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Page 66
Chapter XVI
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 gaoler 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 Grantly 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 Episcopi 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-carders of
Barchester _v_. Trustees under the will of the late John Hiram," for
so was the suit denominated, and begged the illustrious and learned
gentleman to vouchsafe 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 wont, 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 Paternoster Row, and the printer's
press in Fleet Street, the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House had been
convenient. It was a quiet, sombre, 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 learnt 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
favoured 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 glazier 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 is 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, sombre, 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 as 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?
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