Anthony Trollope - The Barsetshire Chronicles - All 6 Books in One Edition

‘You’ll sleep on this, Mr Harding, and 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.

Mr 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 sombre row of chambers, which surround 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 exult in what he had done, and the bishop, he trusted, would sympathise 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 round St Paul’s Churchyard, but he heard the slow creaking shoes of the old waiter approaching, and he stood his ground manfully.

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‘Dr Grantly is here, sir,’ greeted his ears before the door was well open, ‘and Mrs Grantly. They have a 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 endeavoured to appear unconcerned, as he said, ‘Oh, indeed! I’ll go upstairs at 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, seeing that his son-in-law was there; but how much would he have preferred that they should both have been safe at Plumstead Episcopi! However, upstairs he went, the waiter slowly preceding 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.

‘Good heavens, how unfortunate!’ And the archdeacon raised his huge hands in the manner in which his friends are so accustomed to see him express 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 counsel?’

‘Isn’t it?’ asked the warden, innocently. ‘Well, at any rate, I’ve done it now. Sir Abraham didn’t seem to think it 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!’ said the archdeacon, in a solemn voice, sad and low, but yet sufficiently audible — a sort of whisper that Macready 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 arm-chair.

‘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 a ray 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 disadvised 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 noddles 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, ‘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.