the income, you have had no past right to it; and the very fact
of your abandoning your position would create a demand for

repayment of that which you have already received and spent.'
The poor warden groaned as he sat perfectly still, looking

up at the hard-hearted orator who thus tormented him, and
the bishop echoed the sound faintly from behind his hands;

but the archdeacon cared little for such signs of weakness, and
completed his exhortation.

'But let us suppose the office to be left vacant, and that your
own troubles concerning it were over; would that satisfy you?

Are your only aspirations in the matter confined to yourself
and family? I know they are not. I know you are as anxious

as any of us for the church to which we belong; and what a
grievous blow would such an act of apostacy give her! You

owe it to the church of which you are a member and a minister,
to bear with this affliction, however severe it may be: you owe

it to my father, who instituted you, to support his rights: you
owe it to those who preceded you to assert the legality of their

position; you owe it to those who are to come after you, to
maintain uninjured for them that which you received uninjured

from others; and you owe to us all the unflinching assistance
of perfect brotherhood in this matter, so that upholding

one another we may support our great cause without blushing
and without disgrace.'

And so the archdeacon ceased, and stood self-satisfied,
watching the effect of his spoken wisdom.

The warden felt himself, to a certain extent, stifled; he
would have given the world to get himself out into the open

air without speaking to, or noticing those who were in the
room with him; but this was impossible. He could not leave

without saying something, and he felt himself confounded by
the archdeacon's eloquence. There was a heavy, unfeeling,

unanswerable truth in what he had said; there was so much
practical, but odious common sense in it, that he neither knew

how to assent or to differ. If it were necessary for him to
suffer, he felt that he could endure without complaint and

without cowardice, providing that he was self-satisfied of the
justice of his own cause. What he could not endure was, that

he should be accused by others, and not acquitted by himself.
Doubting, as he had begun to doubt, the justice of his own

position in the hospital, he knew that his own self-confidence
would not be restored because Mr Bold had been in error as

to some legal form; nor could he be satisfied to escape,
because, through some legal fiction, he who received the greatest

benefit from the hospital might be considered only as one of
its servants.

The archdeacon's speech had silenced him--stupefied him
--annihilated him; anything but satisfied him. With the

bishop it fared not much better. He did not discern clearly
how things were, but he saw enough to know that a battle was

to be prepared for; a battle that would destroy his few
remaining comforts, and bring him with sorrow to the grave.

The warden still sat, and still looked at the archdeacon, till
his thoughts fixed themselves wholly on the means of escape

from his present position, and he felt like a bird fascinated by
gazing on a snake.

'I hope you agree with me,' said the archdeacon at last,
breaking the dread silence; 'my lord, I hope you agree with me.'

Oh, what a sigh the bishop gave! 'My lord, I hope you
agree with me,' again repeated the merciless tyrant.

'Yes, I suppose so,' groaned the poor old man, slowly.
'And you, warden?'

Mr Harding was now stirred to action--he must speak and
move, so he got up and took one turn before he answered.

'Do not press me for an answer just at present; I will do
nothing lightly in the matter, and of whatever I do I will give

you and the bishop notice.' And so without another word he
took his leave, escaping quickly through the palace hall, and

down the lofty steps, nor did he breathe freely till he found
himself alone under the huge elms of the silent close. Here he

walked long and slowly, thinking on his case with a troubled
air, and trying in vain to confute the archdeacon's argument.

He then went home, resolved" target="_blank" title="a.决心的；坚定的">resolved to bear it all--ignominy, suspense,
disgrace, self-doubt, and heart-burning--and to do as those

would have him, who he still believed were most fit and most
able to counsel him aright.

CHAPTER X
Tribulation

Mr Harding was a sadder man than he had ever yet been when
he returned to his own house. He had been wretched enough

on that well-remembered morning when he was forced to expose
before his son-in-law the publisher's account for ushering into

the world his dear book of sacred music: when after making such
payments as he could do unassisted, he found that he was a debtor of

more than three hundred pounds; but his sufferings then were as
nothing to his present misery;--then he had done wrong, and he

knew it, and was able to resolve that he would not sin in like
manner again; but now he could make no resolution, and comfort

himself by no promises of firmness. He had been forced to
think that his lot had placed him in a false position, and he

was about to maintain that position against the opinion of the
world and against his own convictions.

He had read with pity, amounting almost to horror, the
strictures which had appeared from time to time against the

Earl of Guildford as master of St Cross, and the invectives that
had been heaped on rich diocesan dignitaries and overgrown

sinecure pluralists. In judging of them, he judged leniently;
the whole bias of his profession had taught him to think that

they were more sinned against than sinning, and that the animosity
with which they had been pursued was venomous and unjust; but

he had not the less regarded their plight as most miserable.
His hair had stood on end and his flesh had crept as he read the

things which had been written; he had wondered how men could live
under such a load of disgrace; how they could face their

fellow-creatures while their names were bandied about so
injuriously and so publicly--and now this lot was to be his--he,

that shy, retiring man, who had so comforted himself in the
hidden obscurity of his lot, who had

so enjoyed the unassuming warmth of his own little corner, he
was now dragged forth into the glaring day, and gibbeted

before ferocious multitudes. He entered his own house a
crestfallen, humiliated man, without a hope of overcoming

the wretchedness which affected him.
He wandered into the drawing-room where was his daughter;

but he could not speak to her now, so he left it, and went into
the book-room. He was not quick enough to escape Eleanor's

glance, or to prevent her from seeing that he was disturbed;
and in a little while she followed him. She found him seated

in his accustomed chair with no book open before him, no
pen ready in his hand, no ill-shapen notes of blotted music

lying before him as was usual, none of those hospital accounts
with which he was so precise and yet so unmethodical: he

was doing nothing, thinking of nothing, looking at nothing;
he was merely suffering.

'Leave me, Eleanor, my dear,' he said; 'leave me, my
darling, for a few minutes, for I am busy.'

Eleanor saw well how it was, but she did leave him, and
glided silently back to her drawing-room. When he had sat