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 it is therefore unadvisable to multiply copies.’
‘Why should it not be known?’ asked the warden.
‘What a question for a man to ask!’ said the archdeacon, throwing up his hands in token of his surprise; ‘but it is like you — a child is not more innocent than you are in matters of business. Can’t you see that if we tell them that no action will lie against you, but that one may possibly lie against some other person or persons, that we shall be putting weapons into their hands, and be teaching them how to cut our own throats?’
The warden again sat silent, and the bishop again looked at him wistfully: ‘The only thing we have now to do,’ continued the archdeacon, ‘is to remain quiet, hold our peace, and let them play their own game as they please.’
‘We are not to make known then,’ said the warden, ‘that we have consulted the attorney-general, and that we are advised by him that the founder’s will is fully and fairly carried out.’
‘God bless my soul!’ said the archdeacon, ‘how odd it is that you will not see that all we are to do is to do nothing: why should we say anything about the founder’s will? We are in possession; and we know that they are not in a position to put us out; surely that is enough for the present.’
Mr Harding rose from his seat and paced thoughtfully up and down the library, the bishop the while watching him painfully at every turn, and the archdeacon continuing to pour forth his convictions that the affair was in a state to satisfy any prudent mind.
‘And The Jupiter?’ said the warden, stopping suddenly.
‘Oh! The Jupiter,’ answered the other. ‘The Jupiter can break no bones. You must bear with that; there is much, of course, which it is our bounden duty to bear; it cannot be all roses for us here,’ and the archdeacon looked exceedingly moral; ‘besides, the matter is too trivial, of too little general interest to be mentioned again in The Jupiter, unless we stir up the subject.’ And the archdeacon again looked exceedingly knowing and worldly wise.
The warden continued his walk; the hard and stinging words of that newspaper article, each one of which had thrust a thorn as it were into his inmost soul, were fresh in his memory; he had read it more than once, word by word, and what was worse, he fancied it was as well known to everyone as to himself. Was he to be looked on as the unjust griping priest he had been there described? Was he to be pointed at as the consumer of the bread of the poor, and to be allowed no means of refuting such charges, of clearing his begrimed name, of standing innocent in the world, as hitherto he had stood? Was he to bear all this, to receive as usual his now hated income, and be known as one of those greedy priests who by their rapacity have brought disgrace on their church? And why? Why should he bear all this? Why should he die, for he felt that he could not live, under such a weight of obloquy? As he paced up and down the room he resolved in his misery and enthusiasm that he could with pleasure, if he were allowed, give up his place, abandon his pleasant home, leave the hospital, and live poorly, happily, and with an unsullied name, on the small remainder of his means.
He was a man somewhat shy of speaking of himself, even before those who knew him best, and whom he loved the most; but at last it burst forth from him, and with a somewhat jerking eloquence he declared that he could not, would not, bear this misery any longer.
‘If it can be proved,’ said he at last, ‘that I have a just and honest right to this, as God well knows I always deemed I had; if this salary or stipend be really my due, I am not less anxious than another to retain it. I have the well-being of my child to look to. I am too old to miss without some pain the comforts to which I have been used; and I am, as others are, anxious to prove to the world that I have been right, and to uphold the place I have held; but I cannot do it at such a cost as this. I cannot bear this. Could you tell me to do so?’ And he appealed, almost in tears, to the bishop, who had left his chair, and was now leaning on the warden’s arm as he stood on the further side of the table facing the archdeacon. ‘Could you tell me to sit there at ease, indifferent, and satisfied, while such things as these are said loudly of me in the world?’
The bishop could feel for him and sympathise with him, but he could not advise him, he could only say, ‘No, no, you shall be asked to do nothing that is painful; you shall do just what your heart tells you to be right; you shall do whatever you think best yourself. Theophilus, don’t advise him, pray don’t advise the warden to do anything which is painful.’
But the archdeacon, though he could not sympathise, could advise; and he saw that the time had come when it behoved him to do so in a somewhat peremptory manner.
‘Why, my lord,’ he said, speaking to his father: and when he called his father ‘my lord,’ the
