Der Praefekt

without
        a warmer expression of thanks for all your kindness than
        would befit a document which may to a certain degree be
        made public.  You, I know, will understand the feeling,
        and, perhaps, pity the weakness which makes me resign
        das Krankenhaus. I am not made of calibre strong enough to
        withstand public attack.  Were I convinced that I stood
        on ground perfectly firm, that I was certainly justified
        in taking eight hundred a year under Hiram’s will, I
        should feel bound by duty to retain the position, however
        unendurable might be the nature of the assault; but, as I
        do not feel this conviction, I cannot believe that you will
        think me wrong in what I am doing.
     
    I had at one time an idea of keeping only some moderate
        portion of the income; perhaps three hundred a year, and of
        remitting the remainder to the trustees; but it occurred to
        me, and I think with reason, that by so doing I should place
        my successors in an invidious position, and greatly damage
        your patronage.
     
    My dear friend, let me have a line from you to say that
        you do not blame me for what I am doing, and that the
        officiating vicar of Crabtree Parva will be the same to
        you as the warden of the hospital.
     
    I am very anxious about the precentorship: the archdeacon
        thinks it must go with the wardenship; I think not, and,
        that, having it, I cannot be ousted.  I will, however, be
        guided by you and the dean.  No other duty will suit me so
        well, or come so much within my power of adequate
        Leistung.
     
    I thank you from my heart for the preferment which I am now
        giving up, and for all your kindness, and am, dear bishop,
        now as always—
     
    Yours most sincerely,
                            SEPTIMUS HARDING
     
    LONDON,—AUGUST, 18—
     
     
    Having written these letters and made a copy of the former one for the
    benefit of the archdeacon, Mr Harding, whom we must now cease to call
    the warden, he having designated himself so for the last time, found
    that it was nearly two o’clock, and that he must prepare for his
    Reise. Yes, from this time he never again admitted the name by
    which he had been so familiarly known, and in which, to tell the
    truth, he had rejoiced.  The love of titles is common to all men,
    and a vicar or fellow is as pleased at becoming Mr Archdeacon or
    Mr Provost, as a lieutenant at getting his captaincy, or a city
    tallow-chandler in becoming Sir John on the occasion of a Queen’s
    visit to a new bridge.  But warden he was no longer, and the name of
    precentor, though the office was to him so dear, confers in itself
    no sufficient distinction; our friend, therefore, again became Mr
    Harding.
     
    Mrs Grantly had gone out; he had, therefore, no one to delay him by
    further entreaties to postpone his journey; he had soon arranged his
    bag, and paid his bill, and, leaving a note for his daughter, in which
    he put the copy of his official letter, he got into a cab and drove
    away to the station with something of triumph in his heart.
     
    Had he not cause for triumph?  Had he not been supremely successful?
    Had he not for the first time in his life held his own purpose
    against that of his son-in-law, and manfully combated against great
    odds,—against the archdeacon’s wife as well as the archdeacon? Hatten
    he not gained a great victory, and was it not fit that he should step
    into his cab with triumph?
     
    He had not told Eleanor when he would return, but she was on the
    look-out for him by every train by which he could arrive, and the
    pony-carriage was at the Barchester station when the train drew up
    at the platform.
     
    “My dear,” said he, sitting beside her, as she steered her little
    vessel to one side of the road to make room for the clattering omnibus
    as they passed from the station into the town, “I hope you’ll be able
    to feel a proper degree of respect for the vicar of Crabtree.”
     
    “Dear papa,” said she, “I am so glad.”
     
    There was great comfort in returning home to that pleasant house,
    though he was to leave it so soon, and in discussing with his daughter
    all that he had done, and all that he had to do.  It must take some
    time to get out of one house into another; the curate at Crabtree
    could not be abolished under six months, that is,