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

same room, in that sanctum sanctorum of the rectory, to which we have already been introduced. As he entered he heard the click of a certain patent lock, but it struck him with no surprise; the worthy clergyman was no doubt hiding from eyes profane his last much-studied sermon; for the archdeacon, though he preached but seldom, was famous for his sermons. No room, Bold thought, could have been more becoming for a dignitary of the church; each wall was loaded with theology; over each separate bookcase was printed in small gold letters the names of those great divines whose works were ranged beneath: beginning from the early fathers in due chronological order, there were to be found the precious labours of the chosen servants of the church down to the last pamphlet written in opposition to the consecration of Dr. Hampden; and raised above this were to be seen the busts of the greatest among the great: Chrysostom, St. Augustine, Thomas à Becket, Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop Laud, and Dr. Philpotts.

Every appliance that could make study pleasant and give ease to the overtoiled brain was there; chairs made to relieve each limb and muscle; reading-desks and writing-desks to suit every attitude; lamps and candles mechanically contrived to throw their light on any favoured spot, as the student might desire; a shoal of newspapers to amuse the few leisure moments which might be stolen from the labours of the day; and then from the window a view right through a bosky vista along which ran a broad green path from the rectory to the church⁠—at the end of which the tawny-tinted fine old tower was seen with all its variegated pinnacles and parapets. Few parish churches in England are in better repair, or better worth keeping so, than that at Plumstead Episcopi; and yet it is built in a faulty style: the body of the church is low⁠—so low, that the nearly flat leaden roof would be visible from the churchyard, were it not for the carved parapet with which it is surrounded. It is cruciform, though the transepts are irregular, one being larger than the other; and the tower is much too high in proportion to the church. But the colour of the building is perfect; it is that rich yellow gray which one finds nowhere but in the south and west of England, and which is so strong a characteristic of most of our old houses of Tudor architecture. The stone work also is beautiful; the mullions of the windows and the thick tracery of the Gothic workmanship is as rich as fancy can desire; and though in gazing on such a structure one knows by rule that the old priests who built it, built it wrong, one cannot bring oneself to wish that they should have made it other than it is.

When Bold was ushered into the book-room, he found its owner standing with his back to the empty fireplace ready to receive him, and he could not but perceive that that expansive brow was elated with triumph, and that those full heavy lips bore more prominently than usual an appearance of arrogant success.

“Well, Mr. Bold,” said he;⁠—“well, what can I do for you? Very happy, I can assure you, to do anything for such a friend of my father-in-law.”

“I hope you’ll excuse my calling, Dr. Grantly.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said the archdeacon; “I can assure you, no apology is necessary from Mr. Bold;⁠—only let me know what I can do for him.”

Dr. Grantly was standing himself, and he did not ask Bold to sit, and therefore he had to tell his tale standing, leaning on the table, with his hat in his hand. He did, however, manage to tell it; and as the archdeacon never once interrupted him, or even encouraged him by a single word, he was not long in coming to the end of it.

“And so, Mr. Bold, I’m to understand, I believe, that you are desirous of abandoning this attack upon Mr. Harding.”

“Oh, Dr. Grantly, there has been no attack, I can assure you⁠—”

“Well, well, we won’t quarrel about words; I should call it an attack;⁠—most men would so call an endeavour to take away from a man every shilling of income that he has to live upon; but it shan’t be an attack, if you don’t like it; you wish to abandon this⁠—this little game of backgammon you’ve begun to play.”

“I intend to put an end to the legal proceedings which I have commenced.”

“I understand,” said the archdeacon. “You’ve already had enough of it; well, I can’t say that I am surprised; carrying on a losing lawsuit where one has nothing to gain, but everything to pay, is not pleasant.”

Bold turned very red in the face. “You misinterpret my motives,” said he; “but, however, that is of little consequence. I did not come to trouble you with my motives, but to tell you a matter of fact. Good morning, Dr. Grantly.”

“One moment⁠—one moment,” said the other. “I don’t exactly appreciate the taste which induced you to make any personal communication to me on the subject; but I dare say I’m wrong, I dare say your judgment is the better of the two; but as you have done me the honour⁠—as you have, as it were, forced me into a certain amount of conversation on a subject which had better, perhaps, have been left to our lawyers, you will excuse me if I ask you to hear my reply to your communication.”

“I am in no hurry, Dr. Grantly.”

“Well, I am, Mr. Bold; my time is not exactly leisure time, and, therefore, if you please, we’ll go to the point at once:⁠—you’re going to abandon this lawsuit?”⁠—and he paused for a reply.

“Yes, Dr. Grantly, I am.”

“Having exposed a gentleman who was one of your father’s warmest friends to all the ignominy and insolence which the press could heap upon his name, having somewhat ostentatiously declared that it was your duty as a man of high public virtue to protect those poor old fools whom you have humbugged there at the hospital,