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Page 88
"Now, my dear," said he, "you have everything ready, and you can
make tea here just as nicely as in the parlour at the hospital." So
Eleanor took off her bonnet and made the tea. After this manner did
the late Warden of Barchester Hospital accomplish his flitting, and
change his residence.
It was not long before the archdeacon brought his father to discuss
the subject of a new warden. Of course he looked upon the nomination
as his own, and he had in his eye three or four fitting candidates,
seeing that Mr Cummins's plan as to the living of Puddingdale could
not be brought to bear. How can I describe the astonishment which
confounded him, when his father declared that he would appoint no
successor to Mr Harding? "If we can get the matter set to rights, Mr
Harding will return," said the bishop; "and if we cannot, it will be
wrong to put any other gentleman into so cruel a position."
It was in vain that the archdeacon argued and lectured, and even
threatened; in vain he my-lorded his poor father in his sternest
manner; in vain his "good heavens!" were ejaculated in a tone that
might have moved a whole synod, let alone one weak and aged bishop.
Nothing could induce his father to fill up the vacancy caused by Mr
Harding's retirement.
Even John Bold would have pitied the feelings with which the
archdeacon returned to Plumstead: the church was falling, nay, already
in ruins; its dignitaries were yielding without a struggle before the
blows of its antagonists; and one of its most respected bishops, his
own father,--the man considered by all the world as being in such
matters under his, Dr Grantly's, control,--had positively resolved to
capitulate, and own himself vanquished!
And how fared the hospital under this resolve of its visitor? Badly
indeed. It is now some years since Mr Harding left it, and the
warden's house is still tenantless. Old Bell has died, and Billy
Gazy; the one-eyed Spriggs has drunk himself to death, and three
others of the twelve have been gathered into the churchyard mould.
Six have gone, and the six vacancies remain unfilled! Yes, six have
died, with no kind friend to solace their last moments, with no
wealthy neighbour to administer comforts and ease the stings of death.
Mr Harding, indeed, did not desert them; from him they had such
consolation as a dying man may receive from his Christian pastor; but
it was the occasional kindness of a stranger which ministered to them,
and not the constant presence of a master, a neighbour, and a friend.
Nor were those who remained better off than those who died.
Dissensions rose among them, and contests for pre-eminence; and
then they began to understand that soon one among them would be the
last,--some one wretched being would be alone there in that now
comfortless hospital,--the miserable relic of what had once been so
good and so comfortable.
The building of the hospital itself has not been allowed to go to
ruins. Mr Chadwick, who still holds his stewardship, and pays the
accruing rents into an account opened at a bank for the purpose, sees
to that; but the whole place has become disordered and ugly. The
warden's garden is a wretched wilderness, the drive and paths are
covered with weeds, the flower-beds are bare, and the unshorn lawn is
now a mass of long damp grass and unwholesome moss. The beauty of the
place is gone; its attractions have withered. Alas! a very few years
since it was the prettiest spot in Barchester, and now it is a
disgrace to the city.
Mr Harding did not go out to Crabtree Parva. An arrangement was made
which respected the homestead of Mr Smith and his happy family, and
put Mr Harding into possession of a small living within the walls of
the city. It is the smallest possible parish, containing a part of
the Cathedral Close and a few old houses adjoining. The church is a
singular little Gothic building, perched over a gateway, through which
the Close is entered, and is approached by a flight of stone steps
which leads down under the archway of the gate. It is no bigger
than an ordinary room,--perhaps twenty-seven feet long by eighteen
wide,--but still it is a perfect church. It contains an old carved
pulpit and reading-desk, a tiny altar under a window filled with dark
old-coloured glass, a font, some half-dozen pews, and perhaps a dozen
seats for the poor; and also a vestry. The roof is high pitched, and
of black old oak, and the three large beams which support it run down
to the side walls, and terminate in grotesquely carved faces,--two
devils and an angel on one side, two angels and a devil on the other.
Such is the church of St Cuthbert at Barchester, of which Mr Harding
became rector, with a clear income of seventy-five pounds a year.
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