The Warden, Anthony Trollope [well read books .TXT] 📗

side and discomfiture on that of his enemies. The bishop wanted peace on the subject; a settled peace if possible, but peace at any rate till the short remainder of his own days had spun itself out. Mr. Harding required not only success and peace, but he also demanded that he might stand justified before the world.

The bishop, however, was comparatively easy to deal with; and before the arrival of the other, the dutiful son had persuaded his father that all was going on well, and then the warden arrived.

It was Mr. Harding’s wont, whenever he spent a morning at the palace, to seat himself immediately at the bishop’s elbow, the bishop occupying a huge armchair fitted up with candlesticks, a reading table, a drawer, and other paraphernalia, the position of which chair was never moved, summer or winter; and when, as was usual, the archdeacon was there also, he confronted the two elders, who thus were enabled to fight the battle against him together;⁠—and together submit to defeat, for such was their constant fate.

Our warden now took his accustomed place, having greeted his son-in-law as he entered, and then affectionately inquired after his friend’s health. There was a gentleness about the bishop to which the soft womanly affection of Mr. Harding particularly endeared itself, and it was quaint to see how the two mild old priests pressed each other’s hand, and smiled and made little signs of love.

“Sir Abraham’s opinion has come at last,” began the archdeacon. Mr. Harding had heard so much, and was most anxious to know the result.

“It is quite favourable,” said the bishop, pressing his friend’s arm. “I am so glad.”

Mr. Harding looked at the mighty bearer of the important news for confirmation of these glad tidings.

“Yes,” said the archdeacon; “Sir Abraham has given most minute attention to the case; indeed, I knew he would;⁠—most minute attention; and his opinion is⁠—and as to his opinion on such a subject being correct, no one who knows Sir Abraham’s character can doubt⁠—his opinion is, that they haven’t got a leg to stand on.”

“But as how, archdeacon?”

“Why, in the first place:⁠—but you’re no lawyer, warden, and I doubt you won’t understand it; the gist of the matter is this:⁠—under Hiram’s will two paid guardians have been selected for the hospital; the law will say two paid servants, and you and I won’t quarrel with the name.”

“At any rate I will not if I am one of the servants,” said Mr. Harding. “A rose, you know⁠—”

“Yes, yes,” said the archdeacon, impatient of poetry at such a time. “Well, two paid servants, we’ll say; one to look after the men, and the other to look after the money. You and Chadwick are these two servants, and whether either of you be paid too much, or too little, more or less in fact than the founder willed, it’s as clear as daylight that no one can fall foul of either of you for receiving an allotted stipend.”

“That does seem clear,” said the bishop, who had winced visibly at the words servants and stipend, which, however, appeared to have caused no uneasiness to the archdeacon.

“Quite clear,” said he, “and very satisfactory. In point of fact, it being necessary to select such servants for the use of the hospital, the pay to be given to them must depend on the rate of pay for such services, according to their market value at the period in question; and those who manage the hospital must be the only judges of this.”

“And who does manage the hospital?” asked the warden.

“Oh, let them find that out; that’s another question: the action is brought against you and Chadwick; that’s your defence, and a perfect and full defence it is. Now that I think very satisfactory.”

“Well,” said the bishop, looking inquiringly up into his friend’s face, who sat silent awhile, and apparently not so well satisfied.

“And conclusive,” continued the archdeacon; “if they press it to a jury, which they won’t do, no twelve men in England will take five minutes to decide against them.”

“But according to that,” said Mr. Harding, “I might as well have sixteen hundred a year as eight, if the managers choose to allot it to me; and as I am one of the managers, if not the chief manager, myself, that can hardly be a just arrangement.”

“Oh, well; all that’s nothing to the question. The question is, whether this intruding fellow, and a lot of cheating attorneys and pestilent dissenters, are to interfere with an arrangement which everyone knows is essentially just and serviceable to the church. Pray don’t let us be splitting hairs, and that amongst ourselves, or there’ll never be an end of the cause or the cost.”

Mr. Harding again sat silent for a while, during which the bishop once and again pressed his arm, and looked in his face to see if he could catch a gleam of a contented and eased mind; but there was no such gleam, and the poor warden continued playing sad dirges on invisible stringed instruments in all manner of positions; he was ruminating in his mind on this opinion of Sir Abraham, looking to it wearily and earnestly for satisfaction, but finding none. At last he said, “Did you see the opinion, archdeacon?”

The archdeacon said he had not⁠—that was to say, he had⁠—that was, he had not seen the opinion itself; he had seen what had been called a copy, but he could not say whether of a whole or part; nor could he say that what he had seen were the ipsissima verba of the great man himself; but what he had seen contained exactly the decision which he had announced, and which he again declared to be to his mind extremely satisfactory.

“I should like to see the opinion,” said the warden; “that is, a copy of it.”

“Well, I suppose you can if you make a point of it; but I don’t see the use myself; of course it is essential that the purport of it should not be known, and