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
wardenin 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
standingmotionless 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 parlour-maid, 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 today; 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