The Last Chronicle of Barset (78 page)

Posy was now five years old, and could talk well, and had her own ideas of things. Posy's eyes – hers, and no others besides her own – were allowed to see the inhabitant of the big black case; and now that the deanery was so nearly deserted, Posy's fingers had touched the strings, and had produced an infantine moan. ‘Grandpa, let me do it again.' Twang! It was not, however, in truth, a twang, but a sound as of a prolonged dull, almost deadly, hum-m-m-m-m! On this occasion the moan was not entirely infantine – Posy's fingers having been
something too strong – and the case was closed and locked, and grandpapa shook his head.

‘But Mrs Baxter won't be angry,' said Posy. Mrs Baxter was the houskeeper in the deanery, and had Mr Harding under her especial charge.

‘No, my darling; Mrs Baxter will not be angry, but we mustn't disturb the house.'

‘No,' said Posy, with much of important awe in her tone; ‘we mustn't disturb the house; must we, grandpapa?' And so she gave in her adhesion to the closing of the case. But Posy could play cat's-cradle, and as cat's-cradle did not disturb the house at all, there was a good deal of cat's-cradle played in these days. Posy's fingers were so soft and pretty, so small and deft, that the dear old man delighted in taking the strings from them, and in having them taken from his own by those tender little digits.

On the afternoon after the conversation respecting Grace Crawley which is recorded in the early part of this chapter, a messenger from Barchester went over to Plumstead, and as a part of his mission consisted of a note from Mrs Baxter to Mrs Grantly, beginning, ‘Honoured Madam,' and informing Mrs Grantly, among other things, that her ‘respected papa,' as Mrs Baxter called him, was not quite so well as usual; not that Mrs Baxter thought that there was much the matter. Mr Harding had been to the cathedral service, as was usual with him, but had come home leaning on a lady's arm, who had thought it well to stay with him at the door till it had been opened for him. After that ‘Miss Posy' had found him asleep, and had been unable – or if not unable, unwilling, to wake him. ‘Miss Posy' had come down to Mrs Baxter somewhat in a fright, and hence this letter had been written. Mrs Baxter thought that there was nothing ‘to fright' Mrs Grantly, and she wasn't sure that she should have written at all only that Dick was bound to go over to Plumstead with the wool; but as Dick was going, Mrs Baxter thought it proper to send her duty, and to say that to her humble way of thinking perhaps it might be best that Mr Harding shouldn't go alone to the cathedral every morning. ‘If the dear reverend gentleman was to get a tumble, ma'am,' said the letter, ‘it would be awkward.' Then Mrs Grantly
remembered that she had left her father almost without a greeting on the previous day, and she resolved that she would go over very early on the following morning – so early that she would be at the deanery before her father should have gone to the cathedral.

‘He ought to have come over here, and not stayed there by himself,' said the archdeacon, when his wife told him of her intention.

‘It is too late to think of that now, my dear; and one can understand, I think, that he should not like leaving the cathedral as long as he can attend it. The truth is he does not like being out of Barchester.'

‘He would be much better here,' said the archdeacon, ‘Of course you can have the carriage and go over. We can breakfast at eight; and if you can bring him back with you, do. I should tell him that he ought to come.' Mrs Grantly made no answer to this, knowing very well that she could not bring herself to go beyond the gentlest persuasion with her father, and on the next morning she was at the deanery by ten o'clock. Half-past ten was the hour at which the service began. Mrs Baxter contrived to meet her before she saw her father, and begged her not to let it be known that any special tidings of Mr Harding's failing strength had been sent from the deanery to Plumstead. ‘And how is my father?' asked Mrs Grantly. ‘Well, then, ma'am,' said Baxter, ‘in one sense he's finely. He took a morsel of early lamb to his dinner yesterday, and relished it ever so well – only he gave Miss Posy the best part of it. And then he sat with Miss Posy quite happy for an hour or so. And then he slept in his chair; and you know, ma'am, we never wakes him. And after that old Skulpit toddled up from the hospital' – this was Hiram's Hospital, of which establishment, in the city of Barchester, Mr Harding had once been the warden and kind master, as has been told in former chronicles of the city
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– ‘and your papa has said, ma'am, you know, that he is always to see any of the old men when they come up. And Skulpit is sly, and no better than he should be, and got money from your father, ma'am, I know. And then he had just a drop of tea, and after that I took him his glass of port wine with my own hands. And it touched me, ma'am, so it did, when he said, “Oh, Mrs Baxter, how good you are; you know well what it is I like.” And then he went to bed. I listened hard – not from idle curiosity, ma'am, as you, who know me, will believe, but
just because it's becoming to know what he's about, as there might be an accident, you know, ma'am.' ‘You are very good, Mrs Baxter, very good.' ‘Thank ye, ma'am, for saying so. And so I listened hard; but he didn't go to his music, poor gentleman; and I think he had a quiet night. He doesn't sleep much at nights, poor gentleman, but he's very quiet; leastwise he was last night.' This was the bulletin which Mrs Baxter gave to Mrs Grantly on that morning before Mrs Grantly saw her father.

She found him preparing himself for his visit to the cathedral. Some year or two – but no more – before the date of which we are speaking, he had still taken some small part in the service; and while he had done so he had of course worn his surplice. Living so close to the cathedral – so close that he could almost walk out of the house into the transept – he had kept his surplice in his own room, and had gone down in his vestment. It had been a bitter day to him when he had first found himself constrained to abandon the white garment which he loved. He had encountered some failure in the performance of the slight clerical task allotted to him, and the dean had tenderly advised him to desist. He did not utter one word of remonstrance. ‘It will perhaps be better,' the dean had said. ‘Yes – it will be better,' Mr Harding had replied. ‘Few have had accorded to them the high privilege of serving their Master in His house for so many years – though few more humbly, or with lower gifts.' But on the following morning, and for nearly a week afterwards, he had been unable to face the minor canon and the vergers, and the old women who knew him so well, in his ordinary black garments. At last he went down with the dean, and occupied a stall close to the dean's seat – far away from that in which he had sat for so many years – and in his seat he had said his prayers ever since that day. And now his surplices were washed and ironed and folded, and put away; but there were moments in which he would stealthily visit them, as he also stealthily visited his friend in the black wooden case. This was very melancholy, and the sadness of it was felt by all those who lived with him; but he never alluded himself to any of those bereavements which age brought upon him. Whatever might be his regrets, he kept them ever within his own breast.

Posy was with him when Mrs Grantly went up into his room holding for him his hat and stick while he was engaged in brushing a suspicion of dust from his black gaiters. ‘Granpapa, here is aunt Susan,' said Posy. The old man looked up with something – with some slightest sign of that habitual fear which was always aroused within his bosom by visitations from Plumstead. Had Mrs Arabin thoroughly understood the difference in her father's feeling toward herself and toward her sister, I think she would hardly have gone forth upon any tour while he remained with her in the deanery. It is very hard sometimes to know how intensely we are loved, and of what value our presence is to those who love us! Mrs Grantly saw the look – did not analyse it, did not quite understand it – but felt, as she had so often felt before, that it was not altogether laden with welcome. But all this had nothing to do with the duty on which she had come; nor did it, in the slightest degree, militate against her own affection. ‘Papa,' she said, kissing him, ‘you are surprised to see me so early?'

‘Well, my dear, yes – but very glad all the same. I hope everybody is well at Plumstead?'

‘Everybody, thank you, papa.'

‘That is well. Posy and I are getting ready for church. Are we not, Posy?'

‘Grandpapa is getting ready. Mrs Baxter won't let me go.'

‘No, my dear, no – not yet, Posy. When Posy is a great girl she can go to the cathedral every day. Only then, perhaps, Posy won't want to go.'

‘I thought that, perhaps, papa, you would sit with me a little while this morning, instead of going to morning prayers.'

‘Certainly, my dear – certainly. Only I do not like not going – for who can say how often I may be able to go again? There is so little left, Susan – so very little left.'

After that she had not the heart to ask him to stay, and therefore she went with him. As they passed down the stairs and out of the door she was astonished to find how weak were his footsteps– how powerless he was against the slightest misadventure. On this very day he would have tripped at the upward step at the cathedral door had she not been
with him. ‘Oh, papa,' she said, ‘indeed, indeed, you should not come here alone.' Then he apologised for his little stumble with many words and much shame, assuring her that anybody might trip on an occasion. It was purely an accident; and though it was a comfort to him to have had her arm, he was sure that he should have recovered himself even had he been alone. He always, he said, kept quite close to the wall, so that there might be no mistake – no possibility of an accident. All this he said volubly, but with confused words, in the covered stone passage leading into the transept. And, as he thus spoke, Mrs Grantly made up her mind that her father should never again go to the cathedral alone. He never did go again to the cathedral – alone.

When they returned to the deanery, Mr Harding was fluttered, weary, and unwell. When his daughter left him for a few minutes he told Mrs Baxter in confidence the story of his accident, and his great grief that his daughter should have seen it. ‘Laws amercy, sir, it was a blessing she was with you,' said Mrs Baxter; ‘it was, indeed, Mr Harding.' Then Mr Harding had been angry, and spoke almost crossly to Mrs Baxter; but, before she left the room, he found an opportunity of begging her pardon – not in a set speech to that effect, but by a little word of gentle kindness, which she had understood perfectly. ‘Papa,' said Mrs Grantly to him as soon as she had succeeded in getting both Posy and Mrs Baxter out of the room – against the doing of which, Mr Harding had manœuvred with all his little impotent skill – ‘Papa, you must promise me that you will not go to the cathedral again alone, till Eleanor comes home.' When he heard the sentence he looked at her with blank misery in his eyes. He made no attempt at remonstrance. He begged for no respite. The word had gone forth, and he knew that it must be obeyed. Though he would have hidden the signs of his weakness had he been able, he would not condescend to plead that he was strong. ‘If you think it wrong, my dear, I will not go alone,' he said. ‘Papa, I do; indeed I do. Dear papa, I would not hurt you by saying it if I did not know that I am right.' He was sitting with his hand upon the table, and, as she spoke to him, she put her hand upon his, caressing it. ‘My dear,' he said, ‘you are always right.'

She then left him again for a while, having some business out in
the city, and he was alone in his room for an hour. What was there left to him now in the world? Old as he was, and in some things almost childish, nevertheless, he thought of this keenly, and some half-realised remembrance of ‘the lean and slippered pantaloon'
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flitted across his mind, causing him a pang. What was there left to him now in the world? Posy and cat's-cradle! Then, in the midst of his regrets, as he sat with his back bent in his old easy-chair, with one arm over the shoulder of the chair, and the other hanging loose by his side, on a sudden there came across his face a smile as sweet as ever brightened the face of man or woman. He had been able to tell himself that he had no ground for complaint – great ground rather for rejoicing and gratitude. Had not the world and all in it been good to him; had he not children who loved him, who had done him honour, who had been to him always a crown of glory, never a mark for reproach; had not his lines fallen to him in very pleasant places; was it not his happy fate to go and leave it all amidst the good words and kind loving cares of devoted friends? Whose latter days had ever been more blessed than his? And for the future –? It was as he thought of this that that smile came across his face – as though it were already the face of an angel. And then he muttered to himself a word or two. ‘Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.'
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When Mrs Grantly returned she found him in jocund spirits. And yet she perceived that he was so weak that when he left his chair he could barely get across the room without assistance. Mrs Baxter, indeed, had not sent to her too soon, and it was well that the prohibition had come in time to prevent some terrible accident. ‘Papa,' she said, ‘I think you had better go with me to Plumstead. The carriage is here, and I can take you home so comfortably.' But he would not allow himself to be taken on this occasion to Plumstead. He smiled and thanked her, and put his hand into hers, and repeated his promise that he would not leave the house on any occasion without assistance, and declared himself specially thankful to her for coming to him on that special morning – but he would not be taken to Plumstead. ‘When the summer comes,' he said, ‘then, if you will have me for a few days!'