Читать книгу Barchester Towers - Anthony Trollope - Страница 4

1
The new bishop

During the last ten days of July in the year 1852, in the ancient cathedral city of Barchester, a most important question was asked every hour and answered every hour in different ways–’Who is to be the new bishop?’

Old Dr Grantly, who had for many years occupied the bishop’s chair, was dying, just as the government of the country was about to change. The bishop’s son, Archdeacon Grantly, had recently taken on many of his father’s duties, and it was fairly well understood that the present prime minister would choose him as the new bishop. It was a difficult time for the archdeacon. The prime minister had never promised him the post in so many words, but those who know anything of government will be well aware that encouragement is often given by a whisper from a great man or one of his friends. The archdeacon had heard such a whisper, and allowed himself to hope.

A month ago, the doctors had said the old man would live just four more weeks. Only yesterday they had examined him again, expressed their surprise, and given him another two weeks. Now the son was sitting by his father’s bedside, calculating his chances. The government would fall within five days, that much was certain; his father would die within – no, he refused to think that. He tried to keep his mind on other matters, but the race was so very close, and the prize so very great. He looked at the dying man’s calm face. As far as he and the doctors could judge, life might yet hang there for weeks to come. The old bishop slept for twenty of the twenty-four hours, but during his waking moments he was able to recognize both his son and his dear old friend, Mr Harding, the archdeacon’s father-in-law. Now he lay sleeping like a baby. Nothing could be easier than the old man’s passing from this world to the next.

But by no means easy were the emotions of the man who sat there watching. He knew it must be now or never. He was already over fifty, and there was little chance that the next prime minister would think as kindly of him as the present one did. He thought long and sadly, in deep silence, and then at last dared to ask himself whether he really desired his father’s death.

The question was answered in a moment. The proud man sank on his knees by the bedside, and, taking the bishop’s hand in his own, prayed eagerly that his sins would be forgiven.

Just then the door opened and Mr Harding entered. Dr Grantly rose quickly, and as he did so, Mr Harding took both his hands and pressed them warmly. There was a stronger feeling between them than there had ever been before.

‘God bless you, my dears,’ said the bishop in a weak voice as he woke. ‘God bless you!’ and so he died.

At first neither the archdeacon nor his father-in-law knew that life was gone, but after a little while Mr Harding said gently, ‘I believe it’s all over. Our dear bishop is no more–dear, good, excellent old man! Well, it’s a great relief, archdeacon. May all our last moments be as peaceful as his!’

In his mind Dr Grantly was already travelling from the darkened room of death to the prime minister’s study. He had brought himself to pray for his father’s life, but now that life was over, every minute counted. However, he did not want to appear unfeeling, so he allowed Mr Harding to lead him downstairs to the sitting room. Then, when a few more moments had passed, he said, ‘We should arrange for a telegraph message to be sent to the prime minister immediately.’

‘Do you think it necessary?’ asked Mr Harding, a little surprised. He did not know how high the archdeacon’s hopes of being appointed bishop were.

‘I do,’ replied Dr Grantly. ‘Anything might happen if we delay. Will you send it?’

‘I? Oh, certainly. Only I don’t know exactly what to say.’

Dr Grantly sat down and wrote out this message:

‘By electric telegraph, for the Prime Minister at 10 Downing Street, London. The Bishop of Barchester is dead. Message sent by Mr Septimus Harding.’

‘There,’ he said, ‘just take it to the telegraph office. Here’s the money,’ and he pulled a coin out of his pocket.

Mr Harding felt very much like a messenger, but he accepted the piece of paper and the coin. ‘But you’ve put my name at the bottom, archdeacon,’ he said.

Dr Grantly hesitated. How could he sign such a note himself? ‘Well, yes,’ he said, ‘there should be the name of some clergyman, and who more suitable than an old friend like yourself? But I beg you, my dear Mr Harding, not to lose any time.’

Mr Harding got as far as the door of the room, when he suddenly remembered the news which he had come to tell his son-in-law, and which the bishop’s death had driven from his mind. ‘But archdeacon,’ he said, turning back, ‘I forgot to tell you – the government has fallen!’

‘Fallen!’ repeated the archdeacon, in a voice which clearly expressed his anxiety. After a moment’s thought he said, ‘We had better send the message anyway. Do it at once, my dear friend – a few minutes’ time is of the greatest importance.’

Mr Harding went out and sent the message. Within thirty minutes of leaving Barchester, it arrived on the prime minister’s desk in London. The great man read it, then sent it on to the man who was to take his place. In this way our unfortunate friend the archdeacon lost his chance of becoming a bishop.