CHAPTER VIII

The Ex-warden Rejoices in His Probable Return to the Hospital

Among the ladies in Barchester who have hitherto acknowledged Mr.

Slope as their spiritual director must not be reckoned either the

Widow Bold or her sister-in-law. On the first outbreak of the wrath

of the denizens of the close, none had been more animated against

the intruder than these two ladies. And this was natural. Who could

be so proud of the musical distinction of their own cathedral as

the favourite daughter of the precentor? Who would be so likely to

resent an insult offered to the old choir? And in such matters Miss

Bold and her sister-in-law had but one opinion.

This wrath, however, has in some degree been mitigated, and I regret

to say that these ladies allowed Mr. Slope to be his own apologist.

About a fortnight after the sermon had been preached, they were both

of them not a little surprised by hearing Mr. Slope announced, as the

page in buttons opened Mrs. Bold's drawing-room door. Indeed, what

living man could, by a mere morning visit, have surprised them more?

Here was the great enemy of all that was good in Barchester coming

into their own drawing-room, and they had no strong arm, no ready

tongue, near at hand for their protection. The widow snatched her

baby out of its cradle into her lap, and Mary Bold stood up ready to

die manfully in that baby's behalf, should, under any circumstances,

such a sacrifice become necessary.

In this manner was Mr. Slope received. But when he left, he was

allowed by each lady to take her hand and to make his adieux as

gentlemen do who have been graciously entertained! Yes, he shook

hands with them, and was curtseyed out courteously, the buttoned page

opening the door as he would have done for the best canon of them

all. He had touched the baby's little hand and blessed him with a

fervid blessing; he had spoken to the widow of her early sorrows, and

Eleanor's silent tears had not rebuked him; he had told Mary Bold

that her devotion would be rewarded, and Mary Bold had heard the

praise without disgust. And how had he done all this? How had he so

quickly turned aversion into, at any rate, acquaintance? How had

he over-come the enmity with which these ladies had been ready to

receive him, and made his peace with them so easily?

My readers will guess from what I have written that I myself do not

like Mr. Slope, but I am constrained to admit that he is a man of

parts. He knows how to say a soft word in the proper place; he knows

how to adapt his flattery to the ears of his hearers; he knows the

wiles of the serpent, and he uses them. Could Mr. Slope have adapted

his manners to men as well as to women, could he ever have learnt the

ways of a gentleman, he might have risen to great things.

He commenced his acquaintance with Eleanor by praising her father.

He had, he said, become aware that he had unfortunately offended the

feelings of a man of whom he could not speak too highly; he would

not now allude to a subject which was probably too serious for

drawing-room conversation, but he would say that it had been very far

from him to utter a word in disparagement of a man of whom all the

world, at least the clerical world, spoke so highly as it did of Mr.

Harding. And so he went on, unsaying a great deal of his sermon,

expressing his highest admiration for the precentor's musical talents,

eulogizing the father and the daughter and the sister-in-law, speaking

in that low silky whisper which he always had specially prepared for

feminine ears, and, ultimately, gaining his object. When he left, he

expressed a hope that he might again be allowed to call; and though

Eleanor gave no verbal assent to this, she did not express dissent:

and so Mr. Slope's right to visit at the widow's house was established.

The day after this visit Eleanor told her father of it and expressed

an opinion that Mr. Slope was not quite so black as he had been

painted. Mr. Harding opened his eyes rather wider than usual when he

heard what had occurred, but he said little; he could not agree in

any praise of Mr. Slope, and it was not his practice to say much evil

of anyone. He did not, however, like the visit, and simple-minded as

he was, he felt sure that Mr. Slope had some deeper motive than the

mere pleasure of making soft speeches to two ladies.

Mr. Harding, however, had come to see his daughter with other purpose

than that of speaking either good or evil of Mr. Slope. He had come

to tell her that the place of warden in Hiram's Hospital was again to

be filled up, and that in all probability he would once more return to

his old home and his twelve bedesmen.

"But," said he, laughing, "I shall be greatly shorn of my ancient

glory."

"Why so, Papa?"

"This new act of Parliament that is to put us all on our feet again,"

continued he, "settles my income at four hundred and fifty pounds per

annum."

"Four hundred and fifty," said she, "instead of eight hundred! Well,

that is rather shabby. But still, Papa, you'll have the dear old

house and the garden?"

"My dear," said he, "it's worth twice the money;" and as he spoke he

showed a jaunty kind of satisfaction in his tone and manner and in

the quick, pleasant way in which he paced Eleanor's drawing-room.

"It's worth twice the money. I shall have the house and the garden

and a larger income than I can possibly want."

"At any rate, you'll have no extravagant daughter to provide for;"

and as she spoke, the young widow put her arm within his, and made

him sit on the sofa beside her; "at any rate, you'll not have that

expense."

"No, my dear, and I shall be rather lonely without her; but we won't

think of that now. As regards income, I shall have plenty for all I

want. I shall have my old house, and I don't mind owning now that I

have felt sometimes the inconvenience of living in a lodging. Lodgings

are very nice for young men, but at my time of life there is a want

of--I hardly know what to call it, perhaps not respectability--"

"Oh, Papa! I'm sure there's been nothing like that. Nobody has

thought it; nobody in all Barchester has been more respected than

you have been since you took those rooms in High Street. Nobody! Not

the dean in his deanery, or the archdeacon out at Plumstead."

"The archdeacon would not be much obliged to you if he heard you,"

said he, smiling somewhat at the exclusive manner in which his

daughter confined her illustration to the church dignitaries of

the chapter of Barchester; "but at any rate I shall be glad to get

back to the old house. Since I heard that it was all settled, I

have begun to fancy that I can't be comfortable without my two

sitting-rooms."

"Come and stay with me, Papa, till it is settled--there's a dear

Papa."

"Thank ye, Nelly. But no, I won't do that. It would make two

movings. I shall be very glad to get back to my old men again.

Alas! alas! There have six of them gone in these few last years.

Six out of twelve! And the others I fear have had but a sorry life

of it there. Poor Bunce, poor old Bunce!"

Bunce was one of the surviving recipients of Hiram's charity, an old

man, now over ninety, who had long been a favourite of Mr. Harding's.

"How happy old Bunce will be," said Mrs. Bold, clapping her soft

hands softly. "How happy they all will be to have you back again.

You may be sure there will soon be friendship among them again when

you are there."

"But," said he, half-laughing, "I am to have new troubles, which will

be terrible to me. There are to be twelve old women, and a matron.

How shall I manage twelve women and a matron!"

"The matron will manage the women, of course."

"And who'll manage the matron?" said he.

"She won't want to be managed. She'll be a great lady herself, I

suppose. But, Papa, where will the matron live? She is not to live

in the warden's house with you, is she?"

"Well, I hope not, my dear."

"Oh, Papa, I tell you fairly, I won't have a matron for a new

stepmother."

"You shan't, my dear; that is, if I can help it. But they are going

to build another house for the matron and the women, and I believe

they haven't even fixed yet on the site of the building."

"And have they appointed the matron?" said Eleanor.

"They haven't appointed the warden yet," replied he.

"But there's no doubt about that, I suppose," said his daughter.

Mr. Harding explained that he thought there was no doubt; that the

archdeacon had declared as much, saying that the bishop and his

chaplain between them had not the power to appoint anyone else, even

if they had the will to do so, and sufficient impudence to carry out

such a will. The archdeacon was of opinion that, though Mr. Harding

had resigned his wardenship, and had done so unconditionally, he had

done so under circumstances which left the bishop no choice as to his

reappointment, now that the affair of the hospital had been settled

on a new basis by act of Parliament. Such was the archdeacon's

opinion, and his father-in-law received it without a shadow of doubt.

Dr. Grantly had always been strongly opposed to Mr. Harding's

resignation of the place. He had done all in his power to dissuade

him from it. He had considered that Mr. Harding was bound to

withstand the popular clamour with which he was attacked for

receiving so large an income as eight hundred a year from such a

charity, and was not even yet satisfied that his father-in-law's

conduct had not been pusillanimous and undignified. He looked also

on this reduction of the warden's income as a shabby, paltry scheme

on the part of government for escaping from a difficulty into which

it had been brought by the public press. Dr. Grantly observed that

the government had no more right to dispose of a sum of four hundred

and fifty pounds a year out of the income of Hiram's legacy than of

nine hundred; whereas, as he said, the bishop, dean, and chapter

clearly had a right to settle what sum should be paid. He also

declared that the government had no more right to saddle the

charity with twelve old women than with twelve hundred; and he was,

therefore, very indignant on the matter. He probably forgot when so

talking that government had done nothing of the kind, and had never

assumed any such might or any such right. He made the common mistake

of attributing to the government, which in such matters is powerless,

the doings of Parliament, which in such matters is omnipotent.

But though he felt that the glory and honour of the situation of

warden of Barchester Hospital were indeed curtailed by the new

arrangement; that the whole establishment had to a certain degree

been made vile by the touch of Whig commissioners; that the place,

with its lessened income, its old women, and other innovations, was

very different from the hospital of former days; still the archdeacon

was too practical a man of the world to wish that his father-in-law,

who had at present little more than £200 per annum for all his

wants, should refuse the situation, defiled, undignified, and

commission-ridden as it was.

Mr. Harding had, accordingly, made up his mind that he would return

to his old home at the hospital, and, to tell the truth, had

experienced almost a childish pleasure in the idea of doing so. The

diminished income was to him not even the source of momentary regret.

The matron and the old women did rather go against the grain, but he

was able to console himself with the reflection that, after all, such

an arrangement might be of real service to the poor of the city. The

thought that he must receive his reappointment as the gift of the

new bishop, and probably through the hands of Mr. Slope, annoyed

him a little, but his mind was set at rest by the assurance of the

archdeacon that there would be no favour in such a presentation. The

reappointment of the old warden would be regarded by all the world

as a matter of course. Mr. Harding, therefore, felt no hesitation in

telling his daughter that they might look upon his return to his old

quarters as a settled matter.

"And you won't have to ask for it, Papa?"

"Certainly not, my dear. There is no ground on which I could ask for

any favour from the bishop, whom, indeed, I hardly know. Nor would I

ask a favour, the granting of which might possibly be made a question

to be settled by Mr. Slope. No," said he, moved for a moment by

a spirit very unlike his own, "I certainly shall be very glad to

go back to the hospital; but I should never go there if it were

necessary that my doing so should be the subject of a request to Mr.

Slope."

This little outbreak of her father's anger jarred on the present tone

of Eleanor's mind. She had not learnt to like Mr. Slope, but she had

learnt to think that he had much respect for her father; and she

would, therefore, willingly use her efforts to induce something like

good feeling between them.

"Papa," said she, "I think you somewhat mistake Mr. Slope's

character."

"Do I?" said he placidly.

"I think you do, Papa. I think he intended no personal disrespect to

you when he preached the sermon which made the archdeacon and the

dean so angry!"

"I never supposed he did, my dear. I hope I never inquired within

myself whether he did or no. Such a matter would be unworthy of any

inquiry, and very unworthy of the consideration of the chapter. But I

fear he intended disrespect to the ministration of God's services, as

conducted in conformity with the rules of the Church of England."

"But might it not be that he thought it his duty to express his

dissent from that which you, and the dean, and all of us here so much

approve?"

"It can hardly be the duty of a young man rudely to assail the

religious convictions of his elders in the church. Courtesy should

have kept him silent, even if neither charity nor modesty could do

so."

"But Mr. Slope would say that on such a subject the commands of his

heavenly Master do not admit of his being silent."

"Nor of his being courteous, Eleanor?"

"He did not say that, Papa."

"Believe me, my child, that Christian ministers are never called on

by God's word to insult the convictions, or even the prejudices of

their brethren, and that religion is at any rate not less susceptible

of urbane and courteous conduct among men than any other study which

men may take up. I am sorry to say that I cannot defend Mr. Slope's

sermon in the cathedral. But come, my dear, put on your bonnet and

let us walk round the dear old gardens at the hospital. I have never

yet had the heart to go beyond the courtyard since we left the place.

Now I think I can venture to enter."

Eleanor rang the bell and gave a variety of imperative charges as to

the welfare of the precious baby, whom, all but unwillingly, she was

about to leave for an hour or so, and then sauntered forth with her

father to revisit the old hospital. It had been forbidden ground to

her as well as to him since the day on which they had walked forth

together from its walls.