The Last Chronicle of Barset

remembered in Barchester. Painful as it was for them, the two women would be there, and the two sisters would walk together;⁠—nor would they go before their husbands. Then there were the archdeacon’s two sons⁠—for the Rev. Charles Grantly had come to Plumstead on the occasion. And in the vaulted passage which runs between the deanery and the end of the transept all the chapter, with the choir, the prebendaries, with the fat old chancellor, the precentor, and the minor canons down to the little choristers⁠—they all were there, and followed in at the transept door, two by two. And in the transept they were joined by another clergyman whom no one had expected to see that day. The bishop was there, looking old and worn⁠—almost as though he were unconscious of what he was doing. Since his wife’s death no one had seen him out of the palace or of the palace grounds till that day. But there he was⁠—and they made way for him into the procession behind the two ladies⁠—and the archdeacon, when he saw it, resolved that there should be peace in his heart, if peace might be possible.

They made their way into the cloisters where the grave had been dug⁠—as many as might be allowed to follow. The place indeed was open to all who chose to come; but they who had only slightly known the man, refrained from pressing upon those who had a right to stand around his coffin. But there was one other there whom the faithful chronicler of Barchester should mention. Before any other one had reached the spot, the sexton and the verger between them had led in between them, among the graves beneath the cloisters, a blind man, very old, with a wondrous stoop, but who must have owned a grand stature before extreme old age had bent him, and they placed him sitting on a stone in the corner of the archway. But as soon as the shuffling of steps reached his ears, he raised himself with the aid of his stick, and stood during the service leaning against the pillar. The blind man was so old that he might almost have been Mr. Harding’s father. This was John Bunce, a bedesman from Hiram’s Hospital⁠—and none perhaps there had known Mr. Harding better than he had known him. When the earth had been thrown on to the coffin, and the service was over, and they were about to disperse, Mrs. Arabin went up to the old man, and taking his hand between hers whispered a word into his ear. “Oh, Miss Eleanor,” he said. “Oh, Miss Eleanor!” Within a fortnight he also was lying within the cathedral precincts.

And so they buried Mr. Septimus Harding, formerly Warden of Hiram’s Hospital in the city of Barchester, of whom the chronicler may say that that city never knew a sweeter gentleman or a better Christian.

LXXXII

The Last Scene at Hogglestock

The fortnight following Mr. Harding’s death was passed very quietly at Hogglestock, for during that time no visitor made an appearance in the parish except Mr. Snapper on the Sundays. Mr. Snapper, when he had completed the service on the first of these Sundays, intimated to Mr. Crawley his opinion that probably that gentleman might himself wish to resume the duties on the following Sabbath. Mr. Crawley, however, courteously declined to do anything of the kind. He said that it was quite out of the question that he should do so without a direct communication made to him from the bishop, or by the bishop’s order. The assizes had, of course, gone by, and all question of the trial was over. Nevertheless⁠—as Mr. Snapper said⁠—the bishop had not, as yet, given any order. Mr. Snapper was of opinion that the bishop in these days was not quite himself. He had spoken to the bishop about it and the bishop had told him peevishly⁠—“I must say quite peevishly,” Mr. Snapper had said⁠—that nothing was to be done at present. Mr. Snapper was not the less clearly of opinion that Mr. Crawley might resume his duties. To this, however, Mr. Crawley would not assent.

But even during the fortnight Mr. Crawley had not remained altogether neglected. Two days after Mr. Harding’s death he had received a note from the dean in which he was advised not to resume the duties at Hogglestock for the present. “Of course you can understand that we have a sad house here at present,” the dean had said. “But as soon as ever we are able to move in the matter we will arrange things for you as comfortably as we can. I will see the bishop myself.” Mr. Crawley had no ambitious idea of any comfort which might accrue to him beyond that of an honourable return to his humble preferment at Hogglestock; but, nevertheless, he was in this case minded to do as the dean counselled him. He had submitted himself to the bishop, and he would wait till the bishop absolved him from his submission.

On the day after the funeral, the bishop had sent his compliments to the dean with the expression of a wish that the dean would call upon him on any early day that might be convenient with reference to the position of Mr. Crawley of Hogglestock. The note was in the bishop’s own handwriting and was as mild and civil as a bishop’s note could be. Of course the dean named an early day for the interview; but it was necessary before he went to the bishop that he should discuss the matter with the archdeacon. If St. Ewolds might be given to Mr. Crawley, the Hogglestock difficulties would all be brought to an end. The archdeacon, after the funeral, had returned to Plumstead, and thither the dean went to him before he saw the bishop. He did succeed⁠—he and Mrs. Grantly between them⁠—but with very great difficulty, in obtaining a conditional promise. They had both thought