The Warden

A >> Anthony Trollope >> The Warden


How beautiful Eleanor appeared to him as she slowly walked into the
room! Not for nothing had all those little cares been taken. Though
her sister, the archdeacon's wife, had spoken slightingly of her
charms, Eleanor was very beautiful when seen aright. Hers was not of
those impassive faces, which have the beauty of a marble bust; finely
chiselled features, perfect in every line, true to the rules of
symmetry, as lovely to a stranger as to a friend, unvarying unless in
sickness, or as age affects them. She had no startling brilliancy of
beauty, no pearly whiteness, no radiant carnation. She had not the
majestic contour that rivets attention, demands instant wonder, and
then disappoints by the coldness of its charms. You might pass
Eleanor Harding in the street without notice, but you could hardly
pass an evening with her and not lose your heart.

She had never appeared more lovely to her lover than she now did. Her
face was animated though it was serious, and her full dark lustrous
eyes shone with anxious energy; her hand trembled as she took his, and
she could hardly pronounce his name, when she addressed him. Bold
wished with all his heart that the Australian scheme was in the act of
realisation, and that he and Eleanor were away together, never to hear
further of the lawsuit.

He began to talk, asked after her health,--said something about London
being very stupid, and more about Barchester being very pleasant;
declared the weather to be very hot, and then inquired after Mr
Harding.

"My father is not very well," said Eleanor.

John Bold was very sorry,--so sorry: he hoped it was nothing serious,
and put on the unmeaningly solemn face which people usually use on
such occasions.

"I especially want to speak to you about my father, Mr Bold; indeed, I
am now here on purpose to do so. Papa is very unhappy, very unhappy
indeed, about this affair of the hospital: you would pity him, Mr
Bold, if you could see how wretched it has made him."

"Oh, Miss Harding!"

"Indeed you would;--anyone would pity him; but a friend, an old friend
as you are,--indeed you would. He is an altered man; his cheerfulness
has all gone, and his sweet temper, and his kind happy tone of voice;
you would hardly know him if you saw him, Mr Bold, he is so much
altered; and--and--if this goes on, he will die." Here Eleanor had
recourse to her handkerchief, and so also had her auditors; but she
plucked up her courage, and went on with her tale. "He will break his
heart, and die. I am sure, Mr Bold, it was not you who wrote those
cruel things in the newspaper--"

John Bold eagerly protested that it was not, but his heart smote him
as to his intimate alliance with Tom Towers.

"No, I am sure it was not; and papa has not for a moment thought so;
you would not be so cruel;--but it has nearly killed him. Papa cannot
bear to think that people should so speak of him, and that everybody
should hear him so spoken of:--they have called him avaricious, and
dishonest, and they say he is robbing the old men, and taking the
money of the hospital for nothing."

"I have never said so, Miss Harding. I--"

"No," continued Eleanor, interrupting him, for she was now in the full
flood-tide of her eloquence; "no, I am sure you have not; but others
have said so; and if this goes on, if such things are written again,
it will kill papa. Oh! Mr Bold, if you only knew the state he is in!
Now papa does not care much about money."

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 XII

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 _tete-a-tete_ 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 a 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 gray 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 stone work 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 fire-place 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?"