After that she did not have the heart to ask him to stay, and therefore she went with him. As they passed down the stairs and out of the doors she was astonished to find how weak were his footsteps--how powerless he was against the slightest misadventure. On this very day he would have tripped at the upward step at the cathedral door had she not been with him. 'Oh, papa,' she said 'indeed, indeed, you should not come here alone.' Then he apologised for his little stumble with many words and much shame, assuring her that anybody might trip on an occasion. It was purely an accident; and though it was a comfort to have had her arm, he was sure that he would have recovered himself even had he been alone. He always, he said, kept quite close to the wall, so that there might be no mistake--no possibility of an accident. All this he said volubly, but with confused words, in the covered stone passage leading into the transept. And, as he thus spoke, Mrs Grantly made up her mind that her father should never again go to the cathedral alone. He never did go again to the cathedral--alone.
When they returned to the deanery, Mr Harding was fluttered, weary, and unwell. When his daughter left him for a few minutes he told Mrs Baxter in confidence of the story of his accident, and his great grief that his daughter should have seen it. 'Laws amercy, sir, it was a blessing she was with you,' said Mrs Baxter; 'it was, indeed, Mr Harding.' Then Mr Harding had been angry, and spoke almost crossly to Mrs Baxter; but, before she left the room, he found an opportunity of begging her pardon--not in a set speech to that effect, but by a little word of gentle kindness, which she had understood perfectly. 'Papa,' said Mrs Grantly to him as soon as she ha succeeded in getting both Posy and Mrs Baxter out of the room--against the doing of which, Mr Harding had manoeuvred with all his little impotent skill--'Papa, you must promise that you will not go to the cathedral again alone, till Eleanor comes home.' When he heard the sentence he looked at her with blank misery in his eyes. He made not attempt at remonstrance. He begged for no respite.
The word had gone forth, and he knew that it must be obeyed. Though he would have hidden the signs of his weakness had he been able, he would not condescend to plead that he was strong. 'If you think it wrong, my dear, I will not go alone,' he said. 'Papa, I do; indeed I do. Dear papa, I would not hurt you by saying it if I did not know that I am right.' He was sitting with his hand upon the table, and, as she spoke to him, she put her hand upon his, caressing it. 'My dear,' he said, 'you are always right.'
She left him again for a while, having some business out in the city, and he was alone in his room for an hour. What was there left to him now in the world? Old as he was, and in some things almost childish, nevertheless, he thought of this keenly, and some half-realised remembrance of the 'lean and slippered pantaloon' flitted across his mind, causing him a pang. What was there left to him now in the world?
Posy and cat's-cradle! Then, in the midst of his regrets, as he sat with his back bent in his old easy-chair, with one arm over the shoulder of the chair, and the other hanging loose by his side, on a sudden there came across his face a smile as sweet as every brightened the face of man or woman. He had been able to tell himself that he had no ground for complaint--great ground rather for rejoicing and gratitude. Had not the world and all in it been good to him; had he not children who loved him, who had done him honour, who had been to him always a crown of glory, never a mark for reproach; had not his lines fallen to him in very pleasant places; was it not his happy fate to go and leave it all amidst the good words and kind loving cares of devoted friends? Whose latter days had ever been more blessed than his? And for the future--? It was as he thought of this that the smile came across his face--as though it were already the face of an angel. And then he muttered to himself a word or two. 'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.'
When Mrs Grantly returned she found him in jocund spirits. And yet she perceived that he was so weak that when he left his chair he could barely get across the room without assistance. Mrs Baxter, indeed, had not sent to her too soon, and it was well that the prohibition had come in time to prevent some terrible accident. 'Papa,' she said, 'I think you had better go with me to Plumstead. The carriage is here, and I can take you home so comfortably.' But he would not allow himself to be taken on this occasion to Plumstead. He smiled and thanked her, and put his hand into hers, and repeated his promise that he would not leave the house on any occasion without assistance, and declared himself specially thankful to her for coming to him on that special morning;--but he would not be taken to Plumstead. 'When summer comes,' he said, 'then, if you will have me for a few days!'
He meant no deceit, and yet he had told himself within the last hour that he should never see another summer. He could not tell even his daughter that after such a life as this, after more than fifty years spent in the ministration of his darling cathedral, it specially behoved him to die--as he had lived--at Barchester. He could not say this to his eldest daughter; but had his Eleanor been at home, he could have said it to her. He thought he might yet live to see his Eleanor once again. If this could be given to him he would ask for nothing more.
On the afternoon of the next day, Mrs Baxter wrote another letter, in which she told Mrs Grantly that her father had declared, at his usual hour of rising that morning, that he was not going to the cathedral, he would, he thought, lie in bed a little longer. And then he had been in bed the whole day. 'And perhaps, honoured madam, looking at all things, it's best as he should,' said Mrs Baxter.
