Barchester Towers, Anthony Trollope [top business books of all time .txt] 📗

“It’s all over, Mrs. Phillips?” asked Mr. Harding.

“My lord’s no more,” said Mrs. Phillips, turning round and curtseying low with solemn face; “his lordship’s gone more like a sleeping babby than any that I ever saw.”

“It’s a great relief, Archdeacon,” said Mr. Harding, “a great relief⁠—dear, good, excellent old man. Oh that our last moments may be as innocent and as peaceful as his!”

“Surely,” said Mrs. Phillips. “The Lord be praised for all his mercies; but, for a meek, mild, gentle-spoken Christian, his lordship was⁠—” and Mrs. Phillips, with unaffected but easy grief, put up her white apron to her flowing eyes.

“You cannot but rejoice that it is over,” said Mr. Harding, still consoling his friend. The archdeacon’s mind, however, had already travelled from the death chamber to the closet of the prime minister. He had brought himself to pray for his father’s life, but now that that life was done, minutes were too precious to be lost. It was now useless to dally with the fact of the bishop’s death⁠—useless to lose perhaps everything for the pretence of a foolish sentiment.

But how was he to act while his father-in-law stood there holding his hand? How, without appearing unfeeling, was he to forget his father in the bishop⁠—to overlook what he had lost, and think only of what he might possibly gain?

“No, I suppose not,” said he, at last, in answer to Mr. Harding. “We have all expected it so long.”

Mr. Harding took him by the arm and led him from the room. “We will see him again tomorrow morning,” said he; “we had better leave the room now to the women.” And so they went downstairs.

It was already evening and nearly dark. It was most important that the prime minister should know that night that the diocese was vacant. Everything might depend on it; and so, in answer to Mr. Harding’s further consolation, the archdeacon suggested that a telegraph message should be immediately sent off to London. Mr. Harding, who had really been somewhat surprised to find Dr. Grantly, as he thought, so much affected, was rather taken aback, but he made no objection. He knew that the archdeacon had some hope of succeeding to his father’s place, though he by no means knew how highly raised that hope had been.

“Yes,” said Dr. Grantly, collecting himself and shaking off his weakness, “we must send a message at once; we don’t know what might be the consequence of delay. Will you do it?”

“I! Oh, yes; certainly. I’ll do anything, only I don’t know exactly what it is you want.”

Dr. Grantly sat down before a writing-table and, taking pen and ink, wrote on a slip of paper as follows:⁠—

By Electric Telegraph

For the Earl of ⸻, Downing Street, or elsewhere.

The Bishop of Barchester is dead.

Message sent by the Rev. Septimus Harding.

“There,” said he. “Just take that to the telegraph office at the railway station and give it in as it is; they’ll probably make you copy it on to one of their own slips; that’s all you’ll have to do; then you’ll have to pay them half a crown.” And the archdeacon put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the necessary sum.

Mr. Harding felt very much like an errand-boy, and also felt that he was called on to perform his duties as such at rather an unseemly time, but he said nothing, and took the slip of paper and the proffered coin.

“But you’ve put my name into it, Archdeacon.”

“Yes,” said the other, “there should be the name of some clergyman, you know, and what name so proper as that of so old a friend as yourself? The earl won’t look at the name, you may be sure of that; but my dear Mr. Harding, pray don’t lose any time.”

Mr. Harding got as far as the library door on his way to the station, when he suddenly remembered the news with which he was fraught when he entered the poor bishop’s bedroom. He had found the moment so inopportune for any mundane tidings, that he had repressed the words which were on his tongue, and immediately afterwards all recollection of the circumstance was for the time banished by the scene which had occurred.

“But, Archdeacon,” said he, turning back, “I forgot to tell you⁠—the ministry are out.”

“Out!” ejaculated the archdeacon, in a tone which too plainly showed his anxiety and dismay, although under the circumstances of the moment he endeavoured to control himself. “Out! Who told you so?”

Mr. Harding explained that news to this effect had come down by electric telegraph, and that the tidings had been left at the palace door by Mr. Chadwick.

The archdeacon sat silent for awhile meditating, and Mr. Harding stood looking at him. “Never mind,” said the archdeacon at last; “send the message all the same. The news must be sent to someone, and there is at present no one else in a position to receive it. Do it at once, my dear friend; you know I would not trouble you, were I in a state to do it myself. A few minutes’ time is of the greatest importance.”

Mr. Harding went out and sent the message, and it may be as well that we should follow it to its destination. Within thirty minutes of its leaving Barchester it reached the Earl of ⸻ in his inner library. What elaborate letters, what eloquent appeals, what indignant remonstrances he might there have to frame, at such a moment, may be conceived but not described! How he was preparing his thunder for successful rivals, standing like a British peer with his back to the sea-coal fire, and his hands in his breeches pockets⁠—how his fine eye was lit up with anger, and his forehead gleamed with patriotism⁠—how he stamped his foot as he thought of his heavy associates⁠—how he all but swore as he remembered how much too clever one of them had been⁠—my creative readers may imagine. But was he so engaged? No: history and truth compel me to deny it. He was sitting easily in a lounging chair, conning over