LITMIR.BIZ

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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 bookroom. 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 a while, thus alone and unoccupied, he got up to walk again;—he could make more of his thoughts walking than sitting, and was creeping out into his garden, when he met Bunce on the threshold.

      “Well, Bunce,” said he, in a tone that for him was sharp, “what is it? do you want me?”

      “I was only coming to ask after your reverence,” said the old bedesman, touching his hat; “and to inquire about the news from London,” he added after a pause.

      The warden winced, and put his hand to his forehead and felt bewildered.

      “Attorney Finney has been there this morning,” continued Bunce, “and by his looks I guess he is not so well pleased as he once was, and it has got abroad somehow that the archdeacon has had down great news from London, and Handy and Moody are both as black as devils. And I hope,” said the man, trying to assume a cheery tone, “that things are looking up, and that there’ll be an end soon to all this stuff which bothers your reverence so sorely.”

      “Well, I wish there may be, Bunce.”

      “But about the news, your reverence?” said the old man, almost whispering.

      Mr Harding walked on, and shook his head impatiently. Poor Bunce little knew how he was tormenting his patron.

      “If there was anything to cheer you, I should be so glad to know it,” said he, with a tone of affection which the warden in all his misery could not resist.

      He stopped, and took both the old man’s hands in his. “My friend,” said he, “my dear old friend, there is nothing; there is no news to cheer me;—God’s will be done”: and two small hot tears broke away from his eyes and stole down his furrowed cheeks.

      “Then God’s will be done,” said the other solemnly; “but they told me that there was good news from London, and I came to wish your reverence joy; but God’s will be done;” and so the warden again walked on, and the bedesman, looking wistfully after him and receiving no encouragement to follow, returned sadly to his own abode.

      For a couple of hours the warden remained thus in the garden, now walking, now standing motionless on the turf, and then, as his legs got weary, sitting unconsciously on the garden seats, and then walking again. And Eleanor, hidden behind the muslin curtains of the window, watched him through the trees as he now came in sight, and then again was concealed by the turnings of the walk; and thus the time passed away till five, when the warden crept back to the house and prepared for dinner.

      It was but a sorry meal. The demure parlourmaid, as she handed the dishes and changed the plates, saw that all was not right, and was more demure than ever: neither father nor daughter could eat, and the hateful food was soon cleared away, and the bottle of port placed upon the table.

      “Would you like Bunce to come in, papa?” said Eleanor, thinking that the company of the old man might lighten his sorrow.

      “No, my dear, thank you, not to-day; but are not you going out, Eleanor, this lovely afternoon? don’t stay in for me, my dear.”

      “I thought you seemed so sad, papa.”

      “Sad,” said he, irritated; “well, people must all have their share of sadness here; I am not more exempt than another: but kiss me, dearest, and go now; I will, if possible, be more sociable when you return.”

      And Eleanor was again banished from her father’s sorrow. Ah! her desire now was not to find him happy, but to be allowed to share his sorrows; not to force him to be sociable, but to persuade him to be trustful.

      She put on her bonnet as desired, and went up to Mary Bold; this was now her daily haunt, for John Bold was up in London among lawyers and church reformers, diving deep into other questions than that of the wardenship of Barchester; supplying information to one member of Parliament, and dining with another; subscribing to funds for the abolition of clerical incomes, and seconding at that great national meeting at the Crown and Anchor a resolution to the effect, that no clergyman of the Church of England, be he who he might, should have more than a thousand a year, and none less than two hundred and fifty. His speech on this occasion was short, for fifteen had to speak, and the room was hired for two hours only, at the expiration of which the Quakers and Mr Cobden were to make use of it for an appeal to the public in aid of the Emperor of Russia; but it was sharp and effective; at least he was told so by a companion with whom he now lived much, and on whom he greatly depended,—one Tom Towers, a very leading genius, and supposed to have high employment on the staff of The Jupiter.

      So Eleanor, as was now her wont, went up to Mary Bold, and Mary listened kindly, while the daughter spoke much of her father, and, perhaps kinder still, found a listener in Eleanor, while she spoke about her brother. In the meantime the warden sat alone, leaning on the arm of his chair; he had poured out a glass of wine, but had done so merely from habit, for he left it untouched; there he sat gazing at the open window, and thinking, if he can be said to have thought, of the happiness of his past life. All manner of past delights came before his mind, which at the time he had enjoyed without considering them; his easy days, his absence of all kind of hard work, his pleasant shady home, those twelve old neighbours whose welfare till now had been the source of so much pleasant care, the excellence of his children, the friendship of the dear old bishop, the solemn grandeur of those vaulted aisles, through which he loved to hear his own voice pealing; and then that friend of friends, that choice ally that had never deserted him, that eloquent companion that would always, when asked, discourse such pleasant music, that violoncello of his;—ah, how happy he had been! but it was over now; his easy days and absence of work had been the crime which brought on him his tribulation; his shady home was pleasant no longer; maybe it was no longer his; the old neighbours, whose welfare had been so desired by him, were his enemies; his daughter was as wretched as himself; and even the bishop was made miserable by his position. He could never again lift up his voice boldly as he had hitherto done among his brethren, for he felt that he was disgraced; and he feared even to touch his bow, for he knew how grievous a sound of wailing, how piteous a lamentation, it would produce.

      He was still sitting in the same chair and the same posture, having hardly moved a limb for two hours, when Eleanor came back to tea, and succeeded in bringing him with her into the drawing-room.

      The tea seemed as comfortless as the dinner, though the warden, who had hitherto eaten nothing all day, devoured the plateful of bread and butter, unconscious of what he was doing.

      Eleanor had made up her mind to force him to talk to her, but she hardly knew how to commence: she must wait till the urn was gone, till the servant would no longer be coming in and out.

      At last everything was gone, and the drawing-room door was permanently closed; then Eleanor, getting up and going round to her father, put her arm round his neck, and said, “Papa, won’t you tell me what it is?”

      “What what is, my dear?”

      “This new sorrow that torments you; I know you are unhappy, papa.”

      “New

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