The Chronicles of Barsetshire (12 page)

Both her auditors, brother and sister, assented to this, and declared on their own knowledge that no man lived less addicted to filthy lucre than the warden.

“Oh! it’s so kind of you to say so, Mary, and of you too, Mr. Bold. I couldn’t bear that people should think unjustly of papa. Do you know he would give up the hospital altogether, only he cannot. The archdeacon says it would be cowardly, and that he would be deserting his order, and injuring the Church. Whatever may happen, papa will not do that: he would leave the place to-morrow willingly, and give up his house, and the income and all, if the archdeacon—” Eleanor was going to say “would let him,” but she stopped herself before she had compromised her father’s dignity; and giving a long sigh, she added—”Oh, I do so wish he would.”

“No one who knows Mr. Harding personally accuses him for a moment,” said Bold.

“It is he that has to bear the punishment; it is he that suffers,” said Eleanor; “and what for? what has he done wrong? how has he deserved this persecution? he that never had an unkind thought in his life, he that never said an unkind word!” and here she broke down, and the violence of her sobs stopped her utterance.

Bold, for the fifth or sixth time, declared that neither he nor any of his friends imputed any blame personally to Mr. Harding.

“Then why should he be persecuted?” ejaculated Eleanor through her tears, forgetting in her eagerness that her intention had been to humble herself as a suppliant before John Bold—”why should he be singled out for scorn and disgrace? why should he be made so wretched? Oh! Mr. Bold,”—and she turned towards him as though the kneeling scene were about to be commenced—”oh! Mr. Bold, why did you begin all this? You, whom we all so—so—valued!”

To speak the truth, the reformer’s punishment was certainly come upon him, for his present plight was not enviable; he had nothing for it but to excuse himself by platitudes about public duty, which it is by no means worth while to repeat, and to reiterate his eulogy on Mr. Harding’s character. His position was certainly a cruel one: had any gentleman called upon him on behalf of Mr. Harding he could of course have declined to enter upon the subject; but how could he do so with a beautiful girl, with the daughter of the man whom he had injured, with his own love?

In the meantime Eleanor recollected herself, and again summoned up her energies.

“Mr. Bold,” said she, “I have come here to implore you to abandon this proceeding.” He stood up from his seat, and looked beyond measure distressed.

“To implore you to abandon it, to implore you to spare my father, to spare either his life or his reason, for one or the other will pay the forfeit if this goes on. I know how much I am asking, and how little right I have to ask anything; but I think you will listen to me as it is for my father. Oh, Mr. Bold, pray, pray do this for us—pray do not drive to distraction a man who has loved you so well.”

She did not absolutely kneel to him, but she followed him as he moved from his chair, and laid her soft hands imploringly upon his arm. Ah! at any other time how exquisitely valuable would have been that touch! but now he was distraught, dumbfounded, and unmanned. What could he say to that sweet suppliant; how explain to her that the matter now was probably beyond his control; how tell her that he could not quell the storm which he had raised?

“Surely, surely, John, you cannot refuse her,” said his sister.

“I would give her my soul,” said he, “if it would serve her.”

“Oh, Mr. Bold,” said Eleanor, “do not speak so; I ask nothing for myself; and what I ask for my father, it cannot harm you to grant.”

“I would give her my soul, if it would serve her,” said Bold, still addressing his sister; “everything I have is hers, if she will accept it; my house, my heart, my all; every hope of my breast is centred in her; her smiles are sweeter to me than the sun, and when I see her in sorrow as she now is, every nerve in my body suffers. No man can love better than I love her.”

“No, no, no,” ejaculated Eleanor; “there can be no talk of love between us. Will you protect my father from the evil you have brought upon him?”

“Oh, Eleanor, I will do anything; let me tell you how I love you!”

“No, no, no!” she almost screamed. “This is unmanly of you, Mr. Bold. Will you, will you, will you leave my father to die in peace in his quiet home?” and seizing him by his arm and hand, she followed him across the room towards the door. “I will not leave you till you promise me; I’ll cling to you in the street; I’ll kneel to you before all the people. You shall promise me this, you shall promise me this, you shall—” And she clung to him with fixed tenacity, and reiterated her resolve with hysterical passion.

“Speak to her, John; answer her,” said Mary, bewildered by the unexpected vehemence of Eleanor’s manner; “you cannot have the cruelty to refuse her.”

“Promise me, promise me,” said Eleanor; “say that my father is safe—one word will do. I know how true you are; say one word, and I will let you go.”

She still held him, and looked eagerly into his face, with her hair dishevelled and her eyes all bloodshot. She had no thought now of herself, no care now for her appearance; and yet he thought he had never seen her half so lovely; he was amazed at the intensity of her beauty, and could hardly believe that it was she whom he had dared to love. “Promise me,” said she; “I will not leave you till you have promised me.”

“I will,” said he at length; “I do—all I can do, I will do.”

“Then may God Almighty bless you for ever and ever!” said Eleanor; and falling on her knees with her face in Mary’s lap, she wept and sobbed like a child: her strength had carried her through her allotted task, but now it was well nigh exhausted.

In a while she was partly recovered, and got up to go, and would have gone, had not Bold made her understand that it was necessary for him to explain to her how far it was in his power to put an end to the proceedings which had been taken against Mr. Harding. Had he spoken on any other subject, she would have vanished, but on that she was bound to hear him; and now the danger of her position commenced. While she had an active part to play, while she clung to him as a suppliant, it was easy enough for her to reject his proffered love, and cast from her his caressing words; but now—now that he had yielded, and was talking to her calmly and kindly as to her father’s welfare, it was hard enough for her to do so. Then Mary Bold assisted her; but now she was quite on her brother’s side. Mary said but little, but every word she did say gave some direct and deadly blow. The first thing she did was to make room for her brother between herself and Eleanor on the sofa: as the sofa was full large for three, Eleanor could not resent this, nor could she show suspicion by taking another seat; but she felt it to be a most unkind proceeding. And then Mary would talk as though they three were joined in some close peculiar bond together; as though they were in future always to wish together, contrive together, and act together; and Eleanor could not gainsay this; she could not make another speech, and say, “Mr. Bold and I are strangers, Mary, and are always to remain so!”

He explained to her that, though undoubtedly the proceeding against the hospital had commenced solely with himself, many others were now interested in the matter, some of whom were much more influential than himself; that it was to him alone, however, that the lawyers looked for instruction as to their doings, and, more important still, for the payment of their bills; and he promised that he would at once give them notice that it was his intention to abandon the cause. He thought, he said, that it was not probable that any active steps would be taken after he had seceded from the matter, though it was possible that some passing allusion might still be made to the hospital in the daily
Jupiter
. He promised, however, that he would use his best influence to prevent any further personal allusion being made to Mr. Harding. He then suggested that he would on that afternoon ride over himself to Dr. Grantly, and inform him of his altered intentions on the subject, and with this view, he postponed his immediate return to London.

This was all very pleasant, and Eleanor did enjoy a sort of triumph in the feeling that she had attained the object for which she had sought this interview; but still the part of Iphigenia was to be played out. The gods had heard her prayer, granted her request, and were they not to have their promised sacrifice? Eleanor was not a girl to defraud them wilfully; so, as soon as she decently could, she got up for her bonnet.

“Are you going so soon?” said Bold, who half an hour since would have given a hundred pounds that he was in London, and she still at Barchester.

“Oh yes!” said she. “I am so much obliged to you; papa will feel this to be so kind.” She did not quite appreciate all her father’s feelings. “Of course I must tell him, and I will say that you will see the archdeacon.”

“But may I not say one word for myself?” said Bold.

“I’ll fetch you your bonnet, Eleanor,” said Mary, in the act of leaving the room.

“Mary, Mary,” said she, getting up and catching her by her dress; “don’t go, I’ll get my bonnet myself.” But Mary, the traitress, stood fast by the door, and permitted no such retreat. Poor Iphigenia!

And with a volley of impassioned love, John Bold poured forth the feelings of his heart, swearing, as men do, some truths and many falsehoods; and Eleanor repeated with every shade of vehemence the “No, no, no,” which had had a short time since so much effect; but now, alas! its strength was gone. Let her be never so vehement, her vehemence was not respected; all her “No, no, no’s” were met with counter-asseverations, and at last were overpowered. The ground was cut from under her on every side. She was pressed to say whether her father would object; whether she herself had any aversion (aversion! God help her, poor girl! the word nearly made her jump into his arms); any other preference (this she loudly disclaimed); whether it was impossible that she should love him (Eleanor could not say that it was impossible): and so at last all her defences demolished, all her maiden barriers swept away, she capitulated, or rather marched out with the honours of war, vanquished evidently, palpably vanquished, but still not reduced to the necessity of confessing it.

And so the altar on the shore of the modern Aulis reeked with no sacrifice.

CHAPTER 12

Mr. Bold’s Visit to Plumstead

Whether or no the ill-natured prediction made by certain ladies in the beginning of the last chapter, was or was not carried out to the letter, I am not in a position to state. Eleanor, however, certainly did feel herself to have been baffled as she returned home with all her news to her father. Certainly she had been victorious, certainly she had achieved her object, certainly she was not unhappy, and yet she did not feel herself triumphant. Everything would run smooth now. Eleanor was not at all addicted to the Lydian school of romance; she by no means objected to her lover because he came in at the door under the name of Absolute, instead of pulling her out of a window under the name of Beverley; and yet she felt that she had been imposed upon, and could hardly think of Mary Bold with sisterly charity. “I did think I could have trusted Mary,” she said to herself over and over again. “Oh that she should have dared to keep me in the room when I tried to get out!” Eleanor, however, felt that the game was up, and that she had now nothing further to do but to add to the budget of news which was prepared for her father, that John Bold was her accepted lover.

We will, however, now leave her on her way, and go with John Bold to Plumstead Episcopi, merely premising that Eleanor on reaching home will not find things so smooth as she fondly expected; two messengers had come, one to her father and the other to the archdeacon, and each of them much opposed to her quiet mode of solving all their difficulties; the one in the shape of a number of
The Jupiter
, and the other in that of a further opinion from Sir Abraham Haphazard.

John Bold got on his horse and rode off to Plumstead Episcopi; not briskly and with eager spur, as men do ride when self-satisfied with their own intentions; but slowly, modestly, thoughtfully, and somewhat in dread of the coming interview. Now and again he would recur to the scene which was just over, support himself by the remembrance of the silence that gives consent, and exult as a happy lover. But even this feeling was not without a shade of remorse. Had he not shown himself childishly weak thus to yield up the resolve of many hours of thought to the tears of a pretty girl? How was he to meet his lawyer? How was he to back out of a matter in which his name was already so publicly concerned? What, oh what! was he to say to Tom Towers? While meditating these painful things he reached the lodge leading up to the archdeacon’s glebe, and for the first time in his life found himself within the sacred precincts.

All the doctor’s children were together on the slope of the lawn, close to the road, as Bold rode up to the hall door. They were there holding high debate on matters evidently of deep interest at Plumstead Episcopi, and the voices of the boys had been heard before the lodge gate was closed.

Florinda and Grizzel, frightened at the sight of so well-known an enemy to the family, fled on the first appearance of the horseman, and ran in terror to their mother’s arms; not for them was it, tender branches, to resent injuries, or as members of a church militant to put on armour against its enemies. But the boys stood their ground like heroes, and boldly demanded the business of the intruder.

“Do you want to see anybody here, sir?” said Henry, with a defiant eye and a hostile tone, which plainly said that at any rate no one there wanted to see the person so addressed; and as he spoke he brandished aloft his garden water-pot, holding it by the spout, ready for the braining of anyone.

“Henry,” said Charles James slowly, and with a certain dignity of diction, “Mr. Bold of course would not have come without wanting to see someone; if Mr. Bold has a proper ground for wanting to see some person here, of course he has a right to come.”

But Samuel stepped lightly up to the horse’s head, and offered his services. “Oh, Mr. Bold,” said he, “papa, I’m sure, will be glad to see you; I suppose you want to see papa. Shall I hold your horse for you? Oh what a very pretty horse!” and he turned his head and winked funnily at his brothers. “Papa has heard such good news about the old hospital to-day. We know you’ll be glad to hear it, because you’re such a friend of grandpapa Harding, and so much in love with Aunt Nelly!”

“How d’ye do, lads?” said Bold, dismounting. “I want to see your father if he’s at home.”

“Lads!” said Henry, turning on his heel and addressing himself to his brother, but loud enough to be heard by Bold; “lads, indeed! if we’re lads, what does he call himself?”

Charles James condescended to say nothing further, but cocked his hat with much precision, and left the visitor to the care of his youngest brother.

Samuel stayed till the servant came, chatting and patting the horse; but as soon as Bold had disappeared through the front door, he stuck a switch under the animal’s tail to make him kick if possible.

The church reformer soon found himself
tête-à-tête
with the archdeacon in that same room, in that sanctum sanctorum of the rectory, to which we have already been introduced. As he entered he heard the click of a certain patent lock, but it struck him with no surprise; the worthy clergyman was no doubt hiding from eyes profane his last much-studied sermon; for the archdeacon, though he preached but seldom, was famous for his sermons. No room, Bold thought, could have been more becoming for a dignitary of the church; each wall was loaded with theology; over each separate bookcase was printed in small gold letters the names of those great divines whose works were ranged beneath: beginning from the early fathers in due chronological order, there were to be found the precious labours of the chosen servants of the church down to the last pamphlet written in opposition to the consecration of Dr. Hampden; and raised above this were to be seen the busts of the greatest among the great: Chrysostom, St. Augustine, Thomas à Becket, Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop Laud, and Dr. Philpotts.

Every appliance that could make study pleasant and give ease to the overtoiled brain was there; chairs made to relieve each limb and muscle; reading-desks and writing-desks to suit every attitude; lamps and candles mechanically contrived to throw their light on any favoured spot, as the student might desire; a shoal of newspapers to amuse the few leisure moments which might be stolen from the labours of the day; and then from the window a view right through a bosky vista along which ran a broad green path from the rectory to the church—at the end of which the tawny-tinted fine old tower was seen with all its variegated pinnacles and parapets. Few parish churches in England are in better repair, or better worth keeping so, than that at Plumstead Episcopi; and yet it is built in a faulty style: the body of the church is low—so low, that the nearly flat leaden roof would be visible from the churchyard, were it not for the carved parapet with which it is surrounded. It is cruciform, though the transepts are irregular, one being larger than the other; and the tower is much too high in proportion to the church. But the colour of the building is perfect; it is that rich yellow grey which one finds nowhere but in the south and west of England, and which is so strong a characteristic of most of our old houses of Tudor architecture. The stonework also is beautiful; the mullions of the windows and the thick tracery of the Gothic workmanship is as rich as fancy can desire; and though in gazing on such a structure one knows by rule that the old priests who built it, built it wrong, one cannot bring oneself to wish that they should have made it other than it is.

When Bold was ushered into the book-room, he found its owner standing with his back to the empty fireplace ready to receive him, and he could not but perceive that that expansive brow was elated with triumph, and that those full heavy lips bore more prominently than usual an appearance of arrogant success.

“Well, Mr. Bold,” said he—”well, what can I do for you? Very happy, I can assure you, to do anything for such a friend of my father-in-law.”

“I hope you’ll excuse my calling, Dr. Grantly.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said the archdeacon; “I can assure you, no apology is necessary from Mr. Bold—only let me know what I can do for him.”

Dr. Grantly was standing himself, and he did not ask Bold to sit, and therefore he had to tell his tale standing, leaning on the table, with his hat in his hand. He did, however, manage to tell it; and as the archdeacon never once interrupted him, or even encouraged him by a single word, he was not long in coming to the end of it.

“And so, Mr. Bold, I’m to understand, I believe, that you are desirous of abandoning this attack upon Mr. Harding.”

“Oh, Dr. Grantly, there has been no attack, I can assure you—”

“Well, well, we won’t quarrel about words; I should call it an attack—most men would so call an endeavour to take away from a man every shilling of income that he has to live upon; but it sha’n’t be an attack, if you don’t like it; you wish to abandon this—this little game of backgammon you’ve begun to play.”

“I intend to put an end to the legal proceedings which I have commenced.”

“I understand,” said the archdeacon. “You’ve already had enough of it; well, I can’t say that I am surprised; carrying on a losing lawsuit where one has nothing to gain, but everything to pay, is not pleasant.”

Bold turned very red in the face. “You misinterpret my motives,” said he; “but, however, that is of little consequence. I did not come to trouble you with my motives, but to tell you a matter of fact. Good-morning, Dr. Grantly.”

“One moment—one moment,” said the other. “I don’t exactly appreciate the taste which induced you to make any personal communication to me on the subject; but I dare say I’m wrong, I dare say your judgment is the better of the two; but as you have done me the honour—as you have, as it were, forced me into a certain amount of conversation on a subject which had better, perhaps, have been left to our lawyers, you will excuse me if I ask you to hear my reply to your communication.”

“I am in no hurry, Dr. Grantly.”

“Well, I am, Mr. Bold; my time is not exactly leisure time, and, therefore, if you please, we’ll go to the point at once:—you’re going to abandon this lawsuit?”—and he paused for a reply.

“Yes, Dr. Grantly, I am.”

“Having exposed a gentleman who was one of your father’s warmest friends to all the ignominy and insolence which the press could heap upon his name, having somewhat ostentatiously declared that it was your duty as a man of high public virtue to protect those poor old fools whom you have humbugged there at the hospital, you now find that the game costs more than it’s worth, and so you make up your mind to have done with it. A prudent resolution, Mr. Bold; but it is a pity you should have been so long coming to it. Has it struck you that we may not now choose to give over? that we may find it necessary to punish the injury you have done to us? Are you aware, sir, that we have gone to enormous expense to resist this iniquitous attempt of yours?”

Bold’s face was now furiously red, and he nearly crushed his hat between his hands; but he said nothing.

“We have found it necessary to employ the best advice that money could procure. Are you aware, sir, what may be the probable cost of securing the services of the attorney-general?”

“Not in the least, Dr. Grantly.”

“I dare say not, sir. When you recklessly put this affair into the hands of your friend Mr. Finney, whose six-and-eightpences and thirteen-and-fourpences may, probably, not amount to a large sum, you were indifferent as to the cost and suffering which such a proceeding might entail on others; but are you aware, sir, that these crushing costs must now come out of your own pocket?”

“Any demand of such a nature which Mr. Harding’s lawyer may have to make will doubtless be made to my lawyer.”

“‘Mr Harding’s lawyer and my lawyer!’ Did you come here merely to refer me to the lawyers? Upon my word I think the honour of your visit might have been spared! And now, sir, I’ll tell you what my opinion is:—my opinion is, that we shall not allow you to withdraw this matter from the courts.”

“You can do as you please, Dr. Grantly; good-morning.”

“Hear me out, sir,” said the archdeacon; “I have here in my hands the last opinion given in this matter by Sir Abraham Haphazard. I dare say you have already heard of this—I dare say it has had something to do with your visit here to-day.”

“I know nothing whatever of Sir Abraham Haphazard or his opinion.”

“Be that as it may, here it is; he declares most explicitly that under no phasis of the affair whatever have you a leg to stand upon; that Mr. Harding is as safe in his hospital as I am here in my rectory; that a more futile attempt to destroy a man was never made, than this which you have made to ruin Mr. Harding. Here,” and he slapped the paper on the table, “I have this opinion from the very first lawyer in the land; and under these circumstances you expect me to make you a low bow for your kind offer to release Mr. Harding from the toils of your net! Sir, your net is not strong enough to hold him; sir, your net has fallen to pieces, and you knew that well enough before I told you—and now, sir, I’ll wish you good-morning, for I’m busy.”

Bold was now choking with passion. He had let the archdeacon run on because he knew not with what words to interrupt him; but now that he had been so defied and insulted, he could not leave the room without some reply.

“Dr. Grantly,” he commenced.

“I have nothing further to say or to hear,” said the archdeacon. “I’ll do myself the honour to order your horse.” And he rang the bell.

“I came here, Dr. Grantly, with the warmest, kindest feelings—”

“Oh, of course you did; nobody doubts it.”

“With the kindest feelings—and they have been most grossly outraged by your treatment.”

“Of course they have—I have not chosen to see my father-in-law ruined; what an outrage that has been to your feelings!”

“The time will come, Dr. Grantly, when you will understand why I called upon you to-day.”

“No doubt, no doubt. Is Mr. Bold’s horse there? That’s right; open the front door. Good-morning, Mr. Bold;” and the doctor stalked into his own drawing-room, closing the door behind him, and making it quite impossible that John Bold should speak another word.