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Page 80
I cannot finish this official letter without again thanking
your Lordship for all your great kindness, and I beg to
subscribe myself--
Your Lordship's most obedient servant,
SEPTIMUS HARDING,
Warden of Barchester Hospital,
and Precentor of the Cathedral.
He then wrote the following private note:--
My DEAR BISHOP,
I cannot send you the accompanying official letter without
a warmer expression of thanks for all your kindness than
would befit a document which may to a certain degree be
made public. You, I know, will understand the feeling,
and, perhaps, pity the weakness which makes me resign
the hospital. I am not made of calibre strong enough to
withstand public attack. Were I convinced that I stood
on ground perfectly firm, that I was certainly justified
in taking eight hundred a year under Hiram's will, I
should feel bound by duty to retain the position, however
unendurable might be the nature of the assault; but, as I
do not feel this conviction, I cannot believe that you will
think me wrong in what I am doing.
I had at one time an idea of keeping only some moderate
portion of the income; perhaps three hundred a year, and of
remitting the remainder to the trustees; but it occurred to
me, and I think with reason, that by so doing I should place
my successors in an invidious position, and greatly damage
your patronage.
My dear friend, let me have a line from you to say that
you do not blame me for what I am doing, and that the
officiating vicar of Crabtree Parva will be the same to
you as the warden of the hospital.
I am very anxious about the precentorship: the archdeacon
thinks it must go with the wardenship; I think not, and,
that, having it, I cannot be ousted. I will, however, be
guided by you and the dean. No other duty will suit me so
well, or come so much within my power of adequate
performance.
I thank you from my heart for the preferment which I am now
giving up, and for all your kindness, and am, dear bishop,
now as always--
Yours most sincerely,
SEPTIMUS HARDING
LONDON,--AUGUST, 18--
Having written these letters and made a copy of the former one for the
benefit of the archdeacon, Mr Harding, whom we must now cease to call
the warden, he having designated himself so for the last time, found
that it was nearly two o'clock, and that he must prepare for his
journey. Yes, from this time he never again admitted the name by
which he had been so familiarly known, and in which, to tell the
truth, he had rejoiced. The love of titles is common to all men,
and a vicar or fellow is as pleased at becoming Mr Archdeacon or
Mr Provost, as a lieutenant at getting his captaincy, or a city
tallow-chandler in becoming Sir John on the occasion of a Queen's
visit to a new bridge. But warden he was no longer, and the name of
precentor, though the office was to him so dear, confers in itself
no sufficient distinction; our friend, therefore, again became Mr
Harding.
Mrs Grantly had gone out; he had, therefore, no one to delay him by
further entreaties to postpone his journey; he had soon arranged his
bag, and paid his bill, and, leaving a note for his daughter, in which
he put the copy of his official letter, he got into a cab and drove
away to the station with something of triumph in his heart.
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