Cumming, represented the spiritualities of the diocese of Barchester, as Mr. Chadwick did the temporalities, and was, therefore, too great a man to undergo the half-hour in the clerk's room. It will not be necessary that we should listen to the notes of sorrow in which the archdeacon bewailed to Mr. Cox the weakness of his father-in-law, and the end of all their hopes of triumph; nor need we repeat the various exclamations of surprise with which the mournful intelligence was received. No tragedy occurred, though Mr. Cox, a short and somewhat bull-necked man, was very near a fit of apoplexy when he first attempted to ejaculate that fatal word—resign!
Over and over again did Mr. Cox attempt to enforce on the archdeacon the propriety of urging on Mr. Warden the madness of the deed he was about to do.
"Eight hundred a year!" said Mr. Cox.
"And nothing whatever to do!" said Mr. Cumming, who had joined the conference.
"No private fortune, I believe," said Mr. Cox.
"Not a shilling," said Mr. Cumming, in a very low voice, shaking his head.
"I never heard of such a case in all my experience," said Mr. Cox.
"Eight hundred a year, and as nice a house as any gentleman could wish to hang up his hat in," said Mr. Cumming.
"And an unmarried daughter, I believe," said Mr. Cox, with much moral seriousness in his tone. The archdeacon only sighed as each separate wail was uttered, and shook his head, signifying that the fatuity of some people was past belief.
"I'll tell you what he might do," said Mr. Cumming, brightening up. "I'll tell you how you might save it—let him exchange."
"Exchange where?" said the archdeacon.
