“What is it, Mrs. Baxter?”
“Oh, sir!”
“Is anything the matter?” And the old man attempted to raise himself in his bed.
“You mustn’t frighten grandpa,” said Posy.
“No, my dear; and there isn’t nothing to frighten him. There isn’t indeed, Mr. Harding. They’re all well at Plumstead, and when I heard from the missus at Venice, everything was going on well.”
“But what is it, Mrs. Baxter?”
“God forgive her all her sins—Mrs. Proudie ain’t no more.” Now there had been a terrible feud between the palace and the deanery for years, in carrying on which the persons of the opposed households were wont to express themselves with eager animosity. Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Draper never spoke to each other. The two coachmen each longed for an opportunity to take the other before a magistrate for some breach of the law of the road in driving. The footmen abused each other, and the grooms occasionally fought. The masters and mistresses contented themselves with simple hatred. Therefore it was not surprising that Mrs. Baxter, in speaking of the death of Mrs. Proudie, should remember first her sins.
“Mrs. Proudie dead!” said the old man.
“Indeed she is, Mr. Harding,” said Mrs. Baxter, putting both her hands together piously. “We’re just grass, ain’t we, sir! and dust and clay and flowers of the field?” Whether Mrs. Proudie had most partaken of the clayey nature or of the flowery nature, Mrs. Baxter did not stop to consider.
“Mrs. Proudie dead!” said Posy, with a solemnity that was all her own. “Then she won’t scold the poor bishop any more.”
“No, my dear; she won’t scold anybody any more; and it will be a blessing for some, I must say. Everybody is always so considerate in this house, Miss Posy, that we none of us know nothing about what that is.”
“Dead!” said Mr. Harding again. “I think, if you please, Mrs. Baxter, you shall leave me for a little time, and take Miss Posy with you.” He had been in the city of Barchester some fifty years, and here was one who might have been his daughter, who had come there scarcely ten years since, and who now had gone before him! He had never loved Mrs. Proudie. Perhaps he had gone as near to disliking Mrs. Proudie as he had ever gone to disliking any person. Mrs. Proudie had wounded him in every part that was most sensitive. It would be long to tell, nor need it be told now, how she had ridiculed his cathedral work, how she had made nothing of him, how she had despised him, always manifesting her contempt plainly. He had been even driven to rebuke her, and it had perhaps been the only personal rebuke which he had ever uttered in Barchester. But now she was gone; and he thought of her simply as an active pious woman, who had been taken away from her work before her time. And for the bishop, no idea ever entered Mr. Harding’s mind as to the removal of a thorn. The man had lost his life’s companion at that time of life when such a companion is most needed; and Mr. Harding grieved for him with sincerity.
The news went out to Plumstead Episcopi by the postman, and happened to reach the archdeacon as he was talking to his sexton at the little gate leading into the churchyard. “Mrs. Proudie dead!” he almost shouted, as the postman notified the fact to him. “Impossible!”
“It be so for zartain, yer reverence,” said the postman, who was proud of his news.
“Heavens!” ejaculated the archdeacon, and then hurried in to his wife. “My dear,” he said—and as he spoke he could hardly deliver himself of his words, so eager was he to speak them—“who do you think is dead? Gracious heavens! Mrs. Proudie is dead!” Mrs. Grantly dropped from her hand the teaspoonful of tea that was just going into the pot, and repeated her husband’s words. “Mrs. Proudie dead?” There was a pause, during which they looked into each other’s faces. “My dear, I don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Grantly.
But she did believe it very shortly. There were no prayers at Plumstead rectory that morning. The archdeacon immediately went out into the village, and soon obtained sufficient evidence of the truth of that which the postman had told him. Then he rushed back to his wife. “It’s true,” he said. “It’s quite true. She’s dead. There’s no doubt about that. She’s dead. It was last night about seven. That was when they found her, at least, and she may have died about an hour before. Filgrave says not more than an hour.”
“And how did she die?”
“Heart-complaint. She was standing up, taking hold of the bedstead, and so they found her.” Then there was a pause, during which the archdeacon sat down to his breakfast. “I wonder how he felt when he heard it?”
“Of course he was terribly shocked.”
“I’ve no doubt he was shocked. Any man would be shocked. But when you come to think of it, what a relief!”
“How can you speak of it in that way?” said Mrs. Grantly.
“How am I to speak of it in any other way?” said the archdeacon. “Of course I shouldn’t go and say it out in the street.”
“I don’t think you ought to say it anywhere,” said Mrs. Grantly. “The poor man no doubt feels about his wife in the same way that anybody else would.”
“And if any other poor man has got such a wife as she was, you may be quite sure that he would be glad to be rid of her. I don’t say that he wished her to die, or that he would have done anything to contrive her death—”
“Gracious, archdeacon; do, pray, hold your tongue.”
“But it stands to
