often revert to the feud of the hospital. Mr. Harding we say is not an unhappy man. He keeps his lodgings but they are of little use to him except as being the one spot on earth which he calls his own. His time is spent chiefly at his daughters or at the palace. He's never left alone. Even should he wish to be so. And within a 12 month of Eleanor's marriage his determination to live at his own lodging had been so far broken through and abandoned that he consented to have his veal and cello permanently removed to his daughter's house. Every other day a message is brought to him from the bishop. The bishop's compliments and his lordship is not very well today and he hopes Mr. Harding will dine with him. This bulletin as to the old man's health is a myth. For though he is over 80 he is never ill and will probably die someday as a spark goes out gradually and without a struggle. Mr. Harding does dine with him very often which means going to the palace at three and remaining till 10. And whenever he does not the bishop whines and says that the port wine is corked and complains that nobody attends to him and frets himself off to bed an hour before his time. It was long before the people of Barchester forgot to call Mr. Harding by his long well-known name of Warden. It had become so customary to say Mr. Warden that it was not easily dropped. No, no, he always says when so addressed. At now Warden now only pre-center. End of chapter 21. Recording by Jessica Louise, St. Paul, Minnesota. End of The Warden by Anthony Trollop.