Barchester Towers Anthony Trollope (iphone ebook reader .TXT) đ
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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âItâs all over, Mrs. Phillips?â asked Mr. Harding.
âMy lordâs no more,â said Mrs. Phillips, turning round and curtseying low with solemn face; âhis lordshipâs gone more like a sleeping babby than any that I ever saw.â
âItâs a great relief, Archdeacon,â said Mr. Harding, âa great reliefâ âdear, good, excellent old man. Oh that our last moments may be as innocent and as peaceful as his!â
âSurely,â said Mrs. Phillips. âThe Lord be praised for all his mercies; but, for a meek, mild, gentle-spoken Christian, his lordship wasâ ââ and Mrs. Phillips, with unaffected but easy grief, put up her white apron to her flowing eyes.
âYou cannot but rejoice that it is over,â said Mr. Harding, still consoling his friend. The archdeaconâs mind, however, had already travelled from the death chamber to the closet of the prime minister. He had brought himself to pray for his fatherâs 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 bishopâs deathâ âuseless 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 bishopâ âto overlook what he had lost, and think only of what he might possibly gain?
âNo, I suppose not,â said he, at last, in answer to Mr. Harding. âWe have all expected it so long.â
Mr. Harding took him by the arm and led him from the room. âWe will see him again tomorrow morning,â said he; âwe had better leave the room now to the women.â 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. Hardingâs 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 fatherâs place, though he by no means knew how highly raised that hope had been.
âYes,â said Dr. Grantly, collecting himself and shaking off his weakness, âwe must send a message at once; we donât know what might be the consequence of delay. Will you do it?â
âI! Oh, yes; certainly. Iâll do anything, only I donât know exactly what it is you want.â
Dr. Grantly sat down before a writing-table and, taking pen and ink, wrote on a slip of paper as follows:â â
By Electric Telegraph
For the Earl of âž», Downing Street, or elsewhere.
The Bishop of Barchester is dead.
Message sent by the Rev. Septimus Harding.
âThere,â said he. âJust take that to the telegraph office at the railway station and give it in as it is; theyâll probably make you copy it on to one of their own slips; thatâs all youâll have to do; then youâll have to pay them half a crown.â 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.
âBut youâve put my name into it, Archdeacon.â
âYes,â said the other, âthere 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 wonât look at the name, you may be sure of that; but my dear Mr. Harding, pray donât lose any time.â
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 bishopâs 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.
âBut, Archdeacon,â said he, turning back, âI forgot to tell youâ âthe ministry are out.â
âOut!â 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. âOut! Who told you so?â
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. âNever mind,â said the archdeacon at last; âsend 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 minutesâ time is of the greatest importance.â
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 âž» 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 pocketsâ âhow his fine eye was lit up with anger, and his forehead gleamed with patriotismâ âhow he stamped his foot as he thought of his heavy associatesâ âhow he all but swore as he remembered how much too clever one of them had beenâ âmy 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
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