It was sometimes sad enough to watch him as he sat alone. He would have a book near him, and for a while would keep it in his hands. It would generally be some volume of good old standard theology with which he had been, or supposed himself to have been, conversant from his youth. But the book would soon be laid aside, and gradually he would move himself away from it, and he would stand about in the room, looking now out of a window from which he would fancy that he could not be seen, or gazing up at some print which he had known for years; and then he would sit down for a while in one chair, and for a while in another, while his mind was wandering back into old days, thinking of old troubles and remembering his old joys. And he had a habit, when he was sure that he that he was not watched, of creeping up to a great black wooden case, which always stood in one corner of the sitting-room which he occupied in the deanery. Mr. Harding, when he was younger, had been a performer on the violoncello, and in this case there was still the instrument from which he had been wont to extract the sounds which he had so dearly loved. Now in these latter days he never made any attempt to play. Soon after he had come to the deanery there had fallen upon him an illness, and after that he had never again asked for his bow. They who were around him—his daughter chiefly and her husband—had given the matter much thought, arguing with themselves whether or no it would be better to invite him to resume the task he so loved; for of all the works of his life this playing on the violoncello had been the sweetest to him; but even before that illness his hand had greatly failed him, and the dean and Mrs. Arabin had agreed that it would be better to let the matter pass without a word. He had never asked to be allowed to play. He had expressed no regrets. When he himself would propose that his daughter should “give them a little music,”—and he would make such a proposition on every evening that was suitable—he would never say a word of those former performances at which he himself had taken a part. But it had become known to Mrs. Arabin, through the servants, that he had once dragged the instrument forth from its case when he had thought the house to be nearly deserted; and a wail of sounds had been heard, very low, very short-lived, recurring now and again at fitful intervals. He had at those times attempted to play, as though with a muffled bow—so that none should know of his vanity and folly. Then there had been further consultations at the deanery, and it had been again agreed that it would be best to say nothing to him of his music.
In these latter days of which I am now speaking he would never draw the instrument out of its case. Indeed he was aware that it was too heavy for him to handle without assistance. But he would open the prison door, and gaze upon the thing that he loved, and he would pass his fingers among the broad strings, and ever and anon he would produce from one of them a low, melancholy, almost unearthly sound. And then he would pause, never daring to produce two such notes in succession—one close upon the other. And these last sad moans of the old fiddle were now known through the household. They were the ghosts of the melody of days long past. He imagined that his visits to the box were unsuspected—that none knew of the folly of his old fingers which could not keep themselves from touching the wires; but the voice of the violoncello had been recognised by the servants and by his daughter, and when that low wail was heard through the house—like the last dying note of a dirge—they would all know that Mr. Harding was visiting his ancient friend.
When the dean and Mrs. Arabin had first talked of going abroad for a long visit, it had been understood that Mr. Harding should pass the period of their absence with his other daughter at Plumstead; but when the time came he begged of Mrs. Arabin to be allowed to remain in his old rooms. “Of course I shall go backwards and forwards,” he had said. “There is nothing I like so much as a change now and then.” The result had been that he had gone once to Plumstead during the dean’s absence. When he had thus remonstrated, begging go be allowed to remain in Barchester, Mrs. Arabin had declared her intention of giving up her tour. In telling her father of this she had not said that her altered purpose had arisen from her disinclination to leave him alone—but he had perceived that it was so, and had then consented to be taken over to Plumstead. There was nothing, he said, which he would like so much as going over to Plumstead for four or five months. It had ended in his having his own way altogether. The Arabins had gone upon their tour, and he was left in possession of the deanery. “I should not like to die out of Barchester,” he said to himself in excuse to himself for his disinclination to sojourn long under the archdeacon’s roof. But, in truth, the archdeacon, who loved him well and who, after a fashion, had always been good to him—who had always spoken of the connexion which had bound the two families together as the great blessing of his life—was too rough in his greetings for the old man. Mr. Harding had ever mixed something of fear with his warm affection for his elder son-in-law, and now in these closing hours of his life he could not avoid a certain amount of shrinking from that loud voice—a certain inaptitude to be quite at ease in that commanding presence. The dean, his second son-in-law, had been a modern friend in comparison with the archdeacon; but the dean was more gentle with him; and then the dean’s wife had ever been the dearest to him of human beings. It may be a doubt whether one of the dean’s children was not now almost more dear, and whether in these days he did not have more free communication with that little girl than with any other human being. Her name was Susan, but he had always called her Posy, having himself invented for her that soubriquet. When it had been proposed to him to pass the winter and spring at Plumstead, the suggestion had been made alluring by a promise that Posy also should be taken to Mrs. Grantly’s house. But he, as we have seen, had remained at the deanery, and Posy had remained with him.
Posy was now five years old, and could talk well, and had her own ideas of things. Posy’s eyes—hers, and no others besides her own—were allowed to see the inhabitant of the big black case; and now that the deanery was so nearly deserted, Posy’s fingers had touched the strings and had produced an infantine moan. “Grandpa, let me do it again.” Twang! It was not, however, in truth, a twang, but a sound as of a prolonged dull, almost deadly, hum-m-m-m-m! On this occasion the moan was not entirely infantine—Posy’s fingers having been something too strong—and the case was closed and locked, and grandpa shook his head.
“But Mrs. Baxter won’t be angry,” said Posy. Mrs. Baxter was the housekeeper in the deanery, and had Mr. Harding under her special charge.
“No, my darling; Mrs. Baxter will not be angry, but we mustn’t disturb the house.”
“No,” said Posy, with much of important awe in her tone; “we mustn’t disturb the house; must we, grandpapa?” And so she gave in her adhesion to the closing of the case. But Posy could play cat’s-cradle, and as cat’s-cradle did not disturb the house at all, there was a good deal of cat’s-cradle played in those days. Posy’s fingers were so soft and pretty, so small and deft, that the dear old man delighted in taking the strings from them, and in having them taken from his own by those tender little digits.
On the afternoon after the conversation respecting Grace Crawley which is recorded in the early part of this chapter, a messenger from Barchester went over to Plumstead, and part of his mission consisted of a note from Mrs. Baxter to Mrs. Grantly, beginning, “Honoured Madam,” and informing Mrs. Grantly, among other things, that her “respected papa,” as Mrs. Baxter called him, was not quite so well as usual; not that Mrs. Baxter thought there was much the matter. Mr. Harding had been to the cathedral service, as was usual with him, but had come home leaning on a lady’s arm, who had thought it well to stay with him at the door till it had been opened for him. After that “Miss Posy” had found him asleep, and had been unable—or if not unable, unwilling, to wake him. “Miss Posy” had come down to Mrs. Baxter somewhat in a fright, and hence this letter had been written. Mrs. Baxter thought that there was nothing “to fright” Mrs. Grantly, and she wasn’t sure that she should have written at all only that Dick was bound to go over to Plumstead with the wool; but as Dick was going, Mrs. Baxter thought it proper to send her duty, and to say that to her humble way of thinking perhaps it might be best that Mr. Harding shouldn’t go alone to the cathedral every morning. “If the dear reverend gentleman was to get a tumble, ma’am,” said the letter, “it would be awkward.” Then Mrs. Grantly remembered that she had left her father almost without a greeting on the previous day, and she resolved that she would go over very early on the following morning—so early that she would be at the deanery before her father should have gone to the cathedral.
“He ought to have come over here, and not stayed there by himself,” said the archdeacon, when his wife told him of her intention.
“It is too late to think of that now, my dear; and one can understand, I think, that he should not like leaving the cathedral as long as he can attend it. The truth is he does not like being out of Barchester.”
“He would be much better here,” said the archdeacon. “Of course you can have the carriage and go over. We can breakfast at eight; and if you can bring him back with you, do. I should tell him that he ought to come.” Mrs. Grantly made no answer to this, knowing very well that she could not bring herself to go beyond the gentlest persuasion with her father, and on the next morning she was at the deanery by ten o’clock. Half-past ten was the hour at which the service began. Mrs. Baxter contrived to meet her before she saw her father, and begged her not to let it be known that any special tidings of Mr. Harding’s failing strength had been sent from the deanery to Plumstead. “And how is my father?” asked Mrs. Grantly. “Well, then, ma’am,” said Baxter, “in one sense he’s finely. He took a morsel of early lamb to his dinner yesterday, and relished it ever so well—only he gave Miss Posy the best part of it. And then he sat with Miss Posy quite happy for an hour or so. And then he slept in his chair; and you know, ma’am, we never wakes him. And after that old Skulpit toddled up from the hospital,”—this was Hiram’s Hospital, of which establishment, in the city of Barchester, Mr. Harding had once been the warden and kind master, as has been told in former chronicles of the city—”and your papa has said, ma’am, you know, that he is always to see any of the old men when they come up. And Skulpit is sly, and no better than he should be, and got money from your father, ma’am, I know. And then he had just a drop of tea, and after that I took him his glass of port wine with my own hands. And it touched me, ma’am, so it did, when he said, ‘Oh, Mrs. Baxter, how good you are; you know well what it is I like.’ And then he went to bed. I listened hard—not from idle curiosity, ma’am, as you, who know me, will believe, but just because it’s becoming to know what he’s about, as there might be an accident, you know, ma’am.” “You are very good, Mrs. Baxter, very good.” “Thank ye, ma’am, for saying so. And so I listened hard; but he didn’t go to his music, poor gentleman; and I think he had a quiet night. He doesn’t sleep much at nights, poor gentleman, but he’s very quiet; leastwise he was last night.” This was the bulletin which Mrs. Baxter gave to Mrs. Grantly on that morning before Mrs. Grantly saw her father.
She found him preparing himself for his visit to the cathedral. Some year or two—but no more—before the date of which we are speaking, he had still taken some small part in the service; and while he had done so he had of course worn his surplice. Living so close to the cathedral—so close that he could almost walk out of the house into the transept—he had kept his surplice in his own room, and had gone down in his vestment. It had been a bitter day to him when he had first found himself constrained to abandon the white garment which he loved. He had encountered some failure in the performance of the slight clerical task allotted to him, and the dean had tenderly advised him to desist. He did not utter one word of remonstrance. “It will perhaps be better,” the dean had said. “Yes—it will be better,” Mr. Harding had replied. “Few have had accorded to them the high privilege of serving their Master in His house for so many years—though few more humbly, or with lower gifts.” But on the following morning, and for nearly a week afterwards, he had been unable to face the minor canon and the vergers, and the old women who knew him so well, in his ordinary black garments. At last he went down with the dean, and occupied a stall close to the dean’s seat—far away from that in which he had sat for so many years—and in this seat he had said his prayers ever since that day. And now his surplices were washed and ironed and folded and put away; but there were moments in which he would stealthily visit them, as he also stealthily visited his friend in the black wooden case. This was very melancholy, and the sadness of it was felt by all those who lived with him; but he never alluded himself to any of those bereavements which age brought upon him. Whatever might be his regrets, he kept them ever within his own breast.
Posy was with him when Mrs. Grantly went up into his room, holding for him his hat and stick while he was engaged in brushing a suspicion of dust from his black gaiters. “Grandpapa, here is aunt Susan,” said Posy. The old man looked up with something—with some slightest sign of that habitual fear which was always aroused within his bosom by visitations from Plumstead. Had Mrs. Arabin thoroughly understood the difference in her father’s feeling toward herself and toward her sister, I think she would hardly have gone forth upon any tour while he remained with her in the deanery. It is very hard sometimes to know how intensely we are loved, and of what value our presence is to those who love us! Mrs. Grantly saw the look—did not analyse it, did not quite understand it—but felt, as she had so often felt before, that it was not altogether laden with welcome. But all this had nothing to do with the duty on which she had come; nor did it, in the slightest degree, militate against her own affection. “Papa,” she said, kissing him, “you are surprised to see me so early?”