In the meantime he had to meet the archdeacon, and
so he walked slowly down Chancery Lane and along Fleet
Street, feeling sure that his work for the night was
not yet over. When he reached the hotel he rang
the bell quietly, and with a palpitating heart; he
almost longed to escape round the corner, and delay
the coming storm by a further walk round St Paul’s
Churchyard, but he heard the slow creaking shoes of
the old waiter approaching, and he stood his ground
manfully.
THE WARDEN IS VERY OBSTINATE
“Dr Grantly is here, sir,” greeted his
ears before the door was well open, “and Mrs
Grantly. They have a sitting-room above, and
are waiting up for you.”
There was something in the tone of the man’s
voice which seemed to indicate that even he looked
upon the warden as a runaway schoolboy, just recaptured
by his guardian, and that he pitied the culprit, though
he could not but be horrified at the crime.
The warden endeavoured to appear unconcerned, as he
said, “Oh, indeed! I’ll go upstairs
at once;” but he failed signally. There
was, perhaps, a ray of comfort in the presence of
his married daughter; that is to say, of comparative
comfort, seeing that his son-in-law was there; but
how much would he have preferred that they should both
have been safe at Plumstead Episcopi! However,
upstairs he went, the waiter slowly preceding him;
and on the door being opened the archdeacon was discovered
standing in the middle of the room, erect, indeed,
as usual, but oh! how sorrowful! and on the dingy sofa
behind him reclined his patient wife.
“Papa, I thought you were never coming back,”
said the lady; “it’s twelve o’clock.”
“Yes, my dear,” said the warden.
“The attorney-general named ten for my meeting;
to be sure ten is late, but what could I do, you know?
Great men will have their own way.”
And he gave his daughter a kiss, and shook hands with
the doctor, and again tried to look unconcerned.
“And you have absolutely been with the attorney-general?”
asked the archdeacon.
Mr Harding signified that he had.
“Good heavens, how unfortunate!” And
the archdeacon raised his huge hands in the manner
in which his friends are so accustomed to see him
express disapprobation and astonishment. “What
will Sir Abraham think of it? Did you not know
that it is not customary for clients to go direct
to their counsel?”
“Isn’t it?” asked the warden, innocently.
“Well, at any rate, I’ve done it now.
Sir Abraham didn’t seem to think it so very
strange.”
The archdeacon gave a sigh that would have moved a
man-of-war.
“But, papa, what did you say to Sir Abraham?”
asked the lady.
“I asked him, my dear, to explain John Hiram’s
will to me. He couldn’t explain it in
the only way which would have satisfied me, and so
I resigned the wardenship.”
